1. The Ongoing Work of Boundaries

I haven’t always trusted my gut. And every time I ignored it, I paid for it.

I didn’t want to make a scene. I didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. I worried—like I always do—about what people would think.

I’d see someone blow past my boundaries, and I’d give them chance after chance. Hoping they’d change. Hoping I was wrong. Hoping it wouldn’t happen again.

I made my empathy louder than my boundaries. And it cost me.

But I’ve learned to trust my gut—and to stop touching the hot stove hoping it won’t burn me this time.

I want to be clear: my experiences haven’t made me hate men. They’ve made me admire safe men. I’ve learned the difference.

I’m not closed off. I’m not guarded. I’m open to connection, to kindness, to warmth. But what happened recently wasn’t that.

A man crossed a line. He rubbed my arm a little too long, grabbed at me to see how I’d react. No other man in that space was doing that. It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t playful. It was gross.

Eventually, I wrote the text asking for help.

And the response came—with kindness. And that mattered.

2. The Origin of the Freeze

That moment reminded me of something deeper—something I’ve carried for years.

When you live in survival mode long enough, silence becomes your safety. You learn to read the room instead of your own instincts. You learn to stay quiet, to stay small, to stay safe.

So when something feels wrong, your first instinct isn’t to speak—it’s to survive.

When I was 17, I watched my dad try to choke my mom. I don’t remember what started it, but I remember pulling him off her. I remember being absolutely terrified. Seventeen-year-olds shouldn’t have to protect their mothers from their fathers. But I did. Often.

After that, a light went out in me—one that took years to find again.

3. The Silence and Isolation

My parents were deeply connected in our community. My dad was a successful businessman with ties to local politics. My mom taught at my high school. We had perfectly curated lives. So who was I going to tell? The police chief? The mayor? The school district leaders who knew my family?

No one.

My mom came from a different generation. Her grandfather—my great-grandfather—was a preacher, and she was raised to believe that you stay, that you endure, that you don’t let people see what’s happening behind closed doors. She didn’t want anyone to know. And honestly, she still doesn’t.

But here’s the thing: it isn’t her shame. It was my father’s. And recognizing that changed everything. It allowed me to stop carrying what was never mine to hold.

4. The Awakening

Five years ago, something broke open.

A betrayal so deep and disorienting, it shook me awake. It was the kind of pain that forces you to see everything clearly—maybe for the first time.

Looking back, you could probably guess the kinds of relationships I had in the past.  I would freeze. I would comply. Whether someone was hurting me emotionally, physically, or financially—I stayed quiet. I endured. I didn’t believe I had the right to speak up.

But that betrayal marked a line. It ended with me. Period.

At first, I made the decision for my kids. I wanted to protect them from the patterns I had lived through. But later, I realized I needed to make that decision for me too.

That moment cracked something open. It was the beginning of my healing. And the healing has been profound. 

I want others to have the same.

To know that it’s possible to come back to yourself. To reclaim your voice. To stop freezing and start living.

5. The Belief I Carry Forward

That’s why I do the work I do now.

I try to balance professionalism with vulnerability. I sit across from people every day who carry pain they’ve never spoken aloud. I know that pain intimately. I know what it feels like to wonder if anyone will believe you. I know the loneliness of thinking you’re the only one.

I won’t let that happen to anyone in my life anymore—clients, children, friends, family. I believe you. Period.

6. What Healing Really Means

People sometimes ask, “But have you forgiven them?”

As if healing only counts if it comes with a bow.

But I’ve learned that healing isn’t about excusing what happened. It’s about refusing to carry it anymore. It’s about telling the truth. It’s about choosing yourself.

Forgiveness may come. Or it may not. Either way, you still get to heal.

7. The Story That Guides Me

There’s a story I love in the Bible about betrayal—Joseph and his brothers.

My mom’s grandfather—my great-grandfather—was a preacher, and over the years, he made me read the Bible front to back. I know those stories intimately. And while I don’t carry all the same beliefs anymore, they shaped me. As I’ve healed, I’ve become more spiritual than religious. I honor that there are many paths to God, to the universe, to the divine, to whatever name you give the higher power that holds us.

I still find meaning in some of the stories I read.

Joseph was betrayed by his own family—sold into slavery, imprisoned, alone. His brothers were jealous. Years later, after Joseph had risen to power, they came to him, not recognizing who he was.

Joseph was honest. He didn’t sugarcoat what they had done. His brothers were terrified, expecting revenge. But Joseph looked at them and said, “Am I not of God?” What he was really saying was, “Take it up with God—your cruelty made me who I am today.”

Joseph’s leadership, his wisdom, his strength—it all came from what he endured. And whether you believe in God or not, I think that’s the healing: allowing what happened to you to shape you, mold you into something greater. To rise so high that the people who hurt you don’t even recognize you.

8. A Message of Hope

That’s the kind of transformation I believe in. Not erasing the past, but rising because of it. Not pretending it didn’t happen, but allowing it to refine you.

Because real healing shapes you into someone so powerful, the people who hurt you wouldn’t even recognize you anymore.

You become the storm no one saw coming. You speak—about your healing, and the stories that shaped you. And it echoes into future generations. Because the pain stopped with you. You chose healing—a choice that is courageous, rare, and often unseen. And it changes you...and every generation that comes after you...and that my friends, is power.