My dolls never had a chance.

Most little girls have fond memories of carefully brushing their dolls’ hair, dressing them in tiny outfits, and keeping them neatly arranged on a shelf.

Not me.

My dolls lived hard lives.

I only ever had one doll at a time, and I dragged that poor child everywhere. She came with me on adventures. She slept beside me. She got homemade clothes. Most importantly, she got baths.

Lots of baths.

Unfortunately, the dolls purchased for me were not designed for the level of hygiene I expected from them.

After enough scrubbings, their hair started falling out. Eyelashes disappeared. Their faces developed a thousand-yard stare. By the time I was finished loving them, they looked like they had survived a small war.

My aunts noticed.

They gave my dolls a collective name.

Struggle-Lee.

Not Struggle.

Not Lee.

Struggle-Lee.

Hyphenated.

As if she were a fully recognized member of the family.

Whenever a new doll arrived, it was only a matter of time before she, too, became Struggle-Lee.

The funny thing is that Struggle-Lee wasn’t even the kind of doll I wanted.

My friends had Barbie dolls or Barbie-like dolls. They had tiny waists, fashionable outfits, and endless possibilities for homemade wardrobes. I wanted one for a very practical reason: they were easier to sew clothes for.

Instead, my mother preferred baby dolls.

She thought the skinny dolls looked strange.

So she kept buying baby dolls.

Looking back, I find that amusing because my father didn’t want me growing up to become a housewife. His solution was to eventually ban dolls altogether and encourage books instead.

Meanwhile, I was over here wishing for the doll with the career, the tiny briefcase, and the better wardrobe options.

Nobody ever asked my opinion.

Then again, children rarely get asked their opinion.

When I played with Struggle-Lee, I got to be the mommy.

I decided where she went.

I decided what she wore.

I decided when she ate.

I decided when she got another completely unnecessary bath.

In a child’s world, that kind of control feels important.

Children don’t make many decisions. Adults decide where they live, where they go to school, what rules they follow, and what happens next.

But in my little doll world, I was in charge.

At least, mostly.

Because when I think about it now, there are three things I never got to choose.

I didn’t choose the type of doll.

I didn’t choose the name.

And eventually, I didn’t get to keep the doll.

Once I turned nine years old, dolls were no longer allowed.

My father took them away because he wanted me focused on books, education, and bigger ambitions.

I understand what he was trying to do.

But understanding something as an adult and experiencing it as a child are two different things.

As a child, all I knew was that something I loved had disappeared.

Even now, decades later, I remember Struggle-Lee.

I remember the homemade clothes.

I remember the baths she definitely didn’t need.

I remember carrying her everywhere.

And I remember that despite controlling every detail of her daily life, I somehow never got to choose her name.

It’s a small thing.

But childhood is full of small things that reveal bigger truths.

Poor Struggle-Lee never stood a chance.

Neither did her hair.