….

From the moment I entered this world, I was a mistake. A burden.
“Unwanted. Unloved.” These words became the silent echoes that shaped my existence.

My childhood is a scattered puzzle, pieces lost to time and secrecy. What I do know is that my biological father was a heroin addict, consumed by darkness, while my mother, battling her own demons, resented me. That resentment placed me in unsafe, traumatic situations, including time spent with my  biological father. Diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, though she never accepted it, my Mom’s struggles became the undercurrent of my life, pulling me into a chaos I could never escape.

To live without unconditional love is to move through life searching for something you have never known. Studies show that childhood trauma leaves lasting damage, making its victims more vulnerable to habitual abuse.

I am living proof of this truth.

Yet amid the instability, one person chose me: my Dad. Though my brothers carried his blood, he gave me a place in his heart. His love was the closest thing to unconditional that I had ever known, and for that, I am forever grateful.

But love, as I understood it, was always laced with pain. I learned that love and abuse were inseparable, that affection would always come with suffering. The idea that someone could love me without hurting me felt foreign, Impossible. That belief led me into relationships that mirrored my past. Repeated cycles of mistreatment, violence, and debilitating suffering. One relationship nearly ended my life. Deep down, I believed I was inherently flawed, destined for pain. The message ingrained in me for decades was clear: I was bad, and bad people deserved punishment. Forty-four years of abuse cemented that belief.

I live with C-PTSD, a diagnosis that explains my daily experiences but does little to ease the burden. Labels don’t erase the weight of what I’ve endured, nor do they undo the years of damage.

As if fate had not tested me enough, two car accidents left me with 30% permanent brain damage. For years, I was a shadow of myself, trapped inside a body that no longer functioned. Basic tasks like driving, cooking, reading, even standing, became impossible. My world shrank, my independence stripped away. Yet, within the wreckage of my mind, a single, thought emerged: “This can’t be the only purpose of my life. ” Driving became my focus. Not because I needed to go anywhere, but because it symbolized my fight to reclaim my life.

There have been so many moments when I should not have survived. Some, at my own hands.

And yet, here I am.

Every day, I wrestle with the same questions: Why? Why did I survive? Why was I born? Why am I still here? The battle within me is relentless, a constant pull between despair and purpose. I haven’t found a clear answer yet. Maybe I never will.

But perhaps the answer isn’t something grand or extraordinary. Maybe it’s something much simpler.

Maybe survival itself is the purpose. Maybe every scar, every hardship, and every moment I’ve endured exists for one reason: I am alive. And as long as I am alive, I have a chance to experience something lovely, something sweeter.

Perhaps my tomorrows will be filled with goodness, leaving despair where it belongs … in the past.

Maybe, just maybe, something beautiful still awaits us all.

Maybe that’s why I am still here.

An Invitation to Healing

Healing isn’t a destination … it’s a journey. What is one truth you are ready to embrace about yourself today? Whether you write it down, whisper it to yourself, or share it here, know that you are seen, and your story is far from over.