Most people are often shocked when they hear my story because it began with something they can’t imagine my father, a pastor, being the source of my deepest pain. To the world, he was a man of God; but to our family, he was a man of rage. The same man who preached about love on Sundays turned into a stranger when we got home.
Sundays were the hardest. If I didn’t sing the hymn perfectly or if I smiled the wrong way at church, I knew what would happen once the doors closed. If the offering was less than he wanted, that too somehow became our fault. His words were sharp, his anger unpredictable. Fear became my language long before I could understand what love truly meant.
When I was two, my parents separated, and for a while, peace seemed possible. But when my father came back years later, I thought it was the miracle I had prayed for a chance to have a normal family again. I was wrong. In just months, the warmth in our home faded, replaced by tension and dread. The day he struck me for trying to protect my cousin was the day my illusion of him shattered. That was the day I learned heroes could also be the ones who hurt you.
By the time I was eleven, I had already mastered the art of hiding pain. I started drinking my quiet rebellion, my way of taking control. At home, I was the perfect preacher’s kid. In private, I drowned my hurt in alcohol. It became my secret escape, the only way I knew how to survive.
When I reached college, the hiding stopped. Parties and late nights became my new normal. I didn’t realize it then, but I was running from the broken child inside me. Looking back now, I know that God must have been protecting me, because there were nights I should never have made it home.
Eventually, I married a man I’d known since childhood, thinking I’d finally found safety. But I didn’t see that he carried the same brokenness I grew up with. The red flags were there, but I ignored them. A year after we married, the emotional and verbal abuse began. I turned back to drinking not to celebrate, but to survive.
When I found out I was pregnant with twins, I hoped things would change. I quit drinking, tried to build peace, and prayed for a fresh start. Instead, I faced accusations that the babies weren’t his and cruel lies that broke me all over again. His anger turned violent. One day, when I was seven months pregnant, he threw me across the room. I braced for the floor, but somehow landed safely on the bed. To this day, I believe that was God’s hand protecting me.
The abuse didn’t stop after my twins were born. The drinking came back — until one night, everything almost ended. I was driving with my babies in the car, speeding toward a bridge, ready to give up. Then I heard my daughter sniffle in the back seat. At that moment, I heard a whisper deep in my heart: “Who better to raise them than you? This is not how it ends.” I slammed the brakes and broke down in tears. That was the last time I ever drank.
I left my husband soon after and began to rebuild my life from the ashes. Healing wasn’t easy, but for the first time, my life was mine. I found a new church that showed me what real love looks like not fear disguised as faith. I later divorced my abuser and married a man who treats me with the love and respect I once thought didn’t exist. Together, we’re raising a blended family of six beautiful children.
In 2017, I shared my story publicly in my book Reflections of a PK. Later, I founded Legacy31 to help survivors of abuse within faith communities, and created She Survived a movement that gives women courage to speak out. Today, I live by Proverbs 31:25 “She is clothed with strength and dignity and laughs without fear of the future.” After everything I’ve survived, I finally know what that truly means.
