My Story

Growing up in a home shaped by my mother’s alcoholism and the absence of my father—who passed away when I was eight—I learned young how to fend for myself. In an attempt to navigate the chaos, I developed coping mechanisms centered around control: striving for perfect behavior, perfect grades, and a flawless appearance. I believed these efforts might earn my mother’s approval or at least keep the peace. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never meet her impossible standards. Her unpredictable outbursts of anger left me feeling anxious and emotionally unsafe, planting the seeds of trauma that followed me throughout my childhood.

My drive to please others didn’t end with childhood; it followed me well into adulthood. I kept telling myself, “If I can just get it right…”—as if the perfect response, the perfect version of me, would finally earn the approval I was chasing. But no matter how hard I tried, I always seemed to fall short. What I didn’t know then was that perfection isn’t just unattainable—it’s a moving target that keeps you running in circles.

           The same perfectionism crept into how I saw my body. My mother made it clear early on that being overweight was unacceptable. I was just nine when I went on my first diet. From that point on, I was constantly monitoring, measuring, restricting—through junior high, high school, and into college. In college, I discovered weight training and quickly became obsessed—not with competition, but with control. I began working out alongside female bodybuilders, drawn to the discipline and the drastic physical changes their routines promised. It became another way to chase an ideal I could never quite reach. It wasn’t until I became pregnant with my first child that I began to loosen my grip on the misconceptions of physical perfection—ideals my mother had instilled in me, and I had faithfully carried forward.

           But then came the divorce from my children’s father, and with it, a new level of pressure. As the stress of single motherhood and providing for my family intensified, so did my need for control. I turned my focus once again to my appearance—managing my body like a project—and sought validation through relationships, hoping they might fill the void of worth I couldn’t find within myself. But the men I chose mirrored the dysfunction I had grown up with: emotionally abusive, continuing the painful pattern my mother had set in motion. With each relationship, I felt smaller, more diminished. By the time I entered my fourth significant relationship after the divorce—married to the man I would later refer to as my “super-abuser”—I had hit bottom.

I was trapped in a full-blown shame cycle. Physically, I was falling apart. I developed high blood pressure for the first time in my life, despite always having had low readings. Chronic migraines plagued me three or more days each week. I was anxious, depressed, and barely hanging on at work, despite holding a leadership role in healthcare. My body was screaming—constant neck and back pain, unrelenting fatigue—but I kept pushing forward, disconnected from what I truly needed and unable to imagine another way.

           One night, everything came to a head. My blood pressure was dangerously high, and the pain from a migraine was so intense I truly feared I might be having a stroke. Desperate and terrified, I made my way to the Emergency Room. After a full exam and testing, the doctor confirmed it was yet another severe migraine—but before discharging me, he gently suggested I seek help for anxiety. For reasons I didn’t fully understand at the time, I agreed.

Through my insurance, I found a therapist—and she turned out to be nothing short of God-sent. From our very first session, she began guiding me deep into the layers of my past, helping me uncover the trauma that had long fueled my need for control. But what set her apart—what made all the difference—was that she was a Christian. She prayed with me, and for me. She didn’t just help me understand my pain; she helped me invite God into it.

At her recommendation, I also began attending Al-Anon as support for friends and family of alcoholics. And it was there, in those humble rooms filled with others navigating life in the wake of someone else’s addiction, that I truly found God—not just as an idea, but as a loving presence who had been pursuing me all along.

           That’s where my true faith journey began. I had been raised in the church, but for most of my life, I was just a participant—present in the pews but disconnected in spirit. Then one day, sitting quietly in an Al-Anon meeting, I heard something that pierced through the noise inside me. It wasn’t just a phrase or a story—it was the Word of God, speaking directly to my heart. He told me there was a better way to live.

From that moment, something shifted. I began reading the Bible—not as an obligation, but as a lifeline. I meditated on God’s Word, prayed earnestly for His guidance, and slowly surrendered my will to His. For the first time, I truly became part of a faith community—not just in attendance, but in spirit and truth.

As my relationship with God deepened, so did the transformation within me. Acceptance began to take root—not as a moment, but as a way of life. I learned to forgive my mother, not by denying the hurt, but by understanding that she, too, was doing the best she could with what she had. She was human, just like me. And for the first time, I began to see myself with that same compassion.

I stopped demanding perfection from myself. I started offering myself grace—grace for the missteps, the regrets, the years spent lost in pain. And in that grace, and in my walk with God in His grace, I found freedom.

           Today, with the Holy Spirit guiding my every step, I live one day at a time for Jesus. My prayers are no longer reserved for specific times—they flow throughout the day as conversations with God, moments of listening, leaning in, and trusting His voice.

Now, I have the privilege of walking alongside other women on their own health and wellness journeys. Many come searching for answers to physical concerns, but with gentle guidance and the presence of the Holy Spirit, they begin to uncover something deeper—a longing for peace, purpose, and connection.

Through this sacred work, I get to witness women discover an intimate, loving relationship with Christ. And as they draw closer to Him, their paths toward healing—body, mind, and spirit—begin to unfold. It is a beautiful reminder that true transformation begins not with striving, but to thriving through acceptance and surrender.