This is my now. Now is the life I’m living—today, in this moment. Now holds the weight of three marriages, three divorces. Now is being a mother to a grown daughter. Now is the quiet shift into retirement, after decades spent as an advocate and educational consultant.
Now is living in Broomfield, Colorado—my first home, fully my own.
Now is coming to terms with a truth I once tried to outrun: that real trauma shaped my childhood, and left echoes in every corner of my life.
Now is waiting—for the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department to release long-buried records.
Now is wondering what the final chapter will bring.

Some parts of my life blur together—woven through memory and thought—while others remain distinctly separate.

At times, I’ve had to draw sharp boundaries between chapters of my life to move beyond the pain of childhood loss and trauma. I had to choose which world to inhabit, because living in all of them at once wasn’t possible. And so, I learned to leap between the past and the present. I had no other choice. I couldn’t live entirely in what was. That doesn’t mean I stopped thinking about my mother, or erased the years that followed her death. Life isn’t that black and white.

The decision to live in the now was not easy—it was deliberate and complex, and I recommitted to it daily.

We all know that loss and suffering can change people, even more so when endured as a child who cannot fully understand what has occurred. No one seemed to fully understand the damage inflicted upon the psyche of a nine-year-old girl who suddenly lost her mother unless they had lived through it. And all the abuse, hatred, unkindness, lies, and secrets.

In my personal life, I’ve never met anyone, apart from my brother George, who shares the exact shape of my trauma. Our story is singular. It’s possible that no one else on earth can truly grasp the depth or complexity of what I’ve endured. That realization can be profoundly isolating. It creates a loneliness that’s hard to describe. Part of why I chose to write this series is rooted in that longing—for connection, for understanding, for hope that, in sharing my story, I might feel a bit less alone. And maybe, as you read, you’ll recognize something of your pain reflected here. Maybe you’ll find a measure of compassion for me and yourself.

The full weight of my mother’s death is something I may never completely understand.

Childhood trauma is unlike any other—it’s layered, elusive, and profoundly personal.

It doesn’t leave behind visible scars, like a broken hand or a twisted ankle that can be set and mended. Instead, it burrows deep, hidden beneath years of silence and the illusion of healing. Time doesn’t erase it. It only masks it. These wounds never truly vanish. They live quietly beneath the surface, too embedded to be easily unearthed. Only now am I beginning to bring them into the light.

That process is excruciating—like reopening a wound that never fully closed.

And with every moment of exposure, it feels like the pain begins all over again.

Still, it must be done—and the time has come.

I no longer want to carry this weight—I want to be free.

For more than thirty years, I’ve guided others toward their own freedom, helping them move through heartbreak and emerge stronger.

I poured my pain into that purpose, hoping it would matter—needing it to matter.

I believed that if I could turn my suffering into something useful, something healing, it might offer me the clarity I craved.

But even as I helped others, my wounds remained hidden, untouched, and unhealed—a quiet ache buried deep.

Now, I have no choice but to bring it all to the surface. To examine it, reshape it, and finally let it go. If I don’t, I fear I’ll be consumed by it. Helping others gave my pain meaning. It gave it shape and direction. And for a long time, that was enough.

But now, it’s my turn to heal.