Part of the Voice I Almost Lost – Blog #6
by Alana Pierre Curry
High school started like so many other chapters in my life—new school, new faces, and no real roadmap. Cliques were already formed. Many of these students had known each other since elementary school. But this time, the Lord smiled on me a little.
I found a group.
We weren’t all popular, but we were smart. A few of us had social capital, which made the difference. Unlike middle school, I wasn’t on the outside looking in. I finally had peers who made space for me. And for once, the judgment didn’t come from classmates.
It came from home.
As I shared in Blog #1, I’ve always believed we have a choice in how we respond to what life throws at us. We can become bitter or better. Unfortunately, my mother—understandably, given what she endured—became bitter. Her pain and isolation from family ran deep. And while I had always been her confidant, things were changing. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. I had lived through my own hurt, and I was still figuring out how to carry that quietly.
I began writing letters to my grandmother—breaking the unspoken rule of “what happens in this house stays in this house.” I told her I was sad. She would write back or talk to me on the phone and say, “Hold on, keep praying. Things will be okay.” And while I struggled to believe it at the time, her words built a faith foundation in me that has never crumbled.
At home, the weight of being my mother’s emotional support while also trying to live a normal teenage life was exhausting. She would say things like, “You act differently with your friends than you do with me.” Of course I did. I was trying to be a teenager, not a therapist. Although I had been exposed to too much and knew too much, I wanted something lighter. Carefree. Normal. But she didn’t like me spending too much time away from her.
Eventually, I realized that the more school activities I joined, the more time I could spend outside of the house. And my high school transcript? It was full—clubs, honor societies, student activities. I wasn’t just building a résumé. I was building breathing room.
But even then, some reminders of what I lacked followed me. Back-to-school shopping in my sophomore year was nonexistent. Familiar scenario. My grandmother, ever resourceful and loving, visited that summer and made me some clothes. Sewing machine and all. It wasn’t exactly trending fashion, but I knew it came from love. I wore those outfits with as much pride as I could, knowing she did what no one else did at that time—tried to help.
Now… let’s talk about the stepfather chronicles.
His boldness was not only consistent—it escalated. Before middle school, a woman and her two children stayed at our house for a couple of days. His story? He met them at a gas station and they needed a place to stay. Years later, I learned the truth: she was his girlfriend. He brought his girlfriend into the home my mother paid rent for. He would tell people we were just his cousins who lived with him. To this day, I can only imagine what he told that woman.
In high school, it got worse.
There were days I would come home to find women in the house—just there. One was sitting on the floor watching TV like she lived there. I walked straight to the house phone, right in front of him, and called my mother at work. “We’ll talk when I get home”, she said.
But like every other time, nothing happened. No consequences. No change. Just more silence. More erasure. I think she had been manipulated for so long she couldn’t tell what was real anymore. Two voices lost—hers and mine.
At the time, I didn’t know the language of narcissism, manipulation, or gaslighting. I just knew something was broken.
There were more stories—so many more. One day, while my grandparents were visiting, a woman came to our house demanding he come outside and talk to her. The shame and helplessness of that moment still lingers.
But the one that took the cake?
Prom.
My boyfriend’s senior prom, to be exact. I was a junior. My stepfather—this man who constantly found new ways to crush my confidence—came out of his bedroom in a tuxedo. His reason? He was going to be our “photographer and videographer” for the night.
We were stunned.
He showed up at the prom for all of five minutes… and then disappeared.
Turns out, there was another school having prom at the same hotel. And where was he? He was the date of a girl from that other school. A girl who was the same age as me.
How did I find out? She called my mom. Angry and tired of him, she called and told my mother to come pick up all the gifts he had given her—because she was done.
Imagine that. My mother, in her early 40s, getting a call from a teenager breaking up with her partner.
This girl had attended my high school briefly before transferring. She knew me. She knew my friends. He had met her while working a job that brought him near the school. And just like that, she became a part of our story.
Let me pause here and say: there’s another part of me that was being lost in all of this.
My singing.
I loved to sing. And I was good. In choir, I competed in solo and ensemble competitions and scored 1s nearly every time. Music was my joy, my escape, my power.
But slowly, even that..disappeared..
My mother began coaching me constantly—Sing louder. Sing out. Watch your breathing. It became less about expression and more about performance. I could no longer just sing—I was always preparing. Practicing. Competing. Her input chipped away at the one thing that gave me joy. Eventually, I stopped singing around the house altogether.
I know what you might be thinking: So what? She just wanted you to be great. Maybe. But intention doesn’t cancel impact.
By the time graduation rolled around, I was ready. I had been accepted to college. And I could not wait to leave that house. To put distance between myself and everything that had tried to silence me.
Caps in the air. I was out!