This Is My Story (And I Don’t Owe It To You—But I’m Telling It Anyway)

I grew up knowing silence could be safer than speaking.

As a kid, I’d sit in my room with the door closed, not because I was moody or withdrawn—but because it was the only place I could breathe. The walls of that house echoed with tension. Church on Sunday, smiles pasted on like masks. Outfits pressed. Bibles carried. All while the real stuff—the ugly, human stuff—got buried deep. Because appearances mattered more than honesty. More than safety. More than being Christ-like behind closed doors.

My parents fought loud. My mom cried often.

They divorced when I was sixteen. The house cracked apart and I fell through.

At seventeen, I got pregnant.

With a man who would go on to break me in ways I’m still putting into words.

Domestic violence wasn’t just bruises—though there were bruises. It was lies.

It was manipulation so slick it made me question my own memory.

It was gaslighting so effective I stopped trusting my own voice.

It was control disguised as “protection.” It was isolation, until there was no “me” left to protect.

And still, I stayed. For over a decade. Because that’s what trauma does—it convinces you that pain is love and survival is enough.

I finally left at 29

Filed for divorce.

Packed bags that felt heavier than they should’ve.

Lost the roof over my head.

Lost a child. My son—stillborn. Cremated. A silence that never stopped echoing.

And while I was grieving, while my body was still bleeding and my soul was gutted, the system stepped in.

My other children—swept away.

Not because I hurt them.

Not because I was a danger.

But because I was too broken to fight with fists they’d recognize.

Psych evals were done.

They told me the truth I already knew but no one else would hear: “I’m not broken. I’m traumatized. I’m not a danger to my kids.”

But the truth wasn’t enough.

I was told—quietly, behind closed doors—to prepare to sign away my rights.

Not with a knife to my throat, but with the slow suffocation of paperwork, deadlines, pressure.

“Do what’s best for them.” As if losing their mother was that.

I cracked.

I shattered.

I stopped eating. Then I started obsessively controlling food because it was the only thing left I could control.

I couldn’t stand to look in mirrors. I didn’t recognize the person staring back.

So I drank. A lot.

I slept in cars.

Couch surfed.

I made it through days by clawing, crawling, bleeding out in silence.

I smiled when I needed to. Played nice when I had to. Screamed into pillows when it got too much.

I did whatever I had to do just to keep waking up.

And I’m still here.

Standing—not because I’m strong, but because I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart for long.

I bled through every chapter of this story and no one handed me a pen—so now I’m writing it for myself.

You want to know what resilience looks like? It’s not some polished, smiling survivor story.

It’s this.

It’s rage and grief and silence.

It’s losing everything and learning how to rebuild from the ground up—with nothing but your bare hands and your broken heart.

It’s still loving your kids fiercely from a distance that wasn’t your choice.

It’s still fighting—quietly, daily, brutally—for a life you deserve.

This is my story.

And if you can’t handle the truth of it, you were never meant to hold it anyway.