December 3rd 2025

I sit next to him, and the room is quiet in a way that makes my own heartbeat loud. He doesn’t speak — not really — and every day that passes, I feel the distance between us stretch a little further. I want to reach him, to pull him back to me with words, with touch, with anything I can offer, but my own chest is heavy with battles I can’t lay down.

Sometimes I feel like I’m loving a shadow. A shadow that doesn’t ask for help, doesn’t offer comfort, and doesn’t notice the ache I carry while I watch him disappear inside himself. I am lonely in ways I didn’t know existed. I cry in the bathroom, in the dark, whispering things I would never say aloud. I am afraid that my own voice will vanish, swallowed by the silence I try so hard to fill for both of us.

And yet — I cannot leave. I cannot stop hoping that one day he will speak again. Even if the words are different, even if he is different. Because I love him, fragile and fractured as he is, and love is the one tether I have left to hold on in this aching quiet.

— Chrystal Brotherson

With Love & Creativity,
Chrystal Brotherson
✍️ Writer | Consultant| Storyteller
👬 Momma of Twin Boys | Gamer & Mega-Builder |

✍️ Content Creator| Homeschool Enthusiast
🍳 Homemade Chef | Cat Caregiver | Wife & Partner

Do you have something to write about you think would be welcomed here at The Diarist? Check out the submissions page — let’s see it! For more thoughtful, well-written, articles on every topic you could think of follow The Diarist.

The Sound Between Us was originally published in The Diarist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Growing Up With Food Insecurity and Chaos at Home

February 2026 — looking back

I used to hate holiday weekends.

Most kids counted down to them. I counted the hours I would have to survive.

At our house, long weekends were loud. Not the fun kind of loud. The kind where yelling could turn sharp without warning. The kind where silence felt like something bad was about to happen. Friday night didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like a door closing.

We lived in Las Vegas until I was thirteen, then moved to Idaho. The weather changed. The hunger didn’t.

In Vegas, the heat wrapped around you and made everything feel heavy. In Idaho, the cold cut straight through. Either way, snow days and long weekends meant the same thing: no school, no guaranteed meals, no break from the house.

My mom dealt drugs. When she was awake, she was loud and mean. The house ran on chaos. My stepdad used words that were meant to make me smaller. Adults drifted in and out. None of them felt safe. Friends were never allowed over. I learned early how to read a room, how to listen for changes in tone, how to stay invisible.

I was the oldest. That meant I was the responsible one. The one who could “handle it.” That story started when I was seven. I didn’t know how to cook. I just knew how to wait. Wait for yelling to stop. Wait for someone to fall asleep. Wait for Monday.

This winter in southeast Idaho had been strangely warm. Bare ground. Brown fields. Hardly any snow. School stayed open and routine held everything together. Then Snowstorm Fern hit and everything shut down overnight. Roads closed. School canceled. Kids home.

When I saw the closures, something old came back to me.

There were kids sitting in houses like mine had been. Loud. Cold. Empty. Snow stacking up outside while the fridge stayed bare. Adults checked out or dangerous. No school breakfast. No lunch tray. Just time stretching out in front of them.

I learned early how to read a room, how to listen for changes in tone, how to stay invisible.

Adults see a snow day and think: cozy. A pause. Hot chocolate.

A hungry child feels something different. Time gets bigger. Hunger gets louder. The house gets smaller.

I survived that kind of childhood. Many kids did. Survival doesn’t make it rare. It just makes it quiet.

The storm passed. It always does. Roads reopened. School resumed.

But for some kids, nothing changed. The house stayed loud. The kitchen stayed empty. And they kept counting down the hours until Monday morning felt like rescue.

With Love & Creativity,
Chrystal Brotherson
✍️ Writer | Consultant| Storyteller
👬 Momma of Twin Boys | Gamer & Mega-Builder |

✍️ Content Creator| Homeschool Enthusiast
🍳 Homemade Chef | Cat Caregiver | Wife & Partner

Do you have something to write about you think would be welcomed here at The Diarist? Check out the submissions page — let’s see it! For more thoughtful, well-written, articles on every topic you could think of follow The Diarist.

When Snow Days Meant Hunger was originally published in The Diarist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What they don’t tell you is how often the village decides you don’t count.

Januuary 18th 2026

I can’t stop thinking about it today — about how the world treated me the day my twins were born.

I went home from the hospital with two perfect babies three days later, and the first thing I realized was: the village doesn’t exist. 🖤

My C-section was scheduled. Planned. Supposed to be calm. Instead, it was cold, fast, and impersonal. The doctor didn’t talk to me. Didn’t ask how I wanted to meet my children. Didn’t even ask if I wanted to hold them first. They just took them. Nothing was wrong. They were healthy. I was stable. And still, my babies were gone before I could even touch them.

COVID rules meant only one partner could be inside. One dad held me, the other paced at home, heart pounding. We did our best — trading support through photos and text messages — but it wasn’t enough.

No system, no procedure, no rules could ever replicate what should have been simple: shared presence, shared love.

And after?

Silence.

No baby shower.
No meals.
No flowers.
No friends.

But the worst part wasn’t the friends. NO the HURT came from my younger self. I thought I needed my mom for this. I thought she would want to be here.

Even if out of obligation SHE WAS GONNA COME RIGHT?

My mother has never met my twins. They’re three now. Three years of birthdays, scraped knees, first words, belly laughs — and she has chosen absence every single time.

My stepfather promised to be there when I was pregnant. Said he’d show up. Said he’d care. He didn’t. Not a call. Not a visit. He’s been in delivery rooms for my siblings, waited in hospitals — but not for me. Oh do not get my started on the fact that I am the oldest of four and have an older step sister fully capable of being available to everyone else, and always have.

Then The Postpartum depression didn’t sneak in. It slammed me down like a wave. 🌊 Grief. Rage. The anger that the people who should have been there couldn’t be bothered to exist for me or my children.

When Loneliness Follows You Home

We weren’t single. We weren’t unsupported. We built our little family together, fiercely, lovingly. But the “village”? It’s a myth. And every absence, every broken promise, every choice to stay away made that crystal clear. 🔥

I’m still angry. I’m still hurt. But I’m also still here. Stronger. Wiser. Choosing my family. Choosing the people who actually show up.

And to everyone who didn’t? Fuck off. 💔

✨ Written by Chrystal Brotherson. For more stories of motherhood, resilience, and hope, follow me here on Medium: medium.com/@chrystalbrotherson.

They tell you it takes a village was originally published in The Diarist on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.