There was one poem in Scar Tissue & Stardust that I nearly left behind.
Its title is “Daddy.”
Even writing that here, I can still feel where it catches in my chest.
Not because the poem was unfinished.
Not because it lacked strength.
But because it asked something of me, I was not sure I was ready to give.
It asked me to be seen.
“Daddy” was written during one of the darkest seasons of my life—when I was not only trying to survive my own trauma but also enduring a deeply abusive marriage.
There were wounds I had carried for years. Some from childhood. Some from silence. Some from the shame that often gets handed to survivors as though it belongs to them.
I was molested as a child.
And for years, I carried that pain quietly trying to tuck it away in places no one could see.
But abuse has a way of finding old wounds.
At the time, my then-husband used that part of my story against me. He blamed his abuse on me. He told me my father had ruined me. That I was the reason our relationship was broken. He took something that had already left scars and tried to turn it into proof that I was somehow the problem.
And for a long time… part of me believed him.
When it came time to decide whether “Daddy” belonged in this book, all of that shame came rushing back.
Not because I no longer knew my truth.
But because telling the truth has a way of stirring every voice that once told you to stay quiet.
I thought about my family.
I thought about my father.
I thought about the relationships I have worked hard to rebuild, the healing that has taken place, and whether this poem might change how people see me—or how they see him.
And for a moment, I almost let fear make the decision for me.
But then I realized something:
This happened to me.
And it is not my shame to carry.
Not anymore.
For too many years, I carried pain that never belonged to me. I carried silence that protected other people more than it protected myself. I carried what some families call “the dark secret” as though speaking it aloud would somehow make me the one who broke something.
But silence was already breaking me.
So, I published the poem.
Not because it was easy.
Not because everyone will understand.
But because healing demanded honesty.
Because living in my truth matters more than protecting the shame other people handed me.
“Daddy” almost didn’t make it into this book.
But now, looking back…
I think it may be one of the bravest things I have ever written.
— Jennifer Rene Wallace
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