Girls are taught to play nice and be quiet. So, when bad things happened to me in my childhood home in Italy, I never said a word. Add to that, a mother who told me my voice hurt her ears when I sang, and you basically get your perfect little victim.

Thankfully, this is not the end of my story.

Since my voice was stifled, I found other ways to express myself. Music, writing, art. They helped me through the loneliness of each new school I attended for every single grade.

We were a military family, serving two tours in Italy sandwiched around a tour in Colorado, which was my favorite because I came alive there, earning first chair in flute, and putting on a school play I wrote with my sixth-grade social studies teacher’s support. But instead of rocking seventh grade there, my parents got involved with a cult. I was pulled out of school and taught to obey God, my father, and my future husband to-be.

The Air Force saved me by moving us back to Italy. I was so behind in school. At fourteen, my parents enrolled me in sixth grade at the Italian public school. Being held back three whole grades made me feel so stupid. It should’ve been easy, repeating sixth grade, but I didn’t speak Italian! I failed everything for the first few months. My only escape was a bird costume I made out of junk mail feathers pinned to my shirt. I would fly on my skates in the attic of our condemned farmhouse pretending my parents were normal people who didn’t break the law given an opportunity. (Their criminal behavior is beyond the scope of this extended biography.)

When it was time to return to the States for my father’s retirement, my mother arranged for me to stay with an Italian family I barely knew as an apprentice, gathering their pasticceria and gelato recipes so she could open a restaurant in the States.

I was eighteen years-old with an eighth-grade education.

When I joined my family back in the USA, we opened the International Cafe in a small town where people preferred barbeque and fries. By March, we faced bankruptcy. My sister and I slept on rented mattresses on the floor. Now that I wasn’t needed, I asked Mother if I could go back to school.

To this day, I still feel bad for lying to the high school guidance counselor. She thought my middle school transcripts were from high school. I didn’t correct her. She said, “No one speaks Italian here, you’ll have to translate these.” So I did. To the letter. Leaving out the teeny-tiny detail that they were from sixth through eighth grade.

It was always my dream to go to college, but we had no money. The guidance counselor encouraged me to enter the county level Miss America Pageant for the college scholarship and I won! Three months later, I had an American diploma…with honors! And I went to prom! No proms in Italy.

Appalachian State University offered me an academic scholarship and an invitation into their honors program. I was so happy to have this chance to turn my life around. I worked three jobs and took out a student loan to make ends meet. I graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology and a minor in International Business. Cum Laude. I’m a proud member of the National Psychology Honor Society, Psi Chi, where I served as president my senior year. I also earned scholarships to study business abroad in Australia and China.

At this point, I planned to get a Ph.D. in industrial-organizational psychology and make a difference in the workplace. But when I returned home for break, there were police cars at my parents’ house for an attempted murder incident. (Beyond the scope of this bio.) Suffice it to say, this was the moment I decided to go the clinical psychology route so I could help my family.

I earned a Master’s of Science degree in Mental Health Counseling from Stetson University, which included a study abroad in Europe. Five days before take-off, I met my soulmate. Yes, I’m rolling my eyes, too. Soulmate? Love at first sight? Ridiculous! Impossible! Well, it happened to me. We got married three years later because I’m not a total lunatic. And it’s been twentyish years now and we’re still married because we’re willing to talk about the hard things, make changes, and evolve together.

My psychological career has evolved, too. It began at a boys ranch, providing therapy to children whose parental rights had been terminated due to abuse or incarceration. It was a difficult job, the kids were so hardened by everything they’d been through. At the time, I was in denial about my own abusive childhood. I connected with these kiddos. Unfortunately, the owners of the ranch were convicted of insurance fraud. The whole place shut down. Coming from my background with parents of questionable morals, this hit me pretty hard. Especially since my own clinical supervisor directed me to bill for two separate sessions in the same hour. Of course, I refused.

Fresh out of a job, I joined a wonderful private psychological practice near Orlando. But no matter how helpful I was to others professionally, I still struggled with my own family of origin.

Surely, becoming a doctor would teach me the magic words to help my family get their lives on track! I believed this whole-heartedly, spent the next five years earning a Ph.D. in Counseling and Marriage and Family Therapy from Barry University. And I founded Central Florida Mental Health. But even after becoming Dr. Kelley, I was still helpless when it came to my parents. Worse, my body began shutting down.

I’ve always been proud of being a good daughter, but there comes a time when a person has to save themselves first. I love my family of origin. I know they love me. But we can’t be together. I had to fully separate in order to begin and maintain my own healing.

All I wanted was a healthy family. I had my own private practice, which I imagined would give me flexibility once I had children of my own. But I couldn’t get pregnant. There’s research linking the kind of trauma I endured as a child and endometriosis. Five years of infertility led to a deep depression. Thankfully, I had a supportive partner, therapy, and effective medication. After many invasive trials and surgeries, IVF finally made my dreams come true. Then seven months later, I was pregnant again. Naturally! Oh joy!

Staying home with two little ones after fighting so hard should’ve been absolute bliss. But it was the most difficult job I’d ever encountered. I had no support system and often felt like a house hostage. I felt like I was losing my mind. Losing who I was. I needed to do something intellectual, so while my babies slept, I picked up writing again.

In a trip I named, Operation Free the Mommies, I attended my first Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) conference over the weekend while my husband stayed with our littles. It was glorious! I met a writing coach, who is now, thirteen years later, my literary agent, Joyce Sweeney, and committed myself to writing.

Writing is free therapy. Working on my young adult novels, I was able to work out a lot of family issues. But even after writing healed me, I want more. I want to connect with others who have struggled. I want to tell you that you’re not alone. That even while it’s hard and it hurts, you can get through it. Because we are resilient. Because the arts heal us. Reading. Writing. Singing. Dancing. Art in all its forms.

Find your passion and go for it! It’s been my joy to connect with people of all ages by bringing creative resiliency to schools, NCTE, libraries, and other community spaces. C.S. Lewis said, “You’re never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.” My dream is to become a published author. In my forties, I went back to school and earned an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults at Vermont College of Fine Arts.

Now, I happily write resilient stories for resilient readers. I make the kind of books that I needed when I was a kid. Stories of hope, resiliency and courage. Stories that make a difference in my life; that will make a difference in the lives of others. Same with my music. I write and perform original songs that helped me heal and grow through difficult times.

As an adult, I realized that even the people who are supposed to protect us, like Mother who said my voice hurt her ears, can be wrong/ sick/mentally incapable. It’s important to recognize these unreliable narrators. Mother was wrong. My voice is beautiful. All voices are. All voices deserve to be heard.

And now, because I’m no longer letting other people decide my worth, I’ve released two albums filled with original songs that tell my stories of triumph over trauma.

I’m no longer ashamed of my past. Only the wrongdoers should be ashamed. I’m proud of what I’ve overcome and the choices I’ve made.

I’ve learned the Things That Happened to You are not as important as the Way You Choose to Respond. I choose peace and love for myself and others. This is my message of creative resilience.

I’m far from perfect, but I’m perfectly me. That’s all you have to be, too.

XO,

Tori Kelley, Ph.D.