I'm a mom. I've been through it.

And I'm still, right now, becoming someone I didn't know I was allowed to be. That's what makes this work real.

At seventeen I left home determined to be the author of my own story. A decade later I was unrecognizable to that girl: a husband, a house, three little boys, and a life built around everyone's needs but mine. Not my dream, exactly. The dream that was handed to me.

In April of 2016, my husband didn't come home from work. He had been arrested for attempted human trafficking. My boys were one, four and five.

I stayed. I played the part of the loyal wife, and I let everyone else tell me what to do. Then my own children were the ones in danger, and I couldn't hide from the truth anymore.

Who was I to fight for them? Eventually I understood. Who was I not to?

I had to stop handing my decisions to everyone around me and admit what I had chosen not to see. I didn't start the fire, but I had to be the one to say no more. In March of 2020, I received full custody of my sons.

Then I told the truth about all of it: in a memoir that became an international bestseller, in more than a hundred podcast conversations, and on a TEDx stage.

Then I tried to hold it all myself.

For years after, I believed I had to be the author of everything. If I worked hard enough, I could fix anything. Until the day I couldn't, and finally said the most honest thing I'd said in years: "God, I can't do this by myself."

I don't have to be the source anymore. I can own my part, and let God hold the rest. That's where my faith, and this work, really began.