Looking back, I can pinpoint the moments that shattered me. The things no child should ever witness—my mother attempting suicide multiple times, my parent drug dealing and abuse, being made to feel like my very existence was an inconvenience. Later, I’d find out she never even wanted me.

I was bullied. I was raped. I lost my husband at 33 and raised two small children alone. Life felt like a never-ending storm, and I was drowning in it.

Pain left me feeling fearful, abandoned, rejected, neglected—like I would never be enough. It hardened me, made me bitter. I built walls so high that no one, not even myself, could see over them.

Trauma doesn’t just hurt—it lingers. It festers. It convinces you that pain is your only identity. I coped the way many do—I numbed. Alcohol, partying, blacking out just to feel something other than the ache. I was angry. At the world. At life. At myself.

I kept asking: Why? Why was I given this life? Why so much pain?

The truth? I was waiting for something outside of me to change. But the real work? It had to start inside.

I wish I could say healing happened overnight. It didn’t. It started with tiny choices:

• Recognizing the lies – I wasn’t unworthy, I was wounded. Big difference.
• Rewriting the narrative – I wasn’t a victim; I was a survivor.
• Letting go – Of bitterness, of blame, of the idea that I had to carry everything alone.

Healing wasn’t about pretending it never happened. It was about refusing to let it control me anymore.

I stopped waiting for the past to change and started changing myself. I leaned into therapy, into deep conversations with people who saw me beyond my trauma. I found tools that actually worked—meditation, movement, mindfulness. I started talking to myself like I was someone I actually liked. And little by little, I let the light back in.

The best part? The very things that almost broke me became the foundation of my strength. My pain wasn’t my identity—it was my fuel.

 Your past does not define you, but what you do with it does.
 Numbing the pain isn’t the same as healing it.
 You are not too broken to be whole again.

I used to think my story was too messy, too painful, too much. But now? I own it. I use it to help others find their own way forward. Because if I had to go through hell so even one person could see that healing is possible—then it was worth it.

I see you. I’ve been you. And I promise, this isn’t the end of your story. Healing is messy. It’s slow. But it’s possible. And you? You are worth it.

 If this resonates with you, email me. Let’s talk. Let’s heal. Let’s rewrite the story together.