I’ve always recognized that my upbringing was quite sheltered. Growing up in a Southern, church-going family (Baptist, of course), I had loving parents and protective siblings. My friends’ idea of peer pressure was simply making sure I called my mom if I was out too late. It was the epitome of Mayfield, straight out of Leave it to Beaver. To me, it was Mayberry.
I loved my upbringing and imagined raising my own kids in such a perfect town—where no sinister forces lurked, no crimes were committed, and, certainly, no drugs were found.
I used to think that the after-school specials depicting kids spiraling into drug abuse were overly exaggerated. I was smarter than that. Or so I thought. It turns out I was rather naive and perhaps a bit self-absorbed, oblivious to the struggles around me.
I still remember the first time I encountered marijuana. My friend, Lisa, had a small bag and asked me to stash it in my backpack as we entered her house so her parents wouldn’t see it. I said no. There was no dramatic fallout—she didn’t get upset, and I didn’t persuade her to give it up. Truthfully, I didn’t even think about it again for years.
After that, my experiences with illegal substances were mostly limited to the occasional underage drinking and smoking. I would get offered a joint from time to time, but I generally sidestepped that scene. I even managed to avoid drinking until just before I turned 21. Looking back, it seems silly that I held off for so long, but I thought it was no big deal. I tried cigarettes once or twice, not loving or hating them—just doing it to fit in.
Reflecting on my sheltered childhood, I felt grateful that my kids would grow up in a world where drug education was minimal, and the school D.A.R.E. officer had little to do. I thought the dangers of drugs were something that happened to other people, far removed from my little Mayberry.
But now, as an adult, I realize how blind I was. There were people from my past who struggled with addiction—friends who lost siblings and even classmates who fell victim to overdoses. How did I manage to live so comfortably in my bubble that I didn’t recognize these issues?
Looking back, I never saw hard drugs in person; my understanding came from crime documentaries and late-night TV shows. I feel heartbroken for those who suffered from substance abuse, while also grappling with feelings of guilt for my ignorance. What does it say about me? Sheltered? Definitely. Blessed? Without a doubt. Lucky? I think so most of all.
My parents may not have shunned the topic of drug abuse, but we never had those conversations. Now that I’m a mom, the potential for negative influences looms large. I see risks everywhere and realize I can’t bury my head in the sand anymore.
Now, I face a tough decision: Should I have open discussions with my kids about the dangers of drugs and teach them to “just say no”? Or should I hope they grow up like I did, relying solely on positive peer pressure and school programs?
No, I won’t gamble on that. I refuse to risk someone else leading my children astray. I will continue to shelter them, but I also plan to open the blinds—keeping them safe while exposing them to the world around them. I hope to equip them with the knowledge and skills they need to handle tough situations when they’re ready to venture out on their own.
It’s the best I can do, and it’s all any parent can do.
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Summary
Growing up in a sheltered environment, the author reflects on the naivety of her youth regarding drug use, recognizing that many people she knew struggled with addiction. As a mother, she grapples with the responsibility of educating her children about the dangers of drugs while maintaining their safety and innocence.