Tell your story. Be raw. Be real. Be inspirational.
You might not realize it, but your story could save someone. I’ve shared some of the most personal experiences of my life with a select few, and every time, they tell me, “You should write a book.” I’ve started and stopped countless times, because the timeline is messy, the memories are raw, and it’s painful. My excuse? My mom might read it, and I can’t bear the thought of her reliving it all.
But here it is. My story begins long before me. It starts with my mom. Her life was marked by brutal abuse, witnessed by my siblings and me, until my father’s alcoholism ended his life when I was fourteen. Most people hear that and gasp, “I’m so sorry!” But I say, don’t be. That chapter of my life was dark, yes, but it ended. Or so I thought.
Where do I even begin? My childhood holds things no five-year-old should see—things that would crush an adult. One memory is vivid: my father came home drunk. I can’t remember if he had a gun pressed to my mom’s head or a knife to her throat—they both happened often. I was five, lying on the floor, covers over my head, heart pounding, terrified this would be the night my mom didn’t survive. And then, I remembered what my Bible school teacher told me: call out to God. So I did.
My dad pulled away from her and turned to me, leaning in close, sneering, “He can’t save you.” I was stunned. How could the man who forced us to church and Bible study say that? And why didn’t God save us? Looking back now, I know He did—because no one died that night.
Abuse has threaded through my life—from childhood, to the home I built as an adult. But let me be clear: being beaten down doesn’t mean I was weak. Abusers don’t target weakness—they seek control, and they prey on strong women too.
I met him, my next nightmare, when I was ready to believe in love again. He was charming, handsome, relentless. At first, he put me on a pedestal, telling me I was perfect, better than all the women in his past. I believed him. I thought I was lucky—that I had found my knight in shining armor.
He was one of the first people I confided in about my childhood trauma. I thought he would protect me, help me heal. But soon, the man who seemed like a savior became a tormentor.
The betrayals came early. He cheated on me while I was eight months pregnant, giving me an STD—and somehow, it was my fault. He called me names, degraded me, and when I confronted him, he escalated to violence. He choked me, shook me, kicked me. I would go limp, holding my breath, hoping he would stop. But it never truly ended.
The words cut deeper than the blows. “Worthless” became his favorite insult—the one that shattered me the most. I already carried the weight of worthlessness, long before him, and nothing I did could fix it. He spit on me, threw drinks over me, punched me where it wouldn’t leave a mark, then insisted it never happened. I began to question my own reality. I became the “crazy” one.
One of the most haunting moments came when he swung a cookie sheet at my face in front of our children. Blood ran freely, and he walked away, laughing, mowing the lawn as if nothing had happened. That day, the police were called, and hearing my four-year-old recount what daddy did to mommy was unbearable. Even the officer said he hoped he’d never carry me out in a bodybag.
I gave him a year to seek help, counseling, to change—for our family, for love. But it never happened. My dreams were dismissed, belittled, and mocked. He cheated again, this time opening a diner with another woman while I naively handled the household and bills. I realized then I needed to file for divorce. But how? My finances were drained, my confidence nearly gone.
I cried, prayed, and then an idea hit: my house. I went to the bank, shared my story, and was approved for a loan to retain legal help. That day, I felt God’s hand guiding me.
Today, my life is unrecognizable from those dark years. My children are healing, I have a wonderful, God-given partner—a handsome fireman who loves and supports me—and I have achieved dreams I once thought impossible. I competed in Olympic weightlifting at national and even international levels, and I now coach others in a sport I adore. I did it. Truly, I did it.
But the journey doesn’t end when you escape. Divorce is like a death, they say, and it’s true. Even after papers are signed, controlling exes, children’s struggles, and lingering trauma persist. My ex continues trying to manipulate and hurt us, using the kids as leverage. The fight for freedom, for healing, is ongoing.
I share my story not to shame anyone—my dad, my ex—they both suffered as children. I share it because abuse in any form—physical, emotional, verbal, financial—is never okay. Watching abuse happen to a parent as a child is abuse itself. And no child should feel it is normal.
To anyone reading this: you are stronger than you know. You are not alone. You deserve safety, love, and a life free from abuse. Your story can inspire others. Speak it. Live it. Heal. And never stop fighting for yourself and your children.
Even the smallest five-year-old hiding under blankets, thinking this is normal, deserves to hear that it isn’t. And you—yes, you—can be the one to change that.
