My youngest is now 9, but my memories of his baby and toddlerhood are still quite vivid. Pleasant memories of his first steps and other milestones are interspersed with traumatic memories of near constant threats of disconnection from my utility providers.
Despite working as many hours as I could find child care at my low-wage, no-benefits job, there was never enough money. I recall regularly bracing myself to make calls to utility providers while my son napped, often resorting to begging the representatives for more time to pay. Doing this was humiliating and, frankly, existing like this was distressing.
Poverty itself is traumatic.