On January 9, 1986, my world shifted forever—I became a mother to a beautiful baby girl named Wendy.

In that moment, something in me awakened. Loving her gave my life new purpose. I wasn’t just living for myself anymore; I was living for her.

Still, I was moving through life in survival mode, skimming the surface of my pain.

I could see that wasn’t fair to her—I wanted to do better, to be better. Not because I consciously decided to change, but because something in me knew I had to. My body and mind were still wired for defense, shaped by the trauma of my childhood. I had learned to fight to stay afloat, and that instinct didn’t just vanish.

I faced a choice every day: to sink under the weight of grief and a harmful marriage, or to survive, for her and myself. I chose to fight. I decided to rise. And I did, one day at a time.

I wasn’t just tired—I was depleted.

Worn down to the core. My body kept the score, even when my mind refused to revisit the buried places of pain and sorrow.

Eventually, my body reached a breaking point—it simply couldn’t continue the way it had been. The signs came as physical symptoms: anxiety, depression, relentless insomnia, and ultimately, the need for a hysterectomy.

My body sent rescue flares—urgent, unrelenting signals pleading for care.

For me, those warnings came in the form of severe pelvic pain, heavy, prolonged bleeding, and a prolapsed uterus. The discomfort invaded every part of my life. Intimacy became painful. My heart raced constantly. I felt trapped in anxiety, and I was terrified of the surgery that seemed inevitable.

I delayed deciding until my doctor told me I had no more time to wait.

However, the most difficult symptom wasn’t physical—it was emotional.

That pain was silent, internal, and tangled throughout my life.

It wasn’t something I could isolate or treat—it was embedded in who I was.

Losing the ability to have another child didn’t define me, but to my husband, Dennis, it did. In his eyes, I was broken. He tried to control me, to define not only my body but also the terms of our marriage. And in doing so, he revealed how deeply unseen I truly was.

My past robbed me of being fully present with myself and the people I loved. In its place, it left a fierce, unyielding independence. I carried the world’s weight on my shoulders—not because I wanted to, but because trusting others felt far riskier.

What if they let me down?

What if they didn’t show up when I needed them most?

At least with myself, I knew where I stood. I knew I could survive. That instinct took root the day my mother died, when I was just nine years old. From that moment on, I stopped expecting anyone else to lighten the load.

Instead, I did what I’d always done—kept going, kept doing, kept moving forward.

One step at a time, alone if I had to be.

I eventually came to understand that this pattern is typical among survivors of childhood trauma, especially those who’ve lost a parent. It’s a protective strategy, a way the mind and body create distance from pain to feel safe. That meant keeping my emotions contained and never revealing too much of myself to others. If I didn’t let people in, they couldn’t hurt me.

I wouldn’t have to face disappointment or regret if I didn’t feel too much. I convinced myself that by not living too deeply, I could avoid loss altogether.

It felt like a smart plan—safe, controlled, impenetrable.

But it was an illusion—a false sense of security. In reality, I had built a prison.

The walls meant to protect me kept everything—love, connection, joy—on the other side.

I couldn’t access my full self. I couldn’t fully embrace motherhood. My marriage felt hollow, which only deepened my anxiety.

Underneath it all was fear—raw, relentless fear.

Fear of being left. Fear of loss. And the coping mechanisms I once relied on to survive were now quietly stealing my life from me. They isolated the best parts of me from the people I loved most and the life I so deeply longed to live.

For nearly a decade, it felt like pain had eclipsed joy.

In 1986, my daughter was born—a moment of light and love that changed me forever.

But what followed was a cascade of loss and hardship that would test every part of me.

1987 – I married Dennis, hopeful for a new beginning.
1988 – My father passed away, and I underwent a hysterectomy.
1989 – I faced cancer surgery.
1990 – Dennis and I separated.
1991 to 1996 – I endured a long and brutal divorce process that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Those years were heavy. And while there were glimmers of joy, they were often overshadowed by grief, fear, and the fight to survive.

I’ve come to understand that happiness and joy are not the same. They may seem similar, but they live in entirely different places within us.

Happiness is fleeting—tied to circumstances, moments, and external events.

It’s that rush of pleasure when everything aligns just right. I felt happy when life was smooth, when Wendy smiled at me, when things felt light and easy.

But joy… joy is something more profound. It’s not dependent on what’s happening around you.

It’s a quiet, steady presence—a sense of peace that lives within, even when life is messy or painful. Joy is rooted in acceptance, stillness, and the knowledge that one can carry both sorrow and gratitude simultaneously. Where happiness flickers, joy endures.

I yearned to feel joy, not the fleeting kind, but the kind that comes from simply being. I longed for emotional wholeness, allowing me to show up as my fullest self in every part of my life.

I wanted to live wide awake, attuned to my emotions as they surfaced, able to process them with grace, and integrate them into a life of clarity and presence.

I wanted to be fully present—as a woman, a wife, a sister, a niece, a friend, and above all, a mother.

I was deeply aware that losing my mother at such a young age shaped how I parented. And being raised by an alcoholic, bipolar stepmother had left scars that made a deep emotional connection difficult. That awareness haunted me.

I often asked myself: Will I be able to connect with my daughter fully?

I was trying to give what I never received—a mother’s love—and it felt like learning to speak a language I was never taught.

I knew I had to fight harder. But Dennis didn’t share that vision. He had no interest in building a meaningful, nurturing marriage. Over the years, he actively worked to erode the bond I was trying so desperately to make with our daughter.

His actions didn’t just hurt me—they made an already difficult journey feel nearly impossible.