Childhood Shenanigans: My Most Embarrassing Moments.

I usually avoid reminiscing about my past because, frankly, it’s not a goldmine of positivity. But today, let’s shake things up and explore some of the most unhinged, jaw-dropping moments from my childhood and teenage years. Spoiler alert: I’ve always been a disaster magnet, both physically and socially.

Let’s start with a New Year’s Eve at my dad’s house when I was 11. Picture this: the Christmas tree is still up, and the living room is packed with my dad, stepmom, brother, and stepbrother. We’re glued to the TV, counting down to the ball drop. I was thrilled—partly because I didn’t spend much time at my dad’s and partly because his house was a snack palace. And there it was, my prize for the evening: a green apple Jolly Rancher lollipop. Remember those? Square-shaped sugar bricks with a stick.

I unwrapped that lollipop with the reverence of someone about to enjoy their first illegal drink. The countdown began, the room was electric, and I was fully in the moment. Then the clock hit midnight, and as I inhaled to yell “Happy New Year,” that lollipop decided to go spelunking down my throat.

Now, here’s the thing about throats: they’re round. Jolly Rancher lollipops are not. So there I was, silently choking while everyone else was hugging and celebrating. I panicked but didn’t dare ask for help because, well, what’s worse—dying or interrupting a festive moment in a house where I already felt like a guest overstaying their welcome? Exactly. So I did what any sensible child would do: I jammed my finger down my throat, trying to yank it out. Somehow, I lived. Honestly, the most surprising part of this story is that I didn’t make it into 2002 as a cautionary tale on candy packaging.

Next up, a story that feels like a fever dream but is all too real. Growing up, my mom had a conveyor belt of boyfriends who’d quickly be promoted to "stepdad" without so much as an interview. One of these guys had a son with Down syndrome. I’ve always loved connecting with people who are different—it’s one of my few redeeming qualities—but this guy’s son took our bond in a truly unexpected direction.

He had a habit. Specifically, he had a habit of getting intimate with my bed. Daily. Why my bed? Why at all? I’ll never know. What I do know is that I’d walk in, see him mid-act, and be told by everyone to “just wait until he’s done.” So there I’d stand in the hallway, contemplating my life choices at 11 years old, while my bed got more action than I’d see in my entire teenage existence. Looking back, it’s absurdly funny. At the time, I think I just accepted it as one of those weird things you put up with in life, like taxes or people who clap when planes land.

Finally, let’s jump to 2007. I was in high school, the peak of my being-bullied era. One day in the cafeteria, my tormentors were particularly on fire, and I finally hit my breaking point. I decided to storm out dramatically through the emergency exit, the kind with the big metal bars. This was supposed to be my “main character” moment. Instead, it was a disaster.

That door did not open. At all. Instead, I slammed face-first into the bars. Full speed. The sound alone probably made everyone drop their lunch trays. To make matters worse, I’d just delivered some half-baked clapback about standing up for myself, so the timing couldn’t have been more humiliating. I left with a giant goose egg on my forehead and a newfound understanding that God loves a good slapstick routine.

And there you have it. My childhood and teen years were more about survival than laughs, but in hindsight, the absurdity is hard to ignore. I don’t really get embarrassed anymore—when your soul is a walking punchline, there’s nowhere to go but up. Did I overshare? Probably. Did you laugh? Hopefully. Either way, enjoy your day. Or don’t. Live your truth.