Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

For most of my life, I was conditioned to believe that being seen was dangerous. When you grow up in a household where truth is inconvenient, where survival depends on keeping up appearances, you learn to hide—not just from others, but from yourself.

I learned this lesson young. Narcissistic parents have a way of controlling the narrative, of making sure the image of a “perfect family” is preserved at all costs. When a child speaks a truth that disrupts that image, they are either punished or gaslit into questioning their own reality. I became so good at blending in, at being what everyone needed me to be, that I lost sight of who I was.

And yet, somehow, despite all of that, I wrote a book.

I poured my truth into Smoking in Garages: A Survivor’s Story of Trauma and Resilience, thinking that publishing under a pseudonym would create enough distance to keep me safe. I told myself it was about control—about keeping the power in my hands. But the truth is, I think I also hoped that if I hid behind a name that wasn’t my own, maybe the fear wouldn’t catch up with me.

But now that the book is out, now that people are reading it, highlighting passages, and reaching out—I’m realizing something I wasn’t fully prepared for: I am finally being seen.

And that? That’s terrifying.

The Lost Little Girl No One Saw

When my aunt texted me after reading Smoking in Garages, I braced myself. Only two family members even know about the book, and I had no idea what she would say. But instead of criticism or silence, she told me she had started highlighting and bookmarking pages. She told me she had an ACE score of her own. She told me she knew someone who might benefit from my story.

And then something she told me months ago, at the height of writing this memoir hit me harder than I expected:

She had asked my grandmother if she had known about any of the things that led to me being sent away. My grandmother, it turns out, had at one point offered to take me in when I was still little.

I had spent my entire childhood daydreaming about someone stepping in and saving me. I used to fantasize about being a “boxcar kid,” running away and building a new life like the children in the books I read. I imagined being whisked away by faeries, vanishing into some enchanted world where I would finally belong.

At one point, as silly as it sounds now, I prayed every single night that I would wake up as Drew Barrymore. After watching E.T. every day for a week straight, I latched onto her story—this lost little girl who found something magical. What I didn’t realize at the time was that Drew was struggling in ways I couldn’t have understood. Years later, I would read Little Girl Lost and feel an eerie sense of recognition. Be careful what you wish for, right? I didn’t wake up famous, but I did end up in a treatment facility much like Drew in her youth.

Hearing that my grandmother had wanted to take me in was both healing and devastating. It answered the question I had been too afraid to ask: Did anyone see me? The answer was yes—but no one was able to do anything about it.

Reclaiming My Voice

That’s part of what makes being seen so terrifying now. Because I was seen as a child, but it didn’t change anything. And for a long time, I believed that meant my story didn’t matter.

But the messages I’m receiving now—the people reaching out to say, me too, the ones who are realizing their own trauma through my words—are proving otherwise.

It’s terrifying, but it’s also undeniable.

This book isn’t just about me. It’s about every person who has ever been silenced, every survivor who has ever questioned whether their pain was real or whether they were just being “too sensitive.” It’s about breaking the cycle of silence and shame that keeps so many of us trapped in survival mode.

Because I don’t want to just survive anymore.

---

The Next Chapter: From Surviving to Thriving

For years, my body has been wired for fear. Chronic illness, medical trauma, and a lifetime of survival instincts have made it nearly impossible to believe that safety—even happiness—is an option.

But I’m trying.

As terrifying as it is, I’m choosing to let myself be seen. I’m choosing to step forward, to share my story—not just to process what’s happened, but to build what comes next.

And what comes next is a life where I don’t just survive—I heal.

I want to retrain my mind and body to seek joy instead of fear. To believe that I am allowed to thrive, not just exist. I want to prove to myself that all of this—the pain, the struggle, the grief—wasn’t for nothing.

And maybe, just maybe, this is the first step toward writing the next memoir. The one about what happens after you survive.

The one about healing.

Choosing to Be Seen

If you’ve ever struggled with the fear of being seen, I want you to know: you’re not alone.

I know what it feels like to carry the weight of an untold story. I know the fear of what happens when you finally let the truth out. But I also know that we don’t have to live in the shadows forever.

So here I am. Terrified, but showing up anyway.

Because after a lifetime of being unseen, I finally understand that my story—and yours—deserves to be told.