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It was late enough that the porch light was off. Rebekah parked the car at the top of the driveway, and in the beam of the headlights, snow unfurled in hushed dances. Except for the hum of the engine beneath our feet, silence reigned. Hot air came from the vents. I remember turning to look at her over the small mound of grocery bags between us. The green glow of the dashboard lit her profile. She stared straight ahead into nothing, knuckles white where she squeezed the wheel. It was hard to tell what she was thinking. She’d seemed so much older back then. But she was just a child. Her voice, softer than I’d heard it in years, reached me. “I need to tell you something.”

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Around that time, an idea made itself known to me. People, in some ways, are made up of clay. The kind before it’s been through stages of bisque and glaze firing, and it comes out of the kiln solid and glorious. No, people are malleable, able to bend and take new forms. Their shapes are all different. Some are smoother, some bumpy or rough, but each are unique. In their figures, monochrome etches reveal scenes of their lives—delicate indents from treasured memories, or wounds due to almosts and the saccharine pain of time.

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That night, in the warm passenger seat of that Dodge Durango, Rebekah’s shape became visible. People handled her without care, took scalpels to her clay and left violent handprints along her edges, creating hills with the ridges of fingers instead of leaving the space even. She was young, but maturity isn’t measured in days, minutes, or hours. We do, in moments, age years due to experiences. Sometimes we have shackles around our ankles, unable to take steps further in life because our burdens are too heavy.

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Abusive situations aren’t simple. It’s not easy to escape or muster the courage to seek a way out. When someone feels trapped and alone, truly alone, the choice to reach and grip for help may seem like the most difficult thing imaginable. The energy isn’t there. That path isn’t clear. For Rebekah, abuse muddled her world, shattered it and smothered all the pieces.

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It was difficult to see that it did and still does somedays, sitting at Rebekah’s kitchen table in Manhattan, Kansas as she shuffled around in gaudy pink and gray slippers. She went toe to toe with her fickle microwave, opening and closing the door, pressing the START button repeatedly until it decided to concede and heat up her lukewarm coffee. The dog who bumbled in and out of the room resembled Dobby the house-elf and was the culprit of the fur covering Rebekah’s “Star Wars” graphic tee. Midmorning light spilled over us and brought out the shine in her hair, the glow of her skin. There, Rebekah recounted her story for me again, what seemed like a lifetime away from that night in the car. She set down her oversized ceramic mug that read “MOM” in tall letters, and after an understandable silence, she began.

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“Truthfully, I don’t remember much of my high school experience. I didn’t realize the effect that my high school career would have on my future. So, I floated through life. I don’t know if this was a coping mechanism or self-preservation, but I lost sight of a future for myself.” Her straight A’s slipped to C’s, then to D’s, then to F’s. She hid in the nurse’s office during class so she wouldn’t have public anxiety attacks. She had headaches so often that she became addicted to her migraine medication. These were all symptoms of a deeper issue—one she didn’t recognize.

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“I thought everything would go away if I wished hard enough—if I closed my eyes, if I tuned it out, it wasn’t happening. I didn’t—fuck, I still don’t—know how to confront reality when faced with my trauma or failures.” Her voice, usually bright and commanding, became smaller. “I guess you could say I focused on making it through the day, every day, and hoped I wouldn’t wake up the next morning.”

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To survive what she had, to keep waking up like she did requires a strength few people know. To carry on with those wounds when they feel too deep to heal is the lawless price of living. Too often, survivors don’t have a way to describe the trauma they’ve dealt with until an outside party can tell them. In Rebekah’s case, it was her psychologist. She didn’t see what had happened to her as abuse until she discussed it in therapy. She thought all girls were hit by their boyfriends, that everyone’s friends threatened to take their lives to get their way, that all boys didn’t take “no” for an answer during sexual encounters. It was normal to deal with the embarrassment, to deal with public violence. Accepting abusive behavior as love and affection became all she knew for a long time. After she escaped that part of her life, she shut herself down to love and to anyone who offered it.

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In the kitchen, her grip on her mug tightened, skin pulling taught. The smears of white paint on her hands she had from fixing up her guest bedroom cracked apart. “I couldn’t put my finger on why,” she said, “but I was ashamed.” That, too, is a cruel agony of persevering. To be deceived into feeling guilt, to be humiliated when it was never, ever the survivor’s fault. The thoughts plague them even when they’re not logical. Society would ask Rebekah the questions, not her abuser. Where was she when the attack happened? What was she wearing? What did she say? After so long, it isn’t a mystery if she was left wondering: are they demons or are they hideous angels lurching over her shoulders and whispering that she is to blame? Neither option provided relief.

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The air shifted between us, tightening. Only for a moment, I removed the lens that allowed me to view her as my older sister. The woman seated before me was still familiar, but the bags beneath her eyes grew darker, and the weight of years beyond the ones her body owned showed in the surface of her gaze. If she were to smile, I knew her teeth would be as clean straight as always. But her outline was uncomplicated by the labels that come with sisterhood. Her edges had been mended and there were purposeful markings scored on her where she was sturdy. I could watch with different eyes as she steeled herself to say: “The first time I tried to kill myself, I was 14 and had just been in an argument with Dad.”

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I remember how quiet she was back then, how she’d walk through our front door right past me, into her room. There were days she’d give me a hollow grin, some nights we’d yell at each other because tension was so high. I couldn’t understand why she seemed to be just a shell of herself. Shadowy and loveless. Her isolation didn’t make sense as a child—I wished for my older sister to know contentment. To share it with me. It wasn’t until we were older, until I had seen firsthand the evil that could alter us, that the past unfolded, ascending to new shades of clarity.

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How selfish was I to direct my anger toward her simply because I felt important enough to demand her attention, or her love? All I could do was give her my own. I vowed, that no matter how much she couldn’t see me from where she stood, I’d shout until she could hear my voice. I’d climb her walls until I was in front of the clouds blocking her view with my hand outstretched. Because, as I began to figure out, no one’s ever too lost, or too far to come back.

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And I’d love her when she felt her soul was wet, and she froze. Or when she spit fire and burned me. I’d love her when she’d bury the horizon, or she felt her stars weren’t bright enough. I used to wonder if she knew this, the way it seemed like my love would ricochet off her body instead of sink in. This person, who had such a hand in painting a portrait of family before my eyes with her best colors. My sister, who introduced me to my favorite movies, helped foster my passion for reading, and encouraged me to be myself no matter what others thought. Some days, I still wonder.

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Rebekah told me her journey to reformation is ongoing—her metaphorical feet are still caked in dirt, her metaphorical clothes are still eaten away by years of grime and dust, her metaphorical thirst is unquenchable after years surrounded by sand. But she is still walking. The truth is nothing is guaranteed—all she can do is wake up each day with a fresh mind, kind heart, and hope for the best. If nothing else, that much is an improvement. Because it’s worth fighting for the good in this world. Because what survives of us, what we make, matters.

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“I don’t know where my stance would be on love if it weren’t for the surprise of my son and the bond I formed with my husband in that time of wonder and upheaval,” she said. Finding and climbing the hill which romantic love rests on was an accomplishment. Today, distinguishing between emotional and physical intimacy doesn’t plague her any longer. Instead, she wrestles with holding on to hurt where she could choose to forgive. But receiving love no longer comes naturally. For too long she struggled with the idea that she was deserving of it.

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Rebekah paused, then. It was evident that there was more to say—it showed in her features, the way her eyes shined and the creases in her forehead vanished. She propped her elbow on the table and leaned into her palm. “It wasn’t until I had Landon and became a mother that I started to be more open to receiving love. My son has taught me that not all love comes with expectations or conditions. Some love is inherent, some love is pure. Everyone is deserving of love, no matter how tainted or unworthy they may feel.” It was nearly a tangible thing, this love Rebekah has for Landon and he has for her. Buttery soft and delicate like moonlight. It was in the way she’d answer his calls, and in the smile she’d wear just for him. The night previous, Landon requested that I watched her coach him through an archery lesson. Of course, I obliged.

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“Back straight. Strong arm. Big breath,” Rebekah said, and Landon zipped upright, following her orders, repeating after her.

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“Release,” Landon said with all the enthusiasm of a 4-year-old. The arrow launched from his lime green bow—which, as he explained to me, was a very serious instrument—and speared through the target ten feet away. He beamed at his mother, and praise tumbled from her lips, voice full of gentle pride. The way she looked at him—it was the same look I’ve seen countless times. The mother’s gaze. A look with a depth impossible to fathom. One that says, I don’t care how far away the high, high stars seem—I will make them just low enough that you and I could extend a hand to scoop them out of the velvet sky.

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Children are made of clay from their parents’ structures. They share tools and they mold each other. Whisper their imprints into the crown of each other’s heads, place their fingertips over each other’s sternums. As the child grows, a parent’s hand in their form may become less visible, but it’s still a part of their foundation. And as time passes, the child will take on other indentations, but it will always be that first bond that influenced how they know how to score and slip their own edges, to tack new pieces on when the air has hardened them enough, sturdied them for more burdens. A love that passes through generations, that reads like liquid light—a new dream of life.

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Rebekah said, “I would be lying if I said that I planned to be—or, felt deserving enough to be—a mother. It took me by surprise, both literally and figuratively. I was terrified that I would mess up my child—that my patience would wear thin and I would lash out, or that I would pass on my own crippling insecurities, anxieties, and less favorable personality traits to them. I truthfully didn’t think that my heart had the capacity for the love I feel for my son.”

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Those around her witness that she does, see how Landon makes her feel like she could sculpt herself in new ways if she wished. In her words, motherhood is visceral—it’s a jagged gorge disguised as a rich valley. “It’s painful, instinctual, and easily the most fulfilling thing I have experienced. Becoming a mother taught me how to love and saved me from my own vitriol and bitterness. I only hope that I can protect my children from the trauma that I experienced as a child; I hope that I am able to provide them with a sense of contentment, of compassion, of love.” That’s all a parent can hope for with their children. There are things in this world that are far beyond control. The past follows us, even when we learn to shed its weight. Life takes on a provisional feeling, the moon turns in its sleep each night, and new joys come to us if we look closely enough.

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Later that day, Rebekah laid with her arms propped up on the back of her couch—a fantastic piece of furniture, the kind the whole family would settle in on for a marathon of movies. There were thick blankets piled around her, and a pillow in her lap. Also on the couch, her mother, Debbi, had her own bundle of cozy coverings. The two watched Landon stand up on one of the armrests and throw himself off the side of the couch, right into his father’s arms.

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“Seeing Landon grow into a kind and respectful human is the byproduct of my greatest accomplishment, and I am so proud of him,” Rebekah said earlier. It was there again, that same look from the night before when his arrow struck near the bullseye. “My son knows, receives, and gives unconditional love unequivocally and without hesitation. Motherhood has created a safe space for us both—I am suddenly worthy of love and forced to receive it, and I am achingly overflowing with love and cannot hold it back from him.”

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Landon launched off the armrest, squealing. I saw it—the shape of him, and his mother, who glanced behind her at Debbi to see if she was watching, too. That version of Rebekah was the same that I knew in the darker moments of her life, but with more time granted to her, for which I’m eternally grateful. People showed her form more care. The impressions I saw there were gentler. She was different, yet the same. Always beautiful. Always worthy.

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The pure love she exuded that afternoon, with dying light filtering in through creaky windows, specks of dust swaying in the air, it filled me with hope. It was the same feeling I got while speaking to her at the table, when Landon came bounding out of his room asking to play a quick game of Hi Ho! Cherry-O with us. After, Rebekah said, “You know that cliché, I’ve never known a love like yours? Now I do, and I know that the girl I used to be—gentle, innocent, unassuming, childish, good—would be proud.”