I never understood why people got so angry.

As a child, I saw a family member crash so hard that it was as if his body and mind had completely separated. Even at a young age, I could recognize the moment someone lost control. There’s a distinct, hollow look in the eyes, like no one is home anymore. It’s terrifying to witness a person’s body move without the anchor of conscious thought.

Back then, I believed it was something people could just snap out of. I thought if they realized what they were doing, they’d stop. That maybe something, or someone, could reconnect their mind and body, and bring them back.

But over time, I learned that for some people, that control is a choice. For others, those living with mental illness or trauma, it can feel nearly impossible. Still, my body always knew when something was wrong. It wasn’t until I was about twelve that my mind caught up with what I had always sensed. Losing control like that wasn’t just scary. It was dangerous. And there were real consequences.

One of the most vivid memories I have is of my father, Ricardo.

It was a weekend afternoon. Everyone was home. My mom, Estella, had decided to take a mid-day shower, and I remember a tension in the air that was heavier than usual. Ricardo had been irritable all day. His usual complaints about chores not being done to his satisfaction had escalated. Liam and I were laughing about something, something small, something light, and that alone seemed to spark his rage.

Liam was thirteen at the time, just hitting puberty. I was sitting on the couch with a book when Ricardo turned to him and said sharply, “So you think you’re tough? This is my house. My rules. I tell you where to go and when.”

Liam, sensing the shift, tried to de-escalate. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”

But Ricardo wasn’t present anymore. His chest puffed up, his eyes glossed over. “I can kick your ass,” he yelled, standing toe-to-toe with his son. “I will do it, and no one can save you.”

I jumped up and ran to the bathroom, banging on the door, begging Estella to come out. “He’s going to hurt Liam,” I cried.

From inside the shower, she responded lazily, “What? Oh, I’m sure it’s fine.”

But it wasn’t.

When I rushed back, Ricardo was hovering over Liam, who had fallen to the ground and was scooting backward. “Get up!” Ricardo barked. “Fight like a man.” He pushed Liam closer to the top of the stairs, threatening to send him tumbling down.

It didn’t make sense. Just minutes earlier, we had all been laughing. And now this? What had Liam done to deserve being seen as a threat?

I tried pushing Ricardo away, but it was like trying to move a stone wall. He barely budged and shoved me aside. I ran back, screaming again for my mom to help.

Eventually, Estella emerged, clearly annoyed, wrapped in a towel. “Ricardo, what are you doing?” she asked, finally witnessing what he was about to do.

Ricardo snapped his attention to her and barked, “You’re always protecting them! That’s why they don’t respect me. That’s why they need to be punished properly!”

Estella, trying to calm him down, offered compromises. “We can take away his iPod. He can do the yard work instead.” But she saw he wasn’t listening, so she shifted. Her voice turned desperate. “Ricardo, what if he gets hurt? What would we say if the doctors asked how it happened? What if someone saw the bruises?”

She was reaching for logic, for fear of consequences, anything to stop him.

But Ricardo was spiraling. Now his fury turned to her. He screamed in her face, then stormed out of the house.

As the door slammed shut, the tension in the room seemed to exhale. That’s when I realized I had been holding my breath the whole time.

Liam was shaken but physically okay. My little sister, Lila, had hidden in her room, terrified. And my mother, instead of offering comfort, turned to Liam and said, “What did you do, Liam? Thanks a lot. Now he is upset, and my shower is ruined.”

What followed was always the same.

The cycle was predictable: agitation, explosion, confrontation, dramatic exit, and then sulking return. Ricardo would isolate himself, mope around the house, and wait for us to show concern. And once we did, he would act as if nothing had happened. As if none of it was real.

But it was real. Every time.

And it shaped us.

The Anatomy of Fear

As I grow older and continue healing, I’m learning to name these moments for what they are. They are not just memories but lessons. They are warnings. They are truths that shaped how I respond to conflict, how I understand power, and how I define safety.

This wasn’t a one-time event. It was a pattern. A memorized choreography of dysfunction. And yet, each time it happened, my body knew before my mind could catch up. That’s something I’ve learned to trust.

Today, I am learning how to stay connected—body and mind—so that I never become the threat in the room. So that I never forget what fear feels like in the bones of a child. And so I can choose a different path. One where peace isn’t something we wait for. It’s something we build.