Sable Monroe

I want to start with one of my earliest memories.

I remember being five years old, standing in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. My birthday was coming up, and my mother told me I was about to turn five. I was excited. I remember saying, “I’m going to be a big girl.” And she agreed with me.

I held onto that feeling. Like turning five meant something. Like things would be different.

But when I think about that time now, what stands out more than anything wasn’t becoming a “big girl.”

It was the chaos.

I don’t remember my parents being affectionate with each other. I don’t remember hugs, or warmth, or anything that looked like love. If I’m being honest, I couldn’t even tell if my father liked my mother. But I knew she loved him — more than she loved me. You can feel that as a child, even if no one says it out loud. You feel it in what gets prioritized.

Mornings were always rushed.

Getting ready for school felt like a scramble every single day. My mother never had enough time. She hated combing my hair — she told me that often. Said my hair was “bad,” said she didn’t like dealing with it. So she would do whatever she could, quickly, just to get it done.

And if she took too long?

You would hear my father outside, revving the car engine.

That sound meant hurry up. That sound meant pressure. That sound meant we were about to get left.

There were mornings where she would be outside in her underwear, curlers still in her hair, holding her dress in her hand because she didn’t have time to put it on yet. And we’d be rushing toward the car together because he was already irritated.

He wasn’t helping. He was just waiting. Impatient.

Breakfast was usually cornflakes with condensed milk. That was normal. Looking back, it explains why I was always hungry.

Everything felt rushed. Everything felt tense.

And it didn’t stop when we left the house.

I remember one day in particular — we were in the car on the way to school, and they started arguing. It got physical. He pulled over to the side of the road to put his hands on her.

And then I still had to go to school.

I remember sitting in class, unable to focus. Not because I didn’t want to learn, but because my mind was still at home… or in that car.

I kept asking my teachers the same question:

“Are my parents going to fight?”

That’s where my attention was. Not on lessons. Not on books. On survival.

Eventually, my principal called my parents in.

I overheard her telling them not to fight in front of me anymore because it was affecting me.

They didn’t stop.

They kept doing it.

So when people talk about when things “started” for me — the anxiety, the hyper-awareness, the constant feeling of instability — I don’t think about America first.

I think about being five.

Standing in a mirror.

Excited to be a big girl.

And already living in a world that didn’t feel safe.