Why I Write

By Sarah VanBlarcom

I feel like I have a secret, but I’m not quite sure what it is. All I know is that somehow, I’ve not only survived, but am thriving at life, and somewhere inside of me lies the secret for how that is possible.

I’ve always wanted to write my story, but life got in the way. I moved to the US at 18 with my 2-month-old son in my arms, two suitcases, and $50 in my pocket. My grandparents sent me the ticket. My sister got us into our first apartment. I didn’t know how to exist in the real world. I was born to American parents in Portugal and raised in Brasil, where I spent my whole childhood preparing for the world to end.

In my new life, I worked 2 jobs, got my GED, learned to drive. I submitted a writing sample to a school; their response letter raved at how captivating my writing was and offered me classes I couldn’t afford. Writing was work that didn’t pay.

I went to beauty school. It was a way to use my creativity, and it had a reliable wage. I thought often of how I would write my story, what angle, perspective, I even started several drafts. But I was never able to delve in. I lose focus easily. I have attention challenges that make sitting and writing especially difficult. The dream of writing faded to the back shelf of plans for the future.

2020 was a devastating year. The toilet paper shortage was only the beginning. In April I got a call from a family member I’d never met. My half-brother’s aunt was reaching out to tell me my brother had died, ending his life alone, at home. I called Dad and then notified my sister by chat.

I didn’t know him well. I met him a couple times as a baby. I remember holding him on my lap and making him laugh. I was 10 when he was born. In recent years we had connected through social media, and I helped him reconnect with our dad and get his American paperwork done. It was a slow build on a relationship that had never been forged in childhood. I, along with my 17 siblings, was born and raised in the Children of God cult, a.k.a. the Family International. Families were often torn apart, preventing safety, structure, nurturing, and connection from forming.

Now he was gone. The cult had claimed another victim.

I’ve struggled with my own ideation and survived attempts in the past. I was in a slump at the time of his death and was determined not to add to the statistics. But my resilience was about to be tested. Two months after my brother died, I lost my partner Jordan, also to suicide.

I imploded. Whatever strength, endurance, perseverance I had, it was all gone. I barely functioned. I went through the motions of living, while hoping for it all to end. Before the year ended, I lost my dog Charlie to old age. He died in the same spot in our basement as Jordan, his favorite spot.

Days and nights blended together in drudgery. I worked and came home. I had severe panic attacks. I cried throughout the day, all day, for over a year. The only places where I felt comfortable were at work and home. I hate feeling emotions, but now I was just a dripping puddle. I had panic attacks if I ventured out, so I stayed home. Shut down, shut out everything, and nearly everyone. I had so much to say, but I could not find my voice.

Two years on, and I was ready to exit life. I was the same age my mom was when she died; it would be poetic. I had done some art as a way to process my grief. Once I had decided I was in my last year, I began recording videos about my life. I didn’t have the patience to write; at least my story could help someone else. It would now be a cautionary tale of how even the strong can break.

But I had a few things I wanted to do before I died. In that “last year” I started saying yes to things that had once scared or intimidated me. Instead of wrecking me, I felt stronger each time, more capable. I decided to give life another shot.

2023 was the year I was going to start taking my life back. I wondered to myself, “What if I’m already dead and this is hell?” I hated everything about my life. It was time to change.

At first, however, change happened very slowly. Self-care meant getting better sleep, more movement, and better nutrition. As I focused on my physical health, my mental health also began improving. I set better boundaries for myself. I prioritized my well-being over others’ wishes. I chose me, and I chose life every day.

I lost a second brother to suicide at the end of 2023. His funeral was held on my birthday. Again, I wondered, “Why am I still here and not them? What secret do I know?”

In the past two years of aggressive self-love, I’ve found a whole new perspective to life. Even though writing my story leaves me vulnerable to others’ criticism and judgment, I am finally at a place of peace where I feel safe in allowing others to see.

I write when the urge strikes. I explore my past with compassion; I look forward to my future with confidence. I am the same girl who escaped a cult at 18 with my infant. I knew nothing of the world then. Now, at 45, I know so much more, enough to know how very little I know. I write to uncover the mystery of why I cannot seem to give up on this crazy thing called life, and why I choose to #liveandlive.

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Connect with Sarah on her TikTok channel and Facebook.