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