I am one of two—a twin, born into poverty, raised in the 2×2 religion, and shaped by an absence that echoed louder than words: I didn’t meet my father until later in life. My twin and I were identical in more than just appearance; we shared a world of silence, sacrifice, and survival. For much of my life, I didn’t fully understand the weight I carried or the quiet ways it shaped my mind. This is an attempt to lay it all out, not for pity or praise, but for healing. Writing this is my way of reclaiming the parts of myself I’ve had to hide or forget just to keep going.
Mental health wasn’t something we talked about growing up. It didn’t have a name, just symptoms—sadness that lingered, anxiety that stayed hidden, and a numbness that became normal. Now I’m learning to look back with honesty, and forward with compassion. This is the beginning of that journey.
My childhood was marked by two things: sameness and scarcity. As twins, my sister and I were often seen as a unit, interchangeable and inseparable. But while the world around us saw double, inside we were both trying to figure out who we were—without much space to do it. We grew up poor, and that meant learning early how to go without. We always had plenty of love. We never lacked for food because summers were spent working in the garden and storing up food for the winter.
The 2×2 religion gave structure to our lives, but it also gave weight. There were rules we followed without question, beliefs we carried without fully understanding them. Emotions—especially the difficult ones—were often met with silence or scripture, but not support. I learned to internalize, to suppress, to push through. Looking back now, I realize I was carrying anxiety and depression before I had the language to name them. My faith gave me comfort sometimes, but it also taught me guilt in ways I’m still unlearning.
Family was complicated—but not without love.
My twin sister and I had each other, and we had our mother and grandmother. They were our steady presence, the warmth in the cold, the ones who kept us grounded when the rest of the world felt unstable. We didn’t have much—not in money, not in material things—but what we did have came from their hands and their hearts. They gave all they had, and often more. Even when they were tired, stretched thin, or holding pain of their own, they still made space for us to feel safe, to be kids, to be loved. That love meant everything. It still does.
But even with a mother and grandmother who gave us their all, there were gaps they couldn’t fill—especially when it came to the absence of our father. We didn’t know him growing up. We didn’t even know his name until we were 40 years old. We met him when we were 42 years old. He passed away unexpectedly when we were 47 years old. He was just a mystery all those years prior to meeting him. His absence wasn’t loud—it was quiet, but heavy. It shaped how I saw myself, how I trusted others, and how I understood love. When I finally met him, it gave me a face to match the silence. That was a turning point.
What I’ve come to understand is that abandonment leaves marks, even when you have love in other places. It creates cracks in identity, in confidence, in mental health. But love—like the kind my mother and grandmother gave us—plants seeds of resilience, too. It gave me a reason to keep going, even when the weight felt like too much. And that love is a piece of me I carry forward.
Growing up with a twin sister is like growing up with a mirror—someone who looks like you, thinks like you, and feels things almost at the same time you do. But she wasn’t just a reflection; she was a constant, a companion, a co-survivor. We weren’t just close—we were intertwined. In a world that often felt uncertain, she was a kind of safety I didn’t have to explain.
We shared everything: a room, a childhood, secrets, fears, questions. We navigated the same struggles—poverty, faith, confusion about our father—and yet, we carried them in slightly different ways. She was strong when I was tired. I held space for her when she needed to fall apart. We balanced each other without always realizing it.
But being seen as “the twins” by everyone else made it harder, sometimes, to figure out who I was as an individual. It took time to learn that I could be close to her and still be my own person. That I could love her deeply and still have feelings, thoughts, and paths that were mine alone. Even now, we still share so much. We still laugh at the same things, finish each other’s sentences, and carry some of the same scars. But we’ve also grown into our own stories—parallel journeys with shared roots but different destinations. And through all the twists and turns, she’s remained one of my greatest supports. A built-in best friend. A living reminder that I was never completely alone, even when life felt that way.
Having her has been a gift—and a grounding one. In a life that sometimes felt like it was unraveling, she was one of the few things that never did.
Healing doesn’t follow a straight path. It curves, it loops, it sometimes disappears entirely—until you’re suddenly right back in it, gasping for air and wondering how long you’ve been holding your breath. For a long time, I didn’t even realize how much I needed to heal. I had learned to function around the pain. I had learned to be strong, to stay quiet, to keep going. Especially in a world where speaking out wasn’t encouraged—where suffering was spiritualized, and silence was often mistaken for strength.
There was one secret my sister and I kept from each other. Just one. It wasn’t because we didn’t trust each other—we trusted each other more than anyone else. But the weight of the trauma we each carried—CSA within the 2×2 community—was so heavy, so confusing, so wrapped in shame, that we didn’t know how to say it out loud. Not even to each other. Especially not to each other.
I think we both believed we were protecting the other. But in doing so, we carried a kind of aloneness that fractured something inside us. It took years before that silence finally broke. When it finally did at 62 years of age. After the exposure of Dean Bruer, it didn’t just reopen old wounds—it gave us permission to begin healing for real. To say, “You too?” and not feel crazy. To cry and not feel weak. To finally stop carrying someone else’s sin like it was our own.
I have been a caregiver for most of my life—for many years for someone who wasn’t family, but a friend. A friend with dementia. It wasn’t expected of me, and no one would’ve blamed me for walking away. But I stayed. I cared. I gave everything I had, day after day, year after year, even when no one noticed, even when I was falling apart quietly behind the scenes. Dementia is brutal. You watch someone slowly disappear—while you’re still standing right there, remembering for both of you. It’s grief in slow motion. There were beautiful moments, too—flashes of connection, warmth, small victories—but it was heavy, lonely, and often invisible to the outside world. Because I wasn’t “family,” people didn’t always understand the depth of my role. But I knew. It mattered, and it cost me more than I can explain.
Mental health, for me, has been a long road. There have been battles with anxiety, depression, self-worth, and trust. There have been seasons of numbness and others of raw, overwhelming emotion. But slowly—through honesty, through breaking silences and letting go of roles I no longer needed to carry—I’ve started reclaiming myself. Piece by piece.
Healing isn’t about pretending it didn’t happen. It’s about telling the truth. Giving voice to what was silenced. Letting yourself feel everything you weren’t allowed to feel back then. And most of all, choosing—over and over—to believe that your life is still worthy of joy, peace, and love.
For a long time, I believed my story was only about survival. About getting through. About carrying burdens and doing what needed to be done, no matter the cost. And while that was true for many years, it’s no longer the whole story. I’m not just surviving now. I’m healing. I’m growing. I’m learning how to breathe without apology and speak without shame.
My past shaped me—but it didn’t define me. The silence, the trauma, the loss, the exhaustion—they all left their marks. But so did love. So did resilience. So did the deep, unconditional devotion I feel for my twin sister, my family, my special friends, my three wonderful children and my three beautiful grandchildren. They are the brightest parts of my life. Each one is a living, breathing reminder that love is still possible, that joy still has a place in my story, and that the cycle of pain can end with me.
When I look at them, I see everything I fought for—even when I didn’t know I was fighting. I see hope. I see legacy. I see healing passed down, not just pain.
If I could say anything to my younger self, it would be this:
You were never weak. You were never broken. You were doing your best with the weight you were given, and you carried it with more grace than anyone ever gave you credit for.
To others walking a path like mine: your pain is real. Your story matters. And you deserve the kind of peace that doesn’t come from pretending—but from facing the truth and choosing to love yourself anyway.
And to my twin sister, my husband, my children, my grandchildren, my special friends and family —thank you. You are my greatest gift, and my greatest reason to keep healing.
Dale (Eddins) Gray,. 2024
Mt. Croghan, South Carolina USA