The Girl Who Disappeared

Not all disappearances are loud.
Some happen quietly — over time —
while you’re still showing up,
still smiling,
still doing what’s expected of you.

Mine began before I even knew it.

I was adopted at four months old,
after being in three different foster homes.
I don’t remember it, of course.
But my body does.

My parents told me I was adopted from the very beginning.
It was never a secret — not in our home.
But I still remember the day in 4th grade when I told my classmates…
and they didn’t believe me.
It became such a big deal that my teacher let my mom come in and explain it to the class.

Even then, I was starting to understand:
sometimes the truth makes people uncomfortable.
And somewhere deep down, I think I decided —
better to stay quiet than risk being misunderstood again.

By grade school, the pattern had started to settle in.

I was diagnosed with a learning disability in math.
I had an IEP.
I was pulled out of class
and bussed to another school for extra help —
which felt more like being singled out than supported.

I went to a parochial school at the time,
and being different wasn’t exactly embraced.

One of my teachers used to call on kids
to solve math problems in front of everyone.
If you didn’t get it right,
he’d mock you.

Humiliation was his teaching style.
And I learned fast:
it was safer to be quiet than to be wrong.

Meanwhile, something else was happening.
My skin was changing.

The first bump appeared when I was young —
elementary school.
And they didn’t stop.

That first one showed up on my right cheek.
You can even see it in my grade school photo — the one I used for this post.
And if you look closely, you’ll notice the next ones had already started to creep down my neck.
I didn’t know it then, but those small, quiet marks would change the way I saw myself.
Not just physically — but entirely.

They kept growing.
Spreading.
Multiplying.
Quietly, rapidly —
like a secret I couldn’t control.

At first, I didn’t fully understand what was happening.
But by middle school, I started to worry what others might think.
I became more aware.
More self-conscious.
More careful.

I left parochial school after 7th grade
and started public middle school — 8th and 9th grade.
That’s when the hiding became intentional.

By high school, I wore long sleeves year-round.
Even in the summer.
Even when people asked why.

They didn’t know I was trying to cover something.
And I wasn’t about to tell them.

That’s the thing about disappearing —
most people won’t notice.
Not because they don’t care,
but because you’ve gotten so good at covering it up.

It wasn’t just my skin I was hiding.
It was my voice.
My needs.
My questions.
My pain.

And underneath it all,
a quiet belief was forming:

If they see all of me, they’ll leave.

So I showed them the parts that were easy.
The parts that looked “fine.”
The parts that didn’t make anyone uncomfortable.

But the truth?

I was already gone.

Not completely.
But enough to forget what it felt like to take up space.

This is where the next part of the story begins.

Because when you disappear long enough,
you start searching for someone else to bring you back.

And I did.

But before we go there,
I want to say this:

If any part of this sounds familiar —
if you’ve ever felt like you had to shrink,
stay small,
or hide your truth just to feel safe…

You’re not the only one.
And you don’t have to disappear to belong.

With heart,
Rebecca