Most people are stunned when they hear my story because it began with something they can’t imagine my greatest pain came from my father, a pastor. To the world, he was a man of God, respected and admired. But inside our home, he was someone entirely different. The man who preached love on Sundays ruled our lives with anger and fear the rest of the week.
Sundays were the worst. If I didn’t smile just right, sing loud enough, or act the way he wanted at church, I knew what would happen when we got home. If the offering plate didn’t fill the way he expected, somehow it became our fault. His words left wounds that no one could see, but I carried them for years.
When I was two, my parents separated. Years later, when my father came back, I thought all my prayers had been answered. I dreamed of having a real family again. But that dream turned into a nightmare. The warmth that had once filled our home was replaced with fear and silence. The day he hit me across the face for protecting my cousin was the day I stopped seeing him as a father and started seeing him as the enemy.
By eleven, I’d already learned how to hide pain. I started drinking a quiet rebellion, a small way to feel in control. At home, I played the part of the perfect preacher’s kid. Behind closed doors, I drowned the chaos in alcohol. No one knew. We were trained to keep up appearances, no matter what was happening inside our home.
In college, drinking wasn’t something I had to hide anymore. Parties and late nights became a way to fill the emptiness. Looking back now, I see that God must have been protecting me because there were nights I shouldn’t have made it home.
Eventually, I married a man I had known since childhood. I thought he would be different safe. But he wasn’t. The same patterns of control and anger followed me into that relationship. I didn’t see the red flags at first; I was too used to chaos to recognize peace. After a year of dating, I said “I do,” and soon after, my life began to crumble again.
The emotional and verbal abuse started early. When I became pregnant with twins, I hoped things would change. I stopped drinking and took care of myself, believing that maybe love could heal him. But instead, the accusations came. He claimed the babies weren’t his, said I had given him a disease cruel lies that cut deeper than any wound. His temper only grew worse.
One day, seven months pregnant and on bed rest, he threw me across the room. I should have hit the floor, but I landed on the bed instead. I still believe that was God’s hand protecting me and my babies. That moment changed everything. I knew I had to leave.
After my twins were born, the abuse didn’t stop, and I turned to alcohol again to cope. One night, driving home with my babies in the back seat, I nearly ended it all. As I sped toward a bridge, ready to crash, I heard my daughter sniffle. Then I heard God’s voice whisper, “Who better to raise them than you? This is not how it ends.” I slammed on the brakes and broke down crying. I never drank again.
I left my husband soon after and started rebuilding my life from the ground up. It wasn’t easy, but it was mine. I found a new church that showed me God’s true love not the distorted version I grew up with, but one filled with grace and healing. I divorced my abuser and later met a man who showed me what love really means. Together, we’ve built a blended family of six children and a home filled with peace.
In 2017, I published Reflections of a PK, sharing my story for the first time. Later, I founded Legacy31, a nonprofit supporting survivors of abuse within faith communities. More recently, I launched She Survived, a movement encouraging women to speak their truth without shame or fear.
Today, I live by Proverbs 31:25 “She is clothed in strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.” After everything I’ve endured, I finally understand what that means. My story is no longer about pain it’s about redemption, resilience, and the unshakable strength that comes from survival.
