I Refused to Let My Life Be Defined by Tragedy

I was born a mistake—At least, that’s how I felt. 

Every day, I was met with resentment from the person who gave me life. Her choices in lovers, boyfriends, and husbands never made me feel safe or loved. I endured physical, mental, emotional and sexual abuse. 

I was always sick as a child. I used to daydream about dying—imagining my family crying, saying they missed me, saying they loved me. In those dreams, I felt wanted. I held onto them for a long time.

When I wasn’t sick, I was the one cooking meals, doing laundry, shopping for groceries, cleaning the house, and raising my siblings. When my mother’s marriage ended, I became her only friend and confidant. 

She needed me, and for a brief moment, I felt loved. Until the next man came along.

Then the truth about her husband’s crimes came out. But instead of going to school like other kids, I spent my days in courtrooms giving testimony, in office buildings giving depositions, in counseling reliving every horror—again and again. I fell behind in school, repeating grades due to lack of attendance.

By my teens, I was filled with rage. I didn’t care if I lived or died. 

Eventually, I just secretly wished for death. The shame and guilt consumed me. Substances numbed the pain, but the consequences only fueled my anger—at myself, at life, at the world.

I was told I had suicidal and homicidal tendencies. At 15, I was admitted to the mental ward of the local hospital. I spent six months there, then returned twice more over the years.

I dropped out of high school. 

My mother, now alone with four children, had no way to support us. She had no job skills, no education, no plan. So I became her temporary hero—until the next man entered her life, and I became invisible again.

Adulthood hit me hard. 

I was behind in every way—financially, emotionally, mentally. I felt like a failure, despising myself for it. The more I thought about changing my life, the more hopeless it seemed. 

I married a drug addict, and within a year, I was out—but not before the damage had been done.

For most of my 20s and 30s, I was a nihilist. Life had no meaning. Every single day was a struggle just to exist. People looked at me with contempt, and honestly, I couldn’t blame them.

I still don’t know how I made it to 40.

For the first time, I wasn’t in a fleeting, destructive relationship. I got engaged to a man with young children, and suddenly, my life was about responsibility and duty. 

Then, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease. It was as if my past had finally caught up with me. I had no choice but to take a hard, honest look at my life. 

So, I broke off my engagement. I kept the friendship, but I knew I had to find my purpose.

I refused to let my life be defined by tragedy. 

I spent the next decade searching for healing, praying that if I held on long enough, God would bring me to the life I was meant to live. There were moments I nearly gave up, but something inside me kept pushing forward.

Then, a light at the end of the tunnel.

I saw the ARCS online: “Learn to heal from abuse and addiction—and teach others to heal.” 

I kept rereading that word: heal.

I had tried everything—therapy since I was 9, medications, hypnosis, holistic treatments, religion, self-help, substances, science. Nothing had truly changed me. But at that moment, I prayed:

"Lord, if there is even a slight chance this could alleviate my suffering, PLEASE let it be!"

I answered the ad and moved to another city.

ARCS is not just another program. 

It is the hardest and longest road I’ve ever traveled—but every step forward has been a gift. For the first time in my life, I feel empowered. 

I am healing.

I never imagined myself as a counselor. My only goal was survival. But now, I can’t stand the thought of anyone else suffering the way I did—without knowing that healing is possible.

ARCS gave me something I never had: my life.

And now, through God and ARCS, I am determined to help others reclaim theirs.

This is not the end. It’s the beginning.