This year has been a true testament to my strength.
My faith was tested in ways I never imagined. I was violated in one of the worst ways possible by someone who knew exactly how to hurt me—by going after my children. Because I chose not to be with him, because he couldn’t stand to see me happy with someone else, he tried to destroy me.
He lied to the police.
He had me handcuffed in front of my children.
My babies were screaming, crying, terrified—watching their mother taken away.
I have never felt so helpless in my life.
I was falsely jailed for 12 hours. Twelve hours that felt like a lifetime. The worst feeling in the world wasn’t the cold cell—it was knowing my kids were scared and didn’t understand why their mom was being taken away. Thank God for a good friend who stepped in to get them when I couldn’t.
I have no living parents. I grew up in the system. The thought of him being willing to go that far—to try to place my children into the very system that raised me—nearly destroyed me. I don’t know what I would have done if that had happened.
And through this, I finally understand something I never fully grasped before.
I see why women don’t report domestic violence.
I see why so many women stay silent.
I see how fear, manipulation, retaliation, and disbelief can be more dangerous than the abuse itself.
When speaking up costs you your freedom, your safety, your children—when the system meant to protect you becomes another weapon—it’s no wonder so many women are trapped. It’s no wonder so many live in fear. And it breaks my heart to understand how often that fear turns deadly.
The irony is unbearable.
This is a man who has never made sacrifices for his children.
A man who chooses when he wants to be a parent.
A man who gave up custodial rights to his own son just to avoid child support.
I haven’t been with him in over ten years. He’s moved on multiple times, yet cannot stand to see me happy. He didn’t want me—but he couldn’t tolerate me healing without him. So he tried to break me.
But I’m still here.
I have sacrificed everything for my children—my strength, my comfort, my peace. And now I’m facing the possibility of homelessness with no one to lean on. No parents. No safety net. Just me and the weight of survival.
I am tired.
I am deeply, painfully tired.
Exhausted in ways rest cannot fix.
I don’t know how much more I can take. But I am still standing—not because it’s easy, not because I am untouched by this pain—but because my children need me, and because somewhere deep inside me lives a resilience that refuses to let this be the end of my story. I currently need help making sure we stay safe and housed.