I was orphaned at eight years old when my father murdered my mother and committed suicide. As a kid, I was very intelligent and an exceptional wrestler. I placed in the top 6 at nationals for six consecutive years. At 19, I started using cocaine and struggled with it for about 12 years before switching to opiates. That's when life spiralled hard. For another 13 years, I battled addiction. I got clean 14 months ago, and I am now raising my three pre-teen children as a single f

Sarah Elizabeth Bloom is a writer, death doula, rare disease advocate, and survivor of extensive childhood, interpersonal, and medical trauma. Her early life was marked by childhood sexual abuse, repeated victimization, bullying, and traumatic experiences that profoundly shaped her understanding of suffering, resilience, and human connection. Throughout adolescence and adulthood, she endured further experiences of violence, coercion, and life-threatening situations. Alongside

Coming from childhood abuse and growing into domestic abuse, discovering my aunt's homicide from domestic violence, and after a long court battle being informed of my high school friend's homicide resulting from domestic violence, I've risen from the trauma and written a book, started a podcast, and traveled the US to speak about my story on others' platforms to give hope, strength, and light to those still suffering in silence and in the darkness. WHAT THEY BUILT AFTER Heali

Long story. Fifteen years in and out of court. WHAT THEY BUILT AFTER Psychotherapy for five years, weekly. I did a full circle, from putting stamps on envelopes as a volunteer to owning an incorporation.

My ex-husband abused me for 6 years, and I only got out after those 6 years. He abused me emotionally, financially, verbally, and physically. The last time he beat me up, he almost unalived me. I was only saved by the grace of God. I started my healing journey in September 2025. It's not an easy road. It's slow, messy, and real. I can only say that I thank God that I'm still alive and that I can protect my son. My ex-husband also got me hooked on drugs. I used meth and Mandra

THE TRUE SCOPE OF MY 17-YEAR STORY Seventeen Years of Survival This is not a story about one event. It is not a story about one trauma. It is not a story about one system failing. It is a seventeen-year continuum of illness, disability, trauma, discrimination, violence, neglect, and survival. For seventeen years I have lived through circumstances that most people will never experience in a lifetime. My body has failed me. Systems have failed me. Institutions have failed me. P

I never wanted to tell this story. Not to friends, to strangers, not online, and definitely not publicly. And if I’m being honest, I spent years trying to make sure I never had to. People see the ending and can assume that’s where the story began. They hear about the divorce. Maybe there are mentions of police reports. They hear about court orders. They see me speaking openly about domestic violence and assume I wanted to expose what happened. Sorry, but the truth is much MUC

My title says emotional abuse, but it was physical abuse with bullying as well. I was married young, at 22. I had come from a home where I had been physically abused by my stepfather, and then he left my mom, my brother, and me. He just didn't come home one day. So knowing how to have a healthy relationship was not something I knew. In my marriage, I had no idea what a narcissist was. But as the years went on, I learned that it was actually the disorder my husband had. It sta

I am a survivor of domestic violence, stalking, harassment, and identity theft but my story did not begin the day I escaped. Its roots reach back four generations, woven through the lives of the women who came before me. I am the daughter, granddaughter, and greatgranddaughter of women who endured what they should never have had to survive. My mother, a woman full of beauty and pain, turned to drugs to cope with the violence in her life. When I was eight years old, she was mu

I was in my first abusive relationship for two years before I even realised it was abuse. This set my dating pattern for most of my adult life, where I accepted abuse because I believed it was okay due to me fighting back. WHAT THEY BUILT AFTER I began studying and attending therapy. I struggled with therapy and the processing of therapy after I completed it. It was hard to know that I should have had therapy years before bringing up my children, who got the unhealed version

She was only nine when her childhood was stolen. Her uncle, a man trusted by the family, shattered the world she thought was safe. There were no screams, no rescue. Just silence. The kind that wraps around a child and teaches her that pain must be hidden, that tears are wasted, and that no one is coming. She grew up in survival mode. Each day was a battle. With herself. With the memories. With the emptiness of not having a mother’s arms to run into or protection to rely on. L

For years, I was always a drinker. Whether at home or out for the weekend, I never thought how drinking could affect anything or anyone. But when my partner had kids, we had a happy life raising them, and a good life at that. As they got older, something changed inside me. The more I drank, the more I wanted. I kept pushing my family away. I didn't care. I wanted the alcohol and nothing else. For years, I lost all contact with my kids. I didn't care. I had a new family, which

I learned to cook because nobody was going to feed me. My mother worked three jobs. My father left when I was four. Most nights, the kitchen was dark and the fridge was empty. By seven, I could make rice. By nine, I was feeding my little sister too. Nobody taught me — I watched the neighbor through her window and copied what she did. People talk about childhood neglect like it's dramatic. Mine wasn't. There was no single terrible event. It was just... absence. The slow unders

The night I finally left, I had eleven dollars, a garbage bag of clothes, and my daughter asleep in her car seat. Everyone asks why it took so long. Four years. They don't understand that leaving isn't one decision — it's a thousand small ones that all have to line up on the same night. The right amount of fear. The right amount of courage. The car keys where you can reach them. The baby already in her pajamas. He was charming when we met. Everyone loved him. He coached littl

I took my first drink at thirteen. By twenty-five, I'd lost everything worth having. People imagine addiction as a choice. Like there's a moment where you weigh the options and pick the bottle. That's not how it works. Addiction is waking up and reaching for it before your eyes are open. It's your body telling you that you will die without it and your brain believing every word. It's not a choice. It's a hostage situation. I started with beer stolen from my uncle's garage. Th

I aged out of foster care with a trash bag of belongings and no forwarding address. Seven homes in twelve years. Some were fine — decent people doing their best with too many kids and not enough support. Some were not fine. I learned early which homes were safe and which ones required a different kind of survival. I learned to read a room before I learned to read a book. The hardest part of foster care isn't the big stuff, though the big stuff is real. The hardest part is the

For three years, I ate lunch in a bathroom stall. It started in sixth grade. I was small, quiet, and new — the perfect target. The name-calling came first. Then the shoving. Then the daily ritual of having my backpack dumped in the hallway while everyone watched. The watching was the worst part. Not the kids who did it — the dozens who stood there and said nothing. My parents knew something was wrong. I was losing weight. I stopped talking at dinner. My grades dropped. But wh

I was three years old the first time someone took something from me that I didn't yet have words for. I didn't learn that until much later — when the memories surfaced and the timeline finally revealed itself. For years, I believed it started at eight. A family member. An uncle who disguised cruelty as care. Then an aunt, separately, who introduced me to alcohol at twelve and used me in ways that still resist easy naming. Cousins. The architecture of betrayal was built entire