I was born into what looked like a solid, God-fearing home—two parents, three brothers, and church multiple times a week. My dad sometimes preached, and my mom led the nursery and sang in the choir. But behind closed doors, life was very different. My dad, who spoke of God, was also my abuser. He manipulated and confused me, framing the abuse as love. That trauma shaped my identity. I craved love, even in broken forms. By 15, I had been abused by five different men and became pregnant with my first son, Damian. I loved him deeply, but inside, I was unraveling. I battled eating disorders, used diet pills, and turned to drugs. Though I tried to build a future—enrolling in college for special education and psychology—addiction pulled me under. In my early twenties, I met the father of my two youngest kids. I became pregnant with Cavin and dropped out of college. Both of us spiraled into heroin addiction. I stayed clean long enough to deliver Cavin safely, but relapsed soon after. When I found out I was pregnant with my daughter, Raylee, I considered abortion. But God intervened, protected her, and gave me another chance. Amid chaos, God placed people—my mom, church families—around me to help. Justin, my children’s father, found Christ during rehab, a moment I still hold dear. After several failed recoveries, I finally gained traction and stayed clean for over a year. Then, in 2016, Justin died of an overdose. That loss sealed my resolve to never go back. I committed to staying single for a year, which became… Read More
