If I had to choose an emblem for my childhood, it would be a belt buckle—not just any buckle, but one my father won in a calf-roping competition. My dad was the ultimate American icon: a cowboy. When he could afford to, he raised cattle, and when he had to take other jobs to survive, he competed in small rodeos around Utah and Nevada, where he rode broncs and roped cattle for small prizes. For those unfamiliar with rodeo, a bronc was originally a wild horse, though most now are born in a barn, rather than captured. But they’re bred to buck and jump and kick—and shocked into a terrified fury while they’re in the chute—so they ride as wild as wild horses. As with bull riding, a cowboy has to stay on the bronc for eight seconds while the horse does everything possible to throw him off. Not surprisingly, bronc riding is risky, exacting a heavy toll of head, neck, and spinal injuries, along with ordinary broken bones. In fact, most observers agree that roughstock riding, whether bronc or bull, is the most dangerous professional sport in the United States.

Roping is another rodeo staple. My father roped calves and steers, the first by himself and the second as part of a team. In calf-roping, a rider twirling a rope chases a two- or three-month-old calf, throws the rope around its neck, jumps off his horse, grabs the calf by its belly or leg, flips it over onto its back, and ties three of its legs together in less time than it took you to read that sentence. In team roping, two riders twirling ropes chase a steer. The first rider ropes the steer’s neck; the second circles around to rope its two back legs. The clock stops when the two riders face each other with their taut ropes fully controlling the steer. Both events involve a quick sequence of difficult skills for both the rider and the horse. My father was fast, precise, and as fine a horseman as I have ever known. He practiced constantly, both on the job and off. He didn’t always win a buckle or a cash prize, but he won his share, as well as the adulation of the crowd, for he was handsome as well as skilled. He always had a bit more swagger when he brought home a new belt buckle.

While other sports’ trophies sit on a shelf, rodeo trophies have a practical purpose: they keep a man’s pants up. My father wore one every day of his life. A fastidious dresser with a sharp crease down the front of his jeans, he nonetheless insisted that his clothing be utilitarian: Wrangler or Lee jeans, single-pattern western shirts, cowboy boots, spurs, cowboy hat. Anything impractical or unnecessary was “for sissies.” A bandana around the neck, for instance, was right only when airborne debris threatened to cause breathing problems—while haying or after a dust storm, say. If a man might need to cover his mouth and nose quickly, then he should wear a bandana tied loosely around his neck. Otherwise, bandanas were for sissies, along with shorts, sandals, two-toned shirts, Levi’s jeans (because of the little red tag on the back pocket), and men’s jewelry of any kind, even wedding rings. Rodeo belt buckles, though they might have more silver or filigree flowers than ten necklaces, were definitely not for sissies.

My father had more than a dozen buckles. One, for saddle bronc, was all pewter and showed a cowboy mid-ride, but the bronco appeared to be diving, rather than bucking, his legs flung out straight in front and behind, his body on a steep diagonal. Add a little water tank at the bottom, and he would look like one of those old diving horses in Atlantic City. Most of my dad’s buckles were brass with just the name of the rodeo protruding from an ornately carved background. But the one he loved most, the one I remember best, was much more elaborate. It was not as deeply carved as the lettered buckles but featured three different metals and a lot of fine detail. It showed a copper cowboy roping a copper calf on an ornately carved silver medallion. The rider, his horse, and the calf were beautifully executed; you could see the calf straining to get away while the cowboy strained to catch it. The cowboy’s rope, which was brass, stretched across the medallion and hung in mid-air, the loop right over the calf’s head, ready to fall. The buckle captured the split-second before the rope clotheslined the calf and the cowboy jumped off his horse to flip it over and bind its legs. Frozen in that moment, the little calf ran as hard as its legs could carry it, unaware that there was no escaping the rope and the man wielding it. I didn’t realize the fact until many years later, but looking at that belt buckle was like looking into a mirror.

There are two important facts in that last sentence. First, I was an abused child. Second, I didn’t know it. Though my heart bled for the little calf on the rodeo buckle—and for all the calves I saw my father bring down in the roping arena—I never made the connection between us. That I did not make the connection becomes even more startling when I tell you that my father honed his skill with a rope on me, not playfully, the way a loving adult might pretend to munch on a child’s foot, but with calculated detachment, his only focus being how well I could help him lower his time in the next rodeo.

 “Run,” he would shout. On two legs, I couldn’t match the speed of a terrified calf or steer, but I was plenty fast, especially in a sprint, so I’d launch myself across the gravel in front of our trailer while my father stood about ten yards behind me twirling his rope. Sometimes he’d throw the rope from above so that the loop circled my torso. More often, he’d go low and trap one of my feet. He liked the difficulty of delivering the “heeler” rope, the angle and the timing necessary to snag the moving legs of a steer—or a child. He practiced a lot, so he was good at it. Though he missed some of the time, he usually connected, and, when he did, my momentum threw me forward onto the scattered gravel. When I was lucky, I landed on my hands and knees. When I wasn’t lucky—or when my father pulled back hard on the rope—I landed on my face. Though not as fast as calf- or steer-roping, child-roping is plenty fast and unpredictable. I couldn’t see what was coming from behind, so I really couldn’t control how I fell or how hard I landed. The only thing I could control was whether I’d remove the rope from my foot or leg, stand up, and wait for my father to shout “Run!” again. I always did.

What you've just read are the opening pages of a new book about coping with a legacy of childhood trauma. Written by Donna Bevan-Lee, a therapist with three decades' experience helping survivors, the book is titled Iron Legacy Childhood Trauma and Adult Transformation. Using her own story as a jumping off point, Bevan-Lee explores how ACEs affect adult behavior and what survivors can do to help develop resilience. Anyone interested can learn more about the book here, and anyone who might want to review it is welcome to contact me for a review copy. (I'm Donna Bevan-Lee's research assistant.) Thanks for reading.