Midwest Roots, Hardship, and Resilience: The Wisconsin Years That Shaped Me
By Robert Stanek
We all have places that form us, shaping who we become in ways both subtle and profound. For me, that place was the Midwest—the quiet lake communities of Southern Wisconsin. The small towns around Lilly Lake, Paddock Lake, Silver Lake, and George Lake in Bristol shaped my childhood, defined my values, and deeply influenced my storytelling.
But my journey to these idyllic, quiet lake communities wasn’t straightforward. It began in hardship, loss, and poverty—in the inner city of Racine, Wisconsin, where early tragedy forced resilience, responsibility, and maturity upon me at a painfully young age.
This is my Midwest story—of tragedy and survival, poverty and dignity, and the quiet heroism found in resilience and hope.
Life in the City: Racine and Early Tragedy
My earliest years were spent in the harsh inner-city neighborhoods of Racine, Wisconsin. Poverty wasn’t just a condition; it was the daily reality. My mother worked tirelessly, cleaning houses for wealthy families, scraping by to provide for her children. It was a life filled with struggle, uncertainty, and hardship.
At just five or six years old, tragedy struck my family. My stepfather and my older sister, Bridgett, were killed in a devastating gas water heater explosion. That explosion didn’t just take their lives—it shattered our family’s fragile stability, casting a long shadow over everything that followed.
My mother, burdened by grief and trauma, struggled to hold our lives together. My eldest sister, Barbara, moved out as soon as she was able—escaping painful memories, leaving us behind as she sought her own path forward. My second eldest sister, Belinda, never fully recovered from the trauma. Her life spiraled into rebellion, running away from home repeatedly, searching desperately for a way to cope.
Moving to the Country: A Fresh Start in Southern Wisconsin
When I was around nine years old, my mother moved us from the city to the peaceful, rural lake communities of Southern Wisconsin. Lilly Lake, Paddock Lake, Silver Lake, and George Lake (in Bristol) became our new home, offering what my mother hoped would be a fresh start and a path toward healing.
But even surrounded by the beauty and peace of these lake communities, life remained difficult. My mother still worked tirelessly at odd jobs, doing whatever she could to keep our family afloat. With Barbara gone and Belinda frequently absent, it fell to me, still just a child myself, to care for my youngest sister, Beth, who was two years younger than me.
Growing Up Too Soon: Raising My Sister
From age nine onward, I became responsible for raising Beth. It was never spoken aloud, but in many ways, my childhood ended prematurely. At an age when other kids worried about homework and playdates, I cooked meals, washed clothes, got my sister ready for school, and protected her as best I could from the realities of our poverty and hardship.
Oddly, throughout my childhood, my mother consistently told everyone I was two years older than I actually was. Perhaps, in her mind, it made the heavy burden placed upon me seem justified. Perhaps it eased her guilt or made the harsh reality slightly more acceptable. But it left me carrying not only adult responsibilities—but a confusing, hidden layer of unspoken expectations and burdens as well.
Midwest Values: Resilience, Dignity, and Quiet Strength
Despite the hardship—or perhaps because of it—the Midwest instilled powerful, enduring values within me. I learned resilience firsthand—not through grand heroics, but through quiet, steady perseverance. I learned dignity, not as a luxury, but as an essential tool for survival and self-respect in a world often unkind and unfair.
Midwest communities taught me humility, kindness, practicality, and empathy. Neighbors quietly looked out for one another, offered support without expectation, and faced life’s challenges with understated courage. I saw these values reflected daily in the quiet heroism of my mother, in the resilience of neighbors, and in the simple dignity of ordinary lives lived quietly yet courageously.
These Midwest values shaped my core. They taught me empathy, patience, endurance, and the importance of small kindnesses. They became foundational to my writing, grounding my characters and narratives in a profound authenticity born from lived experience.
How My Midwest Childhood Shapes My Stories
My stories, from Ruin Mist to Bugville Critters, are deeply influenced by my Midwest roots and personal history. Characters often grapple with adversity, hardship, and quiet heroism, reflecting my own life experiences. They demonstrate resilience, humility, and quiet courage—values rooted firmly in my Midwest upbringing.
The working-class families of Bugville mirror the community I grew up in—families defined by quiet dignity, practical courage, and everyday struggles faced with resilience and strength. Ruin Mist’s epic narratives reflect profound understandings of loss, struggle, and perseverance—grounded firmly in my experiences with hardship, tragedy, and survival.
Why This Story Matters
Sharing this deeply personal part of my heritage isn’t easy. But it matters profoundly. It explains not just who I am, but why my stories resonate with readers—especially those who’ve faced hardship, tragedy, or adversity.
My Midwest childhood taught me that heroism doesn’t always wear a cape or wield a sword. More often, true heroism emerges quietly, humbly, and resiliently—in ordinary lives lived with courage, dignity, and quiet strength.
This understanding—born from my own experiences—is what makes my characters, stories, and worlds authentic, relatable, and meaningful to readers.
Honoring Our Shared Humanity
My Midwest roots—marked by tragedy, poverty, and resilience—are not merely my personal history; they’re reflections of universal human experiences. Loss, hardship, survival, and quiet courage resonate across cultures and communities.
By sharing this story openly, I invite readers to reflect on their own lives, hardships, and resilience. Our stories matter because they connect us, remind us of our shared humanity, and empower us to face adversity with dignity, hope, and quiet courage.