Trauma has a way of digging its roots deep into your spirit and growing weeds of resentment, anxiety, depression, and a slew of other debilitating seeds that it plants along the way. I was four years old the year I was informed my brother was murdered; he was only two. The details for me are so fuzzy because my mother insists I wasn’t there, but I remember being there. Sometimes, I often wonder if I dreamed about the events as it was happening, considering I Have this gift of dreaming. My mother had gone into labor with her third child, whom I still have yet to meet. Without giving you all the step by step details of that night, two adults took my brother’s life. He was a baby. As someone who works with young children, I often think about him. I think about how someone could be so ruthless…
View original post 1,324 more words