Pieces of Me: Healing After the Unimaginable

32 years later….a survivor’s reflection.

When survivors share their stories or testimonies, we often begin by painting a picture of how the day started.

“It was a beautiful, sunny day…”

“I had just spent the afternoon with friends at the park…”

“I remember the breeze at the beach…”

Those moments before trauma hits—so vivid, so normal—stay with us. They’re the last fragments of life as we knew it. But the day my life changed wasn’t ordinary. It began with grief.

Early that morning, my mom got a heartbreaking phone call—our cousin’s daughter had passed away. The stillness in the room after she hung up the phone felt heavy, thick with sorrow. We spent the day at our cousin’s house, mourning the tragic loss, surrounded by pain and disbelief. I sat quietly, watching my mom comfort our cousin, her arms wrapped tightly around her as if trying to hold her together. The sadness in the air clung to us all, like a fog.

Something about that day felt off. At the time, I chalked it up to the grief—to the shock and weight of death. But now, looking back, it feels like something deeper was stirring. A shadow that hadn’t yet shown itself.

By the time we got home, I was emotionally exhausted. But more than anything, I just wanted a little space—to be alone in the comfort of something familiar. I was 14, and all I wanted to do that night was relax, wait for a phone call from a friend, and watch a movie I had been excited to see, and had seen many times: Drop Dead Fred. I even planned to record it.

When I asked if I could stay home instead of going to the store with my mom and aunt, I didn’t expect her to say yes. But, reluctantly, she did.

So I stayed behind. Not to sleep or curl under the covers, but to enjoy a quiet moment, the kind only a teenager would think of as peaceful and simple—TV, a phone call, and some time alone.

Outside, the rain had begun to fall—a soft, misty drizzle that made the night feel eerily quiet. I didn’t know then that my sense of calm would soon be shattered. I didn’t know that night would change everything.

Little did we know that as our day began in mourning, another tragedy was already unfolding. One that hadn’t yet revealed itself.

My mother would soon become the mother of a missing child.

And I—a 14-year-old girl waiting on a phone call, a movie, and a moment of peace—would become the victim of multiple crimes. My life, my safety, my future—suddenly hanging in the balance.

Will I live?

Will I survive this?

Or will I die?

Will my mom be left with only questions and unbearable silence, forced to wonder where I am, what happened to me, if I’ll ever come home?

The fear of the unknown was no longer just a feeling. It was real. It was alive. And it was closing in.

Perhaps what has stuck with me the most over the past 32 years—as today marks the anniversary of when I was kidnapped—is the way life can change in an instant. You begin your day just like any other day… and then, all of a sudden, an unexpected tragedy strikes.

You’re left stuck in disbelief, asking yourself: How did I get here? What led to this?

And a piece of you dies.

From that moment on, you spend the rest of your life trying to heal, trying to recover. It’s hard for people to understand what that really means—that one day, I was just a normal 14-year-old kid. I had just finished 8th grade. I just wanted to watch TV and wait for a phone call from a friend.

And then suddenly, I was fighting for my life.

Every single day that I wake up, I feel that same unease. The whole day feels suspect. I wonder, what trauma will I have to survive today? Because back then, I never saw it coming. And yet, it happened.

I know that this is life—and life is full of ups and downs. But knowing that doesn’t make it any less terrifying. It’s a scary thought to live with, that something so life-altering can happen without warning… and that it did.

I’ve been asked many times:

What do you get out of sharing your story?

What have you gained by asking questions about the offender?

Why do you want to reach out to certain people who were there that night?

And what I can say is—sharing my story has helped me put pieces of the puzzle together in ways I never expected.

I’ve learned more about the man who hurt me. I came to understand that he wasn’t just someone who made a mistake—he was someone who needed to be put away.

I’ve also had the chance to reconnect with Donna—the only person who helped me that night. I was able to look her in the eyes and say thank you. That alone was a healing moment I didn’t know I needed.

Sharing my story has helped me accept what happened to me. I no longer carry the blame for opening the door, or for being too scared to run, or for freezing when I wanted to scream. I’ve come to understand those are all normal, human responses to trauma. I was a child—just 14—and none of what happened was my fault.

And maybe the most meaningful part of all: I’ve seen how sharing my truth has helped others find theirs. I’ve watched people get help, speak up, and begin their own journeys toward healing.

Over the years, every time I’ve shared my story, I’ve experienced some form of growth. Whether it’s through my volunteer work, the recognition I’ve received, or the birth of my nonprofit—I’ve taken steps forward. Year after year, I’ve reclaimed pieces of myself.

In many ways, I’ve rewritten the narrative.

Not of what happened to me, but of what I’ve done with what happened to me.

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What happened to me doesn’t define who I am—but it is a major part of who I’ve become.

And while that night will always live within me, I can now say, with 100% certainty, that I am more than just another victim of sexual violence. I am more than my trauma.

I am a mother.

A leader.

An advocate.

A survivor.

A truth-teller.

A light for others still finding their way through the dark.

This anniversary is not just a reminder of the pain that I endured—it’s a reflection of how far I’ve come. It’s a reflection of purpose, resilience and growth. I have turned pain into purpose, silence into advocacy, and survival into a mission of service and healing.

There are still hard days. The fear and the questions don’t always disappear. But I wake up each day and choose to keep going—not just for me, but for the ones who haven’t found their voice yet.

To anyone reading this who carries their own hidden wounds: your story matters. Your healing matters. And you are not alone.

This is what 32 years of surviving, learning, and rising looks like.

And I’m still standing.

The Importance of Sharing Survivor Stories & Experiences

What I hope people see when I share my story is not someone seeking pity, but rather someone who started this journey without knowing where it would lead. Despite the challenges and hurdles along the way, it’s possible to grow and make a difference—not because every traumatic experience has a silver lining, but because in my case, I’ve been able to find strength and purpose through it.

Sharing has helped me connect with others—whether through volunteering or leadership—and that’s what I want to encourage. I don’t share to invite sympathy; I share so someone who is struggling can see that if I can keep going, it is possible that they can too. More importantly, I want that person to reach out for help—whether it’s from me, a trusted friend or family member, or a supportive organization—and decide to begin their own journey toward healing.