The White Room: From one room to another, learning what it means to feel safe again.

I don’t always realize why certain moments stay with me the way they do. But when I think about it now… it wasn’t just one room.

It followed me.

There’s one room I keep coming back to.

A back room in a duplex in Bear Creek.

I sat there, afraid, quiet, trying not to be seen and at the same time silently begging to be saved. With nothing but a sheet covering me. People were coming in and out, exchanging drugs for stolen goods. Adults. Grown people. And no one helped me.

I was young. I was terrified. And I didn’t know if I was going to live or die.

Once the door closed, what followed was fear, control, and violence.

By that point, there had already been strangulation. There had already been threats. There had already been enough for my body to understand that I was not safe. So I sat there, frozen in the unknown, wishing I could go home, wishing I could call my mom, wishing someone, anyone, would notice and do something.

But no one did.

And what I didn’t understand then is that I didn’t leave that room behind when I escaped.

Years later, I would find myself in more rooms. Different situations, different people, but the same feeling.

Trapped. Powerless. Being verbally attacked and belittled. And my body remembered before my mind could even process what was happening.

That’s the thing about trauma. It doesn’t always show up as a memory. Sometimes it shows up as a feeling.

A tightening in your chest. A fear you can’t explain. A silence when you want to speak.

It shows up in moments where you should feel safe, but don’t.

I’ve had more than one experience where a man has made me feel trapped. And each time, it connects back to that original moment. That room. That fear of the unknown. That feeling of no one helping.

And even when I’ve found the courage to speak up, to say, “This is triggering for me,” it hasn’t always mattered in the moment.

Because the truth is, when you’ve been in a situation where speaking up didn’t feel safe, your body learns that lesson. It carries it into relationships. Into workplaces. Into leadership spaces.

You hesitate. You question yourself. You wonder if it’s safe to say, I need help.

For me, psychological safety isn’t a concept. It’s something my body still has to figure out.

And that doesn’t just show up in how I respond to people.

It shows up in how I move through life.

There were moments during the kidnapping when I had opportunities to run. Opportunities to yell that I was in danger. Opportunities to get out.

I remember being in a car, not knowing where we were going, and thinking, should I jump out of this moving vehicle?

But I didn’t.

Because what if I got hurt. What if I got ran over. What if he caught me.

And even when we were on foot, I had those same thoughts. Should I run?

But I didn’t.

Because what if I fell. What if that decision cost me my life.

So I stayed.

Not because I didn’t want to live. But because I didn’t know what the outcome would be.

And that feeling did not stay there.

It followed me into adulthood.

Only now it sounds like,

What if I fail. What if I try and it doesn’t work.

And instead of running, I hesitate.

Instead of asking for help, I wait. Sometimes hoping someone will notice. Sometimes hoping someone will step in.

But a lot of times, no one does.

And that’s where it gets hard.

Because I’ve built things. I’ve taken risks. I wrote a book. I started a nonprofit.

I’ve done the things I once dreamed about.

But behind those accomplishments has been a constant battle with self-doubt. With procrastination. With a lack of confidence that I now understand didn’t come from nowhere.

It came from learning, at a very young age, that the wrong move could cost you everything.

So you learn to pause. You learn to second guess. You learn to stay still.

Even when movement could change your life.

Because somewhere deep down, that younger version of me is still sitting in that room, waiting, hoping someone will help, but not fully believing it’s safe to ask.

What’s even more powerful to me now is realizing how my story found its way out, even when I didn’t fully understand it.

When the Pieces Came Together

In my book, I wrote about a white room.

At the time, I didn’t connect it. I didn’t realize that the room I created was rooted in the room I was once trapped in. But looking back now, the symbolism is undeniable. My mind found a way to process what my voice wasn’t ready to say.

And then there was my escape.

Even now, it feels surreal.

The moment his grip loosened. The strength that came over me. The decision to run.

I ran through a living room full of adults who didn’t stop me. The front door was open. The screen door was unlocked. The sun was shining.

No one outside. No one stopping me in that moment.

And then her.

Donna.

The only person who stopped. The only person who saw me and chose to act. The only one who helped.

Everything aligned in a way that I can only describe as divine.

Even learning later that he had been behind me at some point only deepens my gratitude. Because despite everything that could have gone wrong, something went right.

And I made it home.

There are people who will help - Family, coworkers, leaders, organizations, hospitals.

And there are moments where we have to become our own voice, even when it feels unfamiliar, even when it feels unsafe.

I’m still learning what it means to feel safe, and still choosing not to stay silent.

Today, I’m still learning how to move, even when fear tells me to stay still. Still learning that my voice matters, even when part of me wants to stay quiet. Still learning that asking for help is not weakness.

Fear may still speak… but I’m working toward not letting it silence me. That silence may feel familiar, but I know it is not a place where I have to stay.

And even though I still freeze sometimes, every time I choose to speak or move forward… I take a little bit of my power back.

Because the truth is, past trauma doesn’t just stay in the past. It shows up in how we respond, how we communicate, how we lead, and how we show up for others.

And for those in positions of leadership, it’s a reminder that how we speak, how we listen, and how we create space for others truly matters.

Because you never know what room someone is remembering while they’re standing in front of you.

And to those who have their own “white rooms”… I pray you find the strength to feel safe again.