When Identity Is Shaped by Scars: A Gender Reflection

"When Identity Is Shaped by Scars: "A Gender Reflection"

Phobias are often said to stem from a mix of genetic predisposition, learned behavior, and traumatic experiences. If that’s true, then maybe I developed a phobia—not of spiders or heights—but of violence, of men, of pain, and even of healthy relationships.

As I entered my teenage years, the garden of my life—my emotional soil—was already seeded with violence, betrayal, and confusion. I had watched my mother and aunts endure abuse, experienced the absence of the men I loved most, and suffered a violation by someone I trusted. What kind of fruit does a garden like that bear in a teenager? Confusion. Uncertainty. Contradiction.

Adolescence is supposed to be a time of self-discovery, of forming your identity. But who was I? I was a mosaic of magic and mayhem. I had the love of my mother, the carefree joy of childhood, and the invisible scars of trauma. I wasn’t just discovering who I was—I was trying to understand how to connect, how to relate, and how to love.

Let’s examine the models I had. Through my young eyes, women were warriors. My mother and her five living sisters—“The Sisters,” as we called them—were bold, beautiful, assertive, intelligent, and unapologetically strong. They didn’t mince words. They said what they meant and meant what they said. Each carried a personality larger than life, and together they led our family with fierce determination. Though all of them were married, it was clear: The Sisters ran the show. I admired them deeply and wanted to be just like them. I sensed they had endured pain they never spoke of, but they never let it show. They held their heads high, made the decisions, protected their families, and kept moving forward—always forward.

My view of men, however, was far more complicated.

My biological father—my hero in some ways—was gentle and loving with me. He called me his Princess and made me feel like the sun rose and set just for me. But he was also often absent, lost in alcohol. When I missed him, my mother would call his sister, and they'd go searching—usually finding him drunk. He’d promise me the world, then vanish again.

My stepfather, who raised me, offered consistency—but also exposed me to violence. I remember the day I stopped calling him "Daddy." After a heated argument, my mother rushed us to the car. As she buckled me in, he came around to strike her from behind. I screamed, “Stop it! Stop hurting my mommy! I hate you. You’re not my daddy anymore!” He froze, his hand midair, and I saw the pain on his face before he turned and walked away. I still loved him, but I never called him Daddy again.

There were other men in my mother’s life, too—most of them alcoholics, abusive, yet somehow still charming. There were loud arguments, slurred apologies, and laughter in the chaos. They always made up, brought gifts, or softened my mom’s punishments. It was love and dysfunction, all tangled up.

My mother—brilliant, beautiful, and strong—seemed to be a magnet for broken men.

I also had brothers from my father. I rarely saw them, but I loved them deeply. They were kind to me—funny, talented, generous—but they, too, wrestled with their demons.

Then there was my mother’s oldest son—14 years older than me. Smart, logical, and a ladies’ man, but controlling. Everything had to be done his way. I was always walking on eggshells. When I didn’t listen, he hit me. He was a black belt in martial arts. His blows weren’t ordinary—they landed with intention. What stung more was his attraction to my friends. He flirted with every girl I brought home. Years later, I fully understood the relationships he manipulated—teenage girls, my friends. At the time, I didn’t have the language for what it was. Today, some might call it: statutory rape.

So what did all of this teach me?

It shaped my gender lens in a way that was dangerously lopsided. Women were the strong ones—the survivors, the caretakers, the backbone. Men were unpredictable, often abusive, emotionally unreliable. They left. They hurt. They returned and repeated.

Imagine how this impacted my understanding of love. Of relationships. Of trust. Imagine the messages I unknowingly passed down to my own children about love, about men, about what relationships were supposed to look like.

But I thank God.

I thank God that after my mother passed, we had a village to carry us. That my sisters and I held one another up and raised our children together. I thank God that even when we didn’t recognize it, He was our example. I thank God for renewal. But I must also admit that we, too, passed down some of the same weeds we had inherited. We planted in the same soil, even as we tried to sow something better.

Through time, reflection, and healing, I’ve learned something powerful: even the most damaged gardens can grow again.

I often refer to God as “He,” but I also understand how gender can be a barrier when it comes to faith. For those whose harm came from men, seeing God as Father may be difficult. But God transcends gender. God is not bound by male or female. God is comfort, strength, justice, and mercy. And God can restore even the most twisted, thorn-filled garden—if we let Him.