Under the Magnolia Tree

Lessons in Loss and the Power of Speaking Out

The author and her grandmother | Photo: Courtesy

Trigger Warning: This column includes references to childhood trauma and sexual violence. Reader discretion is advised.

When I reflect back to my early childhood, I often find myself beneath the canopy of a towering magnolia tree in my grandmother’s backyard. Its sweet, lemony fragrance would linger in the warm air, and its large, waxy leaves provided the perfect shade for what, at the time, felt like endless fun adventures! I was just a little older than my son, who’s almost 5, and similar to his life now, my days then were a mix of exploration, imagination, and the initial naïveté and wonderment that early childhood can sometimes offer.

My parents, both doctors and business owners, worked long hours, so I spent many days in my grandmother’s care. Her yard became my playground, a world of discovery where I searched for and collected rocks, picked wildflowers, and spent time with her lively (and sometimes mean!) poodle, Charo. My grandmother named her poodle after the Spanish-born singer whose signature phrase was: “Cuchi-cuchi,” which she often said while wiggling her hips. Lunch at Grandma’s was just as unconventional: She let me eat buttery popcorn from a large bowl (“Don’t tell your parents,” she’d giggle) as we watched Judge Judy, Bob Ross, and The Golden Girls. Inevitably, my grandmother would doze off in her recliner, leaving me to resume my adventures outside.

But this memory, once painted with the innocence of a child’s wonder, now has some edges and shadows.

Trigger Warning

Next door to my grandmother lived a man — someone we later discovered was a convicted felon and registered sexual offender. As the story goes, he was living with his sister at the time while allegedly attempting to rebuild his life after prison. At the time, I didn’t know what it meant to carry such a label, nor could I have comprehended the danger he posed. However, I have vague memories of him peering at me through the wooden slats of my grandmother’s fence beside the magnolia tree I so loved. His presence, although silent (until it wasn’t), felt invasive and wrong in ways I couldn’t articulate as a child.

The rest of the details don’t need to be fully laid bare here, but it’s enough to say that his actions grew more troubling from that point on. What matters most is how we process and talk about traumatic experiences — with both ourselves and others. I was too young to understand the full gravity of that experience. Still, I remember the suffocating feeling of having my privacy violated, as well as the resulting confusion and shame that took root in my spirit that summer.

For what it’s worth, the man in question was later detained and returned to prison. I trust he was a victim at one point himself. The other victim in this story — my grandmother, was shaken and unable to reconcile the breach of safety in her sanctuary, causing her to sell her home shortly after. Just one police report later and the magnolia tree I’d loved so dearly, the yard that had been my sanctuary — suddenly vanished. And so, too, did my childlike sense of safety and invincibility.

I never saw that magnolia tree again. And the world never looked quite the same to me thereafter.

The Cost of Silence

For years, I didn’t talk about what happened. Not because I didn’t want to but because I didn’t have the words. Childhood trauma is often like that — it sits in the corners of your memory, heavy but unspoken. It manifests in ways you don’t immediately recognize: in the feeling of hypervigilance, the fear of being truly seen, and the hesitation to trust.

It took me years to find the language for what I had experienced and even longer to find the strength to speak it aloud. But here’s what I’ve learned, both from my own journey and from the countless clients I’ve worked with as a therapist: Silence only deepens the wound. It allows injustice to fester and trauma to solidify.

By sharing our stories, we reclaim the parts of ourselves that were taken. As Dr. Gabor Maté said, “Trauma is not what happens to you, but what happens inside of you as a result of what happens to you.” In sharing our experiences, we begin to heal that inner wound and reconnect with the authenticity that trauma suppresses.

The Resilience of the Human Spirit

If there is one thing I hold onto from that time, it’s the magnolia tree. Though I never saw it again, its memory remains a symbol of resilience. Magnolias, after all, are ancient trees. They have evolved to endure, to bloom in even the harshest conditions.

In the years since that shadow fell over my childhood, I’ve come to view my own journey as one of resilience. The world didn’t feel safe anymore, however, I learned to carve out safety within myself. I became someone who could sit with others in their pain, helping them untangle their own stories and find their strength in the process.

The Importance of Speaking Out

It’s tempting to turn away from injustice and trauma, to bury it and pretend it never happened. But silence is a breeding ground for harm. We shine a light on darkness when we speak out — whether against personal violations, systemic injustices, or the everyday wrongs we witness.

As difficult as it is, speaking out is an act of defiance against those who seek to silence us. It’s a declaration that our stories, voices, and humanity all matter.

A Message of Hope

If you’ve ever experienced something similar, know this: You are not alone, and it wasn’t your fault. Healing is not linear and often feels impossibly heavy, but it is also possible. Start by speaking your truth, even if only to yourself at first.

We all carry scars, visible and invisible. But like the magnolia tree, we can endure and bloom again.

The world may never look the same after certain moments, but resilience is born through these cracks in our innocence. In the act of speaking out, we find not only our strength but also our way back to ourselves.

Note: The information provided is not a substitute for professional therapy or medical advice.