The house that built me.

“I know they say you can’t go home again,
I just had to come back one last time.
Ma’am, I know you don’t know me from Adam,
But these hand prints on the front steps are mine.”

”The House That Built Me” by Miranda Lambert

My mother’s shift work on the factory lines meant that my middle sister and I were often left to fend for ourselves after school and throughout the entire summer break. With our eldest sister still navigating the aftermath of divorce and living primarily with our bio-dick, there was neither an expectation nor the means to hire a babysitter or enroll us in summer camps. Like many parents of her generation, my mother didn’t feel pressured to craft specific experiences for us, so my sister and I were left to keep ourselves accountable, occupied, and safe.

In an era before digital distractions, we thrived on the simplicity of outdoor play and traditional games until, dare I sound so cliché, “the street lights came on,” signalling the end of another adventure-filled day. But even then, the antics didn’t stop there.

Partners in crime.

Sharing a childhood with a sister who was just 22 months older was a special blend of companionship, competition, and connection. Over the years, we shared a bedroom, countless milestones, laughs, a giant network of friends, clothes—I, mostly hers, and even a boyfriend (Sort of. But it was weird and had to be mentioned). Being close in age meant we had similar interests, tastes, and perspectives, which made it easier to relate to one other. Whether we were tricking callers who phoned our house by impersonating each other or plotting surprise gifts for our parents, she was my partner in crime. She was also my constant playmate, always by my side as we explored the world together, creating a treasure trove of shared experiences and memories.

Being so close in age also meant we had a pretty good understanding of each other’s habits and quirks, with a touch of rivalry never far from the surface. We knew exactly how to push each other’s buttons. Yet, whether we were competing for the window seat or racing to finish chores, our friendly competition was always underpinned by affection and mutual respect.

We evolved together, supporting each other through different life stages and safeguarding each other through the trials of childhood and beyond. I learned from her experiences, drew on her strengths, and sometimes exploited her weaknesses, just as she did mine by making me do her chores. Fact.

Our bond was my anchor. Her companionship was my shield. In her, I found not just a sister but a lifelong ally, a constant reminder that I was never alone.

In the mid-70s, our family started another chapter when a new (and so very, very much improved) father figure entered our lives and soon married my mother. I quickly came to regard him not as my stepfather but more significantly as Dad. With absolutely zero loyalty to my bio-dick, I eagerly accepted him and readily adapted to the new rules, routines, and traditions that followed. It would be he who ended up having a harder time adjusting to me.

I always say that one of the best things a father can do for his children is to love their mother, and I believe my dad is the reason I feel this so deeply. He absolutely adored my mother—offering constant attention and support, listening to her, valuing her perspectives, and encouraging her ambitions. They prioritized their marriage, nurturing their bond through every challenge that came their way. Their commitment to one another laid a foundation of strength and happiness that enriched our family life and highlighted the importance of choosing the right life partner for a truly fulfilling relationship.

Cooking was another way my dad expressed his love and care. A culinary maverick, he crafted healthy, home-cooked meals with ease. Together, they spent countless hours joyfully and patiently canning and freezing food, keeping our pantry stocked, our bellies full, and gathering us happily around the table every night.

Sunday dinners.

My mother’s greatest legacy was her faith in family and the joy she endeavoured to bring to our lives … and Sunday dinners. Every Sunday, without hesitation—and never an invitation—siblings and significant others would all cram around my parents’ modest dinner table—Mom perched at one end for easy access to the kitchen and Dad perfectly positioned at the other where he could keep a close eye on the football game. As my dad cheered on his 49ers, matching Corelle dishes crashed and clanged as all the comforts of a traditional roast beef dinner were heaped onto our plates. Sparked by the trademark Connolly candour, we laughed until our bellies hurt or until a pea came out of my mother’s nose … and then we laughed even harder.

Growing up during a groovy time ruled by disco and bell-bottom jeans, our home was always full of friends, family, lively music, laughter—and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. While this cocktail culture was considered socially acceptable, my parents’ uncomfortable consumption and the subsequent unpredictable behaviour left me, how do I say … a little unsettled.

The struggles were real.

The dichotomy between loving parents who would do anything for us and their frequent intoxication was a constant struggle for me, which I never communicated well. My desire for a peaceful and stable home life was continually overshadowed by the loud and chaotic environment and my need for them to be present for me. Their absences, both physically and emotionally, during critical moments in my life affected me deeply and led to frustration, anger, and conflict. A lot of conflict.

Uncertain of whether they would be sober, I often hesitated to invite friends over. My parents were different from theirs, and I worried about how my friends might perceive my family and me. It was exhausting trying to keep this part of my life a secret, but maybe that’s how I learned to adapt and be versatile. Go, go gadget Gemini!

I longed for their mentorship, support, and participation in my life, especially during the tumultuous years of adolescence. I desperately wanted us to engage in activities together and for them to nurture my interests and hobbies. An increasingly shy and sensitive person, I needed a safe space to express my thoughts and feelings and to explore my identity. Instead, I felt lost, lonely, and unable to trust their sobriety or my environment. An overall inability to trust began to brew, and I never learned how to ask for help.

In an attempt to cope and regain a sense of control and order, I began to clean. Obsessively. I hoped that by tidying up the mess left by overflowing ashtrays, empty liquor bottles, and forgotten food and dishes, it would spark a change. The clean slate would magically erase all urges to indulge in spirits and create the stable home I yearned for. Like the premise of “Groundhog Day,” I repeated this process weekend after weekend, never getting the outcome I needed. But my parents always had a clean house, and I became a fantastic housecleaner! Wait a minute, did they plan this all along?! 🤔

Growing up like this was a complex and emotionally taxing experience that led to a range of intense emotions I struggled to process and express constructively. As a teenager, I felt powerless and unheard, and anger became a natural outlet for my pent-up feelings. I lashed out in every way I could, to the point where my father even threatened to move me out of the house. The social stigma surrounding addiction, combined with my distrust and shyness, triggered my defense mechanisms to protect myself from deeper, more painful emotions and it became easier to express anger than to admit feelings of hurt, fear, or sadness. I desperately wanted to connect with peers, professionals—anyone—but I was simply too shy and scared. I didn’t know where to start or who to ask.

Instead, I internalized everything and believed that if I were just stronger, smarter, or more capable, I could somehow manage the situation better or prevent the negative outcomes associated with my parent’s intemperance. Unfortunately, this only exacerbated my feelings of inadequacy and distress.

Oof. The shame, guilt, and regret that followed me for years. Though I’ve long since come to terms with my past, the weight of these emotions still humbles me. They remind me not only of the pain I carried but also of the pain I caused others along the way, and the difficult, imperfect process of learning to navigate those feelings. While I no longer hold on to them as tightly, they remain a grounding reminder of my growth and the lessons I had to learn the hard way.

Power of family.

Reflecting on these past experiences over the years, I learned that my lack of coping skills was a normal response to an abnormal situation and that my parents’ struggles were part of their journey just as my reactions were part of mine.

Despite my complicated childhood and moments of benign neglect, my family was my source of strength, a repository of wisdom and tradition, and a wellspring of love and belonging. My parents had a superpower to nurture, inspire, and, yes, occasionally frustrate me. Their steadfast support helped us navigate every challenge, strengthening our bonds and creating lasting, meaningful relationships. Together, they raised morally grounded children who learned to make good decisions, build strong families, and become productive members of society.

My mother’s strength and fierce loyalty to her family became the most meaningful and unforgettable storyline in my life. She inspired us with her playful spirit and effortlessly kept us united. Our dinner table was plentiful, our Christmas tree abundant, and the laughter—oh, the laughter—was infectious. We struggled a bit, but our genuine connection, the traditions, the Sunday dinners, the reliable, protective, loving army of friends and extended family, our shared values, and the love we shared as a family were real and powerful.

Family has always been the main foundation of my life, a cherished institution that imparts fundamental principles, provides security, and fosters stability—all of which are essential for achieving happiness and fulfillment. I know I’ve already said this, but it’s worth repeating. My grandmother cultivated my character and gave me a sense of purpose and belonging. My parents instilled the virtues of support and compassion, while my sister and I shared a bond forged through joint experiences and mutual understanding. Having a loving network of relatives who genuinely cared about my well-being is undeniably one of the greatest gifts I have ever received.

These varied experiences made my life memorable and helped me become a more resilient and empathetic human being—and let’s not forget, a neurotic, compulsive-cleaning, opinionated pain in the ass.

This is why I fight for family.