Growing up with two emotionally immature parents in a codependent marriage made me wonder what adult life had in store for me. Did everyone have relationships that centered around overeating and smoking cigarettes after a fight? Was it normal to shout while also walking out of the room?

For years I had watched them both blame one another for their own problems and slap an easy fix on them whenever the dust settled. “I’m going to try this new diet” was a phrase engraved in our home like the etching on a tombstone. “I’m trying to quit smoking” for the millionth time, as if lining yourself with nicotine patches was going to help the addiction.

“Who’s going to take care of me when I’m old?” my mother would ask the room. “I will!” my dad eagerly replied with stage 3 lung cancer. Even when his demons devoured him he maintained the narrative that he was going to provide for her- something he hadn’t done in years, even when able bodied.

I had observed my family closely; my parents and siblings showed me the choices I never wanted to make. The years of pipe dreams backed with no action stay stagnant, the words echoing long after life had passed. And that was the moment I had realized, it wasn’t ever the plan for me to make it out alive.