This writing — for now a blog, perhaps later a book — is an act of remembering.

It draws me back through vivid scenes of the past, calling for honesty, courage, and collaboration with those who shared the journey.

This story is different in two important ways.

First, the memories I revisit — particularly those surrounding my mother’s death — come from the perspective of a grieving child, and they are deeply painful to tell.

Second, some of what I reveal about sexual abuse and trafficking will challenge the reputations of individuals once considered beyond reproach. My father’s threats kept our family silent for years. He warned my aunts, my grandfather, and eventually me to say nothing, even threatening to withhold family visits for George and me. My Aunt Dorothy was so afraid of him that she made me promise not to write until after her death.

From the beginning, I have known I must approach this work with care — verifying what can be confirmed, and being honest about what exists only in memory.

I also know there are still those who would rather these truths remain untold. But both of these parts of my life will inevitably weave throughout this series.

I want to explain why I refuse to stay silent — though doing so would have been easier.

From the beginning, I knew that sharing my story could matter.

Those who heard parts of it believed it might help others: not only people grieving a parent’s so-called suicide, but survivors of abuse, manipulation, and sexual coercion of any kind.

After hundreds of therapy sessions since I was twelve, one truth has never changed: I want to be real, even with my flaws.

I want others to see my story and know they’re not alone — to feel encouraged to reclaim their voices, to make changes, to forgive themselves for the mistakes that come with surviving.

When I was growing up, children weren’t protected by law. And the secrets surrounding my mother’s death crushed me in ways I didn’t recognize for decades.

I’ve always felt that generosity defined me.

I loved my daughter — even though we’re now estranged — with every part of myself, and I shared her with my former husband, Dennis DeGray.

Writing about our marriage and divorce will take fierceness, because it means facing the truth of being married to a narcissist who weaponized our child and used my own tenderness against me, twisting both our lives into pain I never could have imagined.

When it comes to verifying the abuse I endured as a child, only my mother truly knew. Dr. Clay Wilson once reached out to my father, asking him to participate in therapy so the abuse could be addressed directly.

Other therapists I saw as a child made the same request after I shared what had happened. Each time, my father vehemently denied any wrongdoing.

The day I finally gathered the courage to confront him myself, he told me we could talk after he returned from a vacation he was leaving for the next morning. He died on that trip.

Writing this series has — and will likely continue to — involve many pauses and restarts, shaped by the emotional weight of the memories I’m revisiting.

Still, I feel compelled to tell this story.

I want the secrets, the pain, and the silence to mean something — for me, for my brother, and for my mother.

And if even one person finds comfort or strength in these words, then every difficult moment will have been worth it.

While many in my life have chosen not to support me as I write this story, I’ve learned that truth-telling often begins in solitude — and that, too, is a form of strength.

Those who endure abuse as children often carry its echoes into adulthood, drawn into relationships that repeat familiar pain and silence.

My story is my own to tell — not my daughter’s.

I love her, and I will protect her privacy completely.

Though I’ve known pain and cruelty beyond words, I’ve chosen not to let it close my heart. Love remains my compass, even in the darkest places.