In elementary school one year, something wild happened…
Before personal computers were everywhere, I’d been consistently writing since I knew how. Back then, writing was manual, pen-to-paper. It was a sensory experience: grab a sheet of lined paper (college- or wide-ruled), whichever was preferred, snag a No. 2 pencil, and off it went. Creating something, seeing the words on the page, feeling the pencil press grooves into the paper with each stroke, and continuing to develop my handwriting were facets I’ve never gotten over. While helpful, typing on a keyboard still isn’t the same.
At a young age, most of my handwritten words were stowed away in super-secret diaries, the ones that came with a lock and key. I shared my deepest and innermost thoughts that would never see the light of day or meet another set of eyes. When I became more mature and advanced in my writing, I upgraded to a journal (a diary without the lock and key).
Back in elementary school, I wrote a story about my summer break on a piece of wide-ruled notebook paper…
My family and I traveled to Alabama to visit my grandparents, aunt, and cousins. I didn’t get to see my cousins often, so I was excited about the trip. My aunt had recently purchased a new-to-her home, so she insisted that we cousins spend some extra time together. They had pets, which was the cherry on top. We would spend the night at my aunt’s house, to which my siblings and I squealed with excitement. My parents were staying at my grandparents’ house, five minutes down the road.
No official house tour took place. My siblings and I sat on the floor in my aunt’s family room, talking with her and my cousins and petting the animals (birds, cats, and dogs). It was a bright room with mint-green walls and a high ceiling with lots of windows. The air felt thick, carrying a musty smell that clung to the room. We sat on the crusty-carpeted floor because she didn’t have much furniture yet. Bird cages lined the windows.
It should have been a comfortable, cozy setting.
It wasn’t.
Something about it felt off, like the room was holding its breath.
My aunt casually told us mysterious stories about the house. They weren’t happy stories. One of her cats had a litter of adorable kittens, so she briefly left the room to grab towels and help the new mother care for the babies. When she got back, most of the kittens had disappeared. She thinks the mom ate them! (My stomach turned. I remember going quiet.)
I was seven or eight years old at the time, and that was hard information to process. My cousins continued the storytelling session by sharing multiple occasions when light switches would randomly change positions, usually leaving the room’s occupant in the dark. Lights snapping off mid-sentence, mid-step. (I braced myself for it to happen while we were there, just to show off. It didn’t.) They said other times, they could hear someone walking on the creaky wood floors upstairs while everyone was downstairs. Slow, deliberate steps moving back and forth.
After the stories, my cousins showed off their rooms. Naturally, I wasn’t too thrilled about the prospect, but curiosity won. What would we find? My other siblings were going, too, so why not? One cousin’s closet revealed another door inside, the kind you see in the movies that leads to the attic. Sure enough, same here. Thank goodness, we didn’t go into the attic. That would’ve pushed my rising anxiety over the edge.
The longer I was in the house, the more uneasy I became. My chest tightened. My thoughts got louder. Never have I felt like that before or since. It was as if my spirit was conflicting with something inside the house, and they couldn’t coexist. (When asked later, my siblings couldn’t corroborate my story.) Really? I didn’t need them to. The feeling was undeniable. The only explanation I can offer years later is that I was experiencing spiritual oppression at a young age.
I knew what I had to do: I couldn’t spend the night there. Every instinct in me said, “Get out!” In fact, the feeling got so strong that I was uncomfortable spending another moment there. The thought of being in that place after dark was unbearable. Night hadn’t even fallen yet, and I was already imagining shadows stretching across those mint-green walls. It took some convincing on my part, but after lots of begging, my aunt finally called my parents, who picked me up minutes later, just before dark. My other siblings spent the night there.
When I got to school that fall, I shared my handwritten account of the “haunted house” encounter with a classmate of mine, complete with illustrations. She felt compelled to share it with her friend. That friend shared it with another friend. The story made its way around the class, then my entire elementary school. I don’t recall the story ever making its way back to me, but that didn’t matter at the time.
My words had influence.
My story didn’t stay with me.
It moved.
While the feeling was incredibly empowering, I wondered: if my words could have that kind of influence then, and in the form of a simple story, how could they be used to create lasting impact?
If I could share a story that would share itself, perhaps I was onto something.
If I could write something that would in turn help at least one person, that would be enough for me.
I always knew I would write a book; I didn’t know that I would share my story, the one God gave me and prompted me to write. A story that, even then, refused to stay on the page. It has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But it has also been one of the most rewarding. My story is for those who are alone, seeking a sense of home, but are facing obstacles that seem impossible to surpass.
Everyone is trying to find home, a place of belonging and peace. A place where they can be unapologetically themselves. A place where there is contentment and rest. A place where nothing feels like it’s working against you. Whatever obstacle you face, I hope and pray that after reading my story, you discover it is not an obstacle, but instead, an opportunity.
My new book, The Gabby Effect, will officially release next week, on April 8, 2026!
For updates and to subscribe to bonus content, check out TheGabbyEffect.com.
If something resonated or made it feel like home, share it with someone who might be looking for those same answers.
Thanks for reading! If you haven’t subscribed to my Substack yet, make sure you don’t miss a thing.