From an early age, I found myself questioning the notion of free will. Long before I encountered the scientific framework that supports determinism—most notably articulated in Determined by Professor Robert Sapolsky—I had already sensed that so much of who we are is shaped by forces beyond our control. We do not choose our parents, the circumstances of our gestation, or the society into which we are born. Nor do we determine the cultural norms that shape our values, the food we are given, or the love and care we do—or do not—receive. These early, uncontrollable conditions form the bedrock of our cognitive, emotional, and social development, influencing how we perceive the world and how we behave within it.
Even before I had any formal understanding of genetics, I observed inherited traits—such as physical similarities within my family—and was aware that I had inherited psoriasis from my father. These observations only reinforced my growing awareness that individual identity is not forged in isolation, but emerges from a complex interplay of biology and environment.
Despite the weight of genetic predispositions and cultural conditioning, each person enters the world with the potential for a distinct identity. Yet the actualization of that identity is not guaranteed; it is heavily contingent upon the presence of a nurturing and supportive environment. In the absence of consistent emotional or physical care—particularly during critical periods of brain development—children are often forced to adopt adaptive survival strategies to compensate for unmet needs.
The consequences of such unmet needs are often profound and enduring. Consider a hungry infant who instinctively cries. When a caregiver responds with warmth and attunement, the child learns—at a preverbal and embodied level—that the world is safe, predictable, and responsive. She feels seen and soothed; her nervous system begins to regulate, and the crying subsides. If, however, the caregiver is consistently unresponsive, the infant cries longer and more intensely, and may eventually stop altogether—not because her needs have been met, but because the effort is neurologically encoded as futile. Such experiences are imprinted in subcortical brain regions, particularly the amygdala, which assigns emotional salience and threat, while the hippocampus encodes contextual memory. Together, these systems form implicit associations that shape later perceptions of safety, self-worth, and human connection.
Over time, these early patterns can shape a person’s worldview and behavior in subtle yet pervasive ways. A child who learns that her needs are ignored may grow up believing she is unworthy of attention, or that she must amplify her pain in order to be heard. Later in life, she may unconsciously adopt the very belief systems and relational patterns of her caregivers—even when those patterns were the source of her early wounds.
My family imprinted me with the belief that my purpose was predetermined: to follow in my father’s footsteps. “We built this company,” they said. “You must take it over. What will the neighbors think if you don’t? You’re too young to have your own opinions. Do what your father tells you—he knows best.”
One day I overheard my father say, “Niggers are born as second-class humans, meant to serve the Aryan race. No decent person would associate with them. We wouldn’t be living like this if the Führer were still alive.”
That was the moment something shifted. For the first time, I saw my father not as powerful, but as weak. The fear that had ruled my childhood began to loosen its grip. I realized he had no original thoughts of his own—only borrowed hatred. He needed symbols to cling to, someone else to think for him, someone beneath him to despise.
I was thinking about all of this as we left the restaurant in Harburg—the town where I was born and raised—and walked toward the market square. As we approached the old stone bridge, I turned to Alex and my friend and said, “I want to show you our secret hiding place.”
Children often hid things there—shoes, clothes, secrets their parents weren’t meant to see.
Heidi, my school friend, and I had just turned thirteen when we began using it. We changed clothes there before school. Once, I hid a pair of high heels in the bushes near the water. Margit, our secretary, had given them to me. I couldn’t keep them at home—my father would never have allowed heels before confirmation.
We reached the small two-room house built on the weir in the middle of the Wörnitz River. Mr. Banger had turned it into a little shop selling cigarettes, newspapers, and magazines. As we descended the narrow stone steps, a memory surged forward with painful clarity.
Bebo—his real name was Helmut Rehm, a Black mixed-race teenager two years older than me—was waiting beneath the wooden bridge after school. He glanced around nervously before stepping closer.
“I have something for you,” he said. “Let’s go to the weir.”
“You remember when I told you I wanted to become a lab technician?” he asked. I nodded. “I got a trainee position in Munich. We’re moving after I finish school next week.”
My heart sank. Bebo was my only friend—my only safe person. Seeing my distress, he tried to reassure me. “Just one more year,” he said. “When you’re fourteen and done with school, I’ll come back and get you.”
Then he removed the necklace he always wore. “This is the only thing my father gave my mother before he left. He promised to come back, but he never did. Now it’s mine. I want you to wear it until I return. You’re the only person who’s ever been kind to me—besides my mother.”
“I’ll hide it under my sweater,” I said.
“Just wear it,” he replied. “When you’re sad, remember my promise.”
“I’ll wear it forever,” I said. I kissed him on the cheek and ran.
When I saw my father’s new car in the driveway, my stomach tightened. I slipped inside, grabbed the milk can, and headed for the kitchen. Then I heard it—the whistle. That sound.
“Come!” he yelled.
He stood there with a cigar clenched between his teeth, one hand on his hip. “There she is,” he sneered. “Our little nigger whore.”
He grabbed my throat and slammed me against the doorframe. With his other hand, he tore the necklace from my neck, then struck my face. I stumbled backward, nearly falling down the stairs. The world went black.
When I came to, he opened the door and shouted, “You’re still here? Get the hell out!” One kick sent me tumbling down the steps.
I ran until I reached the weir. I stayed there all night—cold, alone, burning with rage. I hated him. Hated his Hitler mustache, his slicked-back hair, his gray-green eyes devoid of warmth. I swore I would never become like him.
The next morning, I crept home. Washed my face. Changed clothes. Got my brothers ready for school. But Bebo never came back. I knew then that he never would.
Every corner of that town became a trigger. Alex tried to help. “If you look long enough,” he said, “you’ll find a pleasant memory.” He also told me, “You have to empty your soul’s garbage can first.”
I began to wonder what had made my father so full of hate. Was it only what he’d been taught? His own mother was cruel, arrogant, and relentlessly judgmental. She believed herself superior to everyone in Schloßberg. Even our cousins—who lived in the same house—were safe only if they obeyed her without question.
Then another memory surfaced: a rainy February day in 1993, driving through Yuba City. I was late picking up Alex. The panic I felt had little to do with time. It was fear—raw and familiar. It took me back to being late once before, and what it had cost me.
My twelfth birthday. Swimming with Heidi. A boat ride that turned dark. The escape. The beating. The humiliation. The pain. The hours spent hiding in the nettles near the castle.
Running through tunnels barefoot—afraid of cars, afraid of being caught, yet driven by the desperate need for safety.
Fatima’s husband, Hassan, helped me at first. He treated my wounds. Made me feel safe—until he didn’t.
“You know I’ve been very good to you,” he said one night, his hand slipping beneath the covers.
“Please don’t,” I begged. “I’ll clean. I’ll cook. Just don’t call my father.”
When my mother finally arrived, she performed flawlessly. Tears. Lies. She claimed my father had never hit me. That day, something hardened inside me. My distrust of people deepened.
I never told Alex the full story. I couldn’t. I only apologized for being late.
“Why didn’t you leave earlier?” he asked.
“I didn’t know I’d be late,” I said. It was all I could manage.
He couldn’t understand. How could he? I lived on eggshells, terrified he would bring it up. Fear ruled my internal world. Gratitude was never enough. Fear was my compass.
No one ever told me that this kind of fear has a name: depressive anxiety. That it isn’t normal. That it isn’t life.
I didn’t know that yet.
For months afterward, the past and present blurred. I slept too much. My confidence vanished. I was surviving, not living.
And I didn’t yet know how to break the cycle.
Brief Psychologica Evaluation:
The subject’s account reflects exposure to chronic childhood trauma, including emotional neglect and physical abuse, with enduring emotional and physiological sequelae. Reported symptoms—such as hypervigilance, dissociative responses, and conditioned anxiety—are consistent with developmental trauma and align with clinical descriptions of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD). Cognitive functioning and narrative coherence remain intact, indicating preserved adaptive capacity despite ongoing trauma-related reactivity.