Warm morning light fills this peaceful bedroom overlooking distant mountains.
Awakeningto Truth
Healing begins when truth is spoken. Abuse isolates and silences, but listening to others reminds us we are not alone. Many walk this same valley, searching for freedom and peace.
In 1989, I spent three weeks in a women’s shelter in Sherwood Park with my three children. Each evening we shared our stories. Those moments taught me that healing begins when we speak and listen.
Abuse—whether verbal, emotional, or physical—destroys the spirit. Fear keeps us quiet, believing the abuser’s threats. But silence traps us. When we ask for help, we open the door to escape.
Do whatever it takes to survive. Reach out to police, shelters, or anyone who can help you find safety. Go into hiding if you must. Never go back. I returned eighteen times, hoping love would fix what was broken. It never did. Once you leave, stay gone.
I learned something powerful: when children see or hear abuse, they are also harmed. That truth shook me awake. Healing begins when we protect not only ourselves but those who learn from us.
Restoring Peace Within
Stress weighs heavy after trauma, but peace can return. Move your body—walk, breathe fresh air, feel the earth beneath your feet. Nature heals quietly.
Eat foods that strengthen your body and spirit. Practice gratitude; even small blessings matter.
Find calm through music, prayer, or deep breathing. Write your thoughts—your words will become proof of your strength.
When you leave abuse, seek counseling. Healing takes time, and rushing into new relationships often repeats old wounds. Build stability first—for yourself and your children.
Do not return. Your children learn from your choices. Show them that love never includes harm. God does not ask anyone to stay with an abuser. He calls us to freedom and life.
Remember: Trauma may happen to you, but it will never define you.
Reaching for Help
Leaving abuse takes courage. You are not alone, and help is near.
If you live in Alberta:
Alberta Works – Offers financial support for those fleeing abuse. Call 1‑866‑644‑5135 anytime.
Calgary Police Service – Provides lists of shelters, counseling, and legal help.
Alberta Council of Women’s Shelters – Connects you with safe places across the province.
If you or someone you know is in danger, call 911 or your local emergency number. Help is waiting.
Walking Through Healing
Healing has no timeline. Each step matters, no matter how slow. Listen to your body and spirit—they will tell you what you need.
There is no wrong way to heal. Rest when you must, cry when you need, and rise when you can. You are moving toward peace, and that journey is sacred.
Rise and Rebuild
There comes a moment when silence breaks and truth speaks. That moment is sacred—it is the beginning of freedom.
You are not what happened to you. You are the one who survived it. Every breath you take now is a declaration that darkness did not win.
Healing is not quick, but it is holy. Each step forward is a victory. Each tear is a cleansing. Each act of courage—calling for help, walking away, choosing peace—is a seed of new life.
Let your story awaken others. Let your strength remind them that escape is possible, that healing is real, and that love never demands suffering.
You are chosen to rise. You are meant to rebuild. And when you do, your light will guide others out of the shadows.
A woman meditates beside a glowing lantern as mountains reflect across the still lake.
There comes a moment in every survivor’s life when something inside begins to shift. It doesn’t happen loudly or all at once. It begins as a quiet stirring — a soft, almost holy awareness that the life you’ve been living is no longer the life your soul can endure.
Trauma teaches you to shrink, to silence yourself, to carry pain that was never yours. You learn to walk carefully, speak gently, and anticipate danger before it arrives. You become skilled at surviving, even as survival wears down the deepest parts of you.
And then one day, something changes. It may come in a quiet moment, through a rising memory, or in a truth you can no longer push aside. Suddenly, you feel it — the quiet rise of your own spirit whispering, “This is not love. This is not safety. This is not what God intended for you.”
This awakening isn’t dramatic. It’s the first breath after years of holding it in. It’s your soul stepping forward and saying, “I cannot stay silent anymore.” This is where healing begins.
Not the neat, tidy healing others expect, but the slow kind — like dawn breaking after a long night. Healing begins when you stop explaining away the harm, stop minimizing your pain, and stop believing endurance is the same as strength. It begins when you finally listen to the voice inside you that has been trying to speak all along.
When you honour that quiet inner voice — the one whispering truth long before you were ready to hear it — something inside you shifts. It feels like a soft awakening, a small rise of strength you didn’t know was still there. This voice carries wisdom your mind once buried and senses danger before anyone else can. As you trust it, a sacred transformation begins, and you slowly start to reclaim yourself.
You begin to see that your story is not defined by what was done to you, but by the courage it took to survive. You realize your intuition was never wrong. And you understand that God was whispering to you in every fearful moment, guiding you toward safety even when you didn’t know how to take the next step.
This is the transformation trauma cannot steal. The moment your soul refuses to stay silent is the moment your healing begins — and once it begins, it cannot be undone.
A woman journals while sunset lights the city skyline.
Writing about trauma is not just an act of remembering — it is an act of healing. When I sit down with my journal and begin to put words to the pain I’ve carried, something inside me begins to settle. The chaos becomes clearer. The memories that once felt tangled start to find their place. I write not to relive the hurt, but to understand it, to soften it, and to finally permit myself to move forward.
This process is tender and slow, but it is also deeply freeing. Each sentence becomes a small step toward peace. Each paragraph becomes a piece of my story reclaimed. And as I write, I remind myself that healing doesn’t happen all at once — it happens gently, honestly, and one word at a time.
Trauma creates turmoil, and writing about it helps me make sense of what happened. Putting my experiences into words gives the trauma a beginning, a middle and an end. The story on the page begins to replace the memories that once haunted me. I remind myself that I am the author of my life now. I am no longer just a victim of my abuser.
Writing about trauma is not easy. Some memories feel too heavy to describe, and sometimes I feel unsure of how to express what I lived through. My mind has protected me by blocking out the worst parts, and that can make it harder to create a clear story. But the more I write, the more I remember. Thinking, talking, and paying attention to small details — sights, sounds, smells, emotions — helps bring pieces of my story back.
I don’t need to worry about who might be upset or embarrassed until I reach my final draft. Before I publish anything, I can ask a few trusted people to read it and offer honest feedback. I want to be careful, thoughtful, and safe with what I share.
Trauma becomes part of who we are. My first trauma happened when my father left my mother when I was fourteen. Later, after I married, I lived through emotional, verbal, psychological, and some physical abuse. These experiences changed me deeply. I live with PTSD because of the ongoing violence and anxiety. I also had a short period of suicidal thoughts, though I never acted on them. Everyone responds to trauma differently, and there is no single “right” way to cope.
Writing is therapeutic. It helps me move past emotions I didn’t even know I was still carrying — anger, guilt, resentment. As I write, I begin to understand my past and slowly move forward. I need to take my time, feel each emotion, and let memories surface naturally. Even small details matter. Slowing down helps me heal.
Studies show that people who write about their trauma often become emotionally and physically healthier. This encourages me to keep going and to share what I learn with others.
If something I write doesn’t fit my story, I can set it aside or save it for later. My story belongs to me, and I get to decide how to tell it. Therapists often suggest writing trauma in the present tense because it brings the experience into the open instead of keeping it locked away. Writing without a filter — simply putting down what I think and feel — helps me heal. I can always edit later.
Many traumatized people block memories as a way of protecting themselves. Some memories may return slowly, like puzzle pieces. Others may never come back. I try not to feel discouraged. I focus on what I can remember and trust that it is enough.
The more I write, the stronger I become — both as a writer and as a person.
A Final Reminder for Your Healing Journey
Keep a journal and use it every day. Private writing strengthens your voice and helps you grow as a writer. Be honest — even when the honesty feels small or petty. Those raw emotions are part of your healing, and facing them makes you wiser.
Writing is one of the most powerful tools for self‑reflection. When you write while you’re upset, you begin to understand yourself in new ways. You become gentler, stronger, and more grounded.
And most of all, enjoy the act of writing. When you find joy in the process, your writing becomes clearer, your heart becomes lighter, and your healing becomes deeper.
A mother steadies one child while another reaches for her at a busy neighborhood playground.
There are moments when news arrives so heavy that it drops you to the floor before you can even understand it. I remember one of those moments clearly. A friend called with a story so tragic that I sank, holding my head in my hands. Two young children had lost their mother and grandmother in a single day — and by nightfall, they had also lost their father. I knew this family. I had seen their ordinary days, their smiles, their hopes. And yet behind closed doors, something dark had been growing. As I listened, one thought echoed through my mind: This could be me one day.
People often ask what could drive a husband to harm his wife or his own family. They wonder whether bipolar disorder could cause such violence. But those questions only touch the surface. Violence rarely begins with the final act. It begins quietly, in small hidden moments, long before anyone else sees it. I learned this slowly, painfully, and in pieces.
One afternoon, a man knocked persistently on our door. My husband told me not to answer. His voice was sharp, tense. When the knocking continued, he shouted through the door, threatening to call the police. Only after the man left did he tell me the truth: he had broken into the man’s sleeper in his semi‑truck and beaten him with a tire iron. For three days he had listened to the radio, waiting to hear whether the man had lived or died. I stood there holding our tiny baby while our eighteen‑month‑old toddled around my feet, wondering how I had missed the signs. How had I not seen the depth of his anger? But violence rarely announces itself. It whispers. It hides. It tests what it can get away with.
Two years later, he burst into the house and demanded his gun. He said he was going to shoot his brother. I refused to hand it to him, but he got it anyway and stormed out. All three children were napping — a small mercy in a moment that could have changed everything. I called his family, and they came. Hours passed before the situation calmed. But the truth was already clear: his anger was not selective, not controlled, and not safe.
People often ask victims why they didn’t call their families for help. They don’t understand that abusers threaten the very people we love most. They know exactly how to keep us silent. And silence becomes a prison — a shield we hold up to protect others, and a weapon the abuser uses to continue their harm. Physical abuse leaves bruises, but emotional, psychological, and spiritual abuse leave wounds no one can see. These wounds reshape your sense of safety, your identity, and your ability to trust your own voice.
Domestic violence is not just an event. It is a dark force that grows in secrecy and silence. Survivors often sense the danger long before anyone else believes them. We feel the shift in the air. We hear the warning in our own bodies. We know, deep down, what our abuser is capable of — even when others insist, “He would never do that.” Sometimes, the quiet knowing inside a survivor is the only truth in the room.
I share this not to sensationalize pain, but to bring light to what is often hidden. To give voice to the fear so many women carry quietly. To remind survivors that their intuition is not an exaggeration — it is protection. And to gently say this: if you have ever felt that your partner could harm you or someone you love, that feeling deserves to be taken seriously. Your story matters. Your safety matters. Your voice matters, even if it trembled when you first tried to use it.
Domestic violence is not just about bruises. It is about the unseen, the unspoken, the spiritual weight that presses on a victim long before the world notices. Speaking it aloud is not weakness. It is the beginning of freedom.
An open journal, warm chai, and candle create an inviting space for quiet reflection.
Trauma can make everything feel tangled, so I write gently to untangle the knots. Putting my experiences into words helps me see them more clearly. Each sentence becomes a small step toward understanding, slowly replacing confusion and distress with calm, steady insight.
I chose to embrace my journey and gently reclaim my own story. I will not carry the name victim anymore. That title belongs to the past, not to who I am becoming. I am taking back the direction of my life, one steady step at a time.
This path is layered and sometimes overwhelming. Trauma can silence me without warning, yet I remain committed to speaking my truth. I know there will be difficult moments, but I am ready to meet them with courage, honesty, and a quiet determination that has been growing inside me for years.
I often forget the hardest parts of my past, and that makes it difficult to shape a clear story. Writing helps me slow down and remember. It lets me look closely at the moments I once pushed aside, bringing back the details in a way that feels safe and manageable.
As I move toward my final draft, I will write freely and truthfully, without worrying about hurting, angering, or embarrassing anyone. This is my story, and I am allowed to tell it with honesty and peace.
The traumatic events I lived through have shaped me in deep ways. They taught hard lessons and sparked meaningful changes in my life. Even though those experiences were painful, they helped grow resilience and compassion within. They show the complexity of my journey — how adversity can shape strength, and how healing can rise slowly from the most difficult places.
The first deep trauma in my life began when my father left my mother. He chose another woman who already had four children, and that decision reshaped how I understood relationships and trust. At fourteen, I stood in the middle of a large family — five older siblings and five younger ones, with the youngest barely two years old. That moment changed me, leaving an imprint on how I learned to navigate love and belonging. It shaped the way I understood connection, safety, and what it means to hold a place within a family.
Later, after I married, I faced domestic abuse from my spouse. Living through that reality forced me to confront the truth of abuse in a way I never imagined. It altered my understanding of safety and revealed the heavy cost of silence, teaching me how deeply courage is sometimes born from pain.
Trauma leaves its mark in ways that are often quiet and deeply personal. The fear and instability I lived through stayed with me, shaping how my body and mind respond to stress. There were times when the heaviness of those memories felt almost too much to carry, moments when I wasn’t sure how to keep moving forward. Even so, something within me kept reaching for steadiness, and I’m grateful for the part of me that refused to let go.
These experiences have changed me, but they have also revealed strengths I didn’t recognize at the time. The challenges I endured taught me to listen closely to my own needs, to seek out comfort and connection, and to trust that healing can unfold slowly. My journey continues to evolve, showing me that even after deep hurt, there can be room for hope, gentleness, and a future shaped by resilience rather than fear.
Writing about my trauma gives me space to breathe. It softens the weight of old emotions and helps me understand feelings I once overlooked, like anger, guilt, and resentment. By acknowledging what happened, I create room to move forward with steadiness.
When I write about painful memories, I need to move slowly. Taking my time allows me to revisit each moment with care instead of rushing past important details. Letting myself fully experience each emotion — even the subtle ones, like a familiar scent or a fleeting sensation — helps me stay present with my truth. Allowing these memories to surface gently permits me to follow my thoughts wherever they lead.
I am learning to accept what was, without forcing myself to hurry through it. Giving myself extra time on the page becomes a quiet act of healing, offering space for understanding to grow from within.
Many people have discovered that writing about difficult experiences can support their overall health. As emotions find their way onto the page, the body often responds with a sense of relief and steadiness. Knowing this encourages me, and it feels meaningful to pass that hope along to others who may be searching for their own way forward.
If something I write doesn’t quite fit my story, I can set it aside or let it go. My words are mine to keep or release, and I choose when I share them. That freedom gives me room to explore my experiences without pressure or expectation.
Some therapists suggest writing about trauma in the present tense, allowing the memories to come forward instead of staying locked in the past. Many people hold on to painful thoughts because facing them feels overwhelming. Bringing those moments into the present can help soften their intensity and make space for understanding.
Writing in the present tense can bring my experiences closer to the surface, allowing the emotions to feel more immediate and honest. It encourages me to write without filtering myself, to let my thoughts and feelings appear just as they are. I can always shape and refine my words later, but in the moment, I trust what rises naturally. This practice helps me stay connected to my own truth.
Using the present tense also deepens the healing process. It invites vulnerability, which can feel frightening, especially when I think about friends or family learning parts of my story they never knew. Even so, sharing my truth — at least with myself — is worth that fear.
Many people who have lived through trauma lose access to parts of their memories. The mind protects us by tucking away what feels too overwhelming to face. We don’t always understand everything that happened, and that’s okay. Writing gently and slowly helps me approach those hidden places with care, giving me room to uncover what I’m ready to see.
Some memories stay hidden for long stretches of time — months, years, even decades. Even when they feel distant or unreachable, they remain part of us, held quietly in the background until we’re ready to meet them again.
Two things help those memories return: recalling and recognizing. Writing becomes the first step, the act of reaching inward. As I continue to put words on the page, more pieces begin to surface. That is the recognition — the moment when forgotten fragments start to connect and settle into place.
Sometimes a small trigger can bring back what was once tucked away. Other times, the harder‑to‑reach memories appear slowly, rising as I keep writing with patience and care. Each sentence opens a gentle doorway, allowing me to explore my past at a pace that feels safe.
Memories can feel like scattered puzzle pieces — some fall easily into place, while others stay just out of reach. It helps to remember that this is part of the healing process. There’s no need to feel discouraged when certain details remain hidden. What matters most is paying attention to what rises within you now.
As I continue writing, my voice grows steadier. Each sentence strengthens my ability to express myself, and with that growth comes a deeper understanding of who I am. Writing not only improves my craft; it gently shapes me as a person, helping me move forward with clarity and compassion.
Hope Rising Through The Pieces:
There are a few simple truths I hold close as I continue writing. Putting my thoughts on the page becomes a quiet form of self‑reflection, especially when emotions feel heavy or unsettled.
Keeping a daily journal helps me stay connected to my inner world, allowing my writing to grow alongside me. Finding joy in the process matters, too — it softens the work and strengthens my voice.
And honesty remains at the heart of it all. The more genuine I am, the more clearly I can face my deepest emotions and learn from them, letting wisdom rise gently from within.
A clear mountain stream winds through a flower-filled alpine valley beneath rugged, snow-dusted peaks.
Life doesn’t stay the same. Some days feel bright and full of hope. Other days feel heavy, confusing, or tiring. We all face moments that stretch our hearts. No one gets a life without shadows or storms. Feeling overwhelmed doesn’t mean we’re failing. It simply means we’re human.
Even in those hard moments, we are not left to walk alone. Many people describe God as a steady, quiet presence — something calm and close. And even for those who aren’t sure what they believe, most have felt a small lift inside at some point: a bit of courage, a moment of peace, or the strength to take one more step. That gentle strength often comes exactly when we need it.
God gives us what we need for each day. Not all at once, but little by little. When life feels dark or confusing, His presence rises like a soft light within us. It doesn’t always remove the storm, but it helps us stand in it. And when we cannot see the path ahead, He guides us in ways we may not notice until later — through a thought, a person, a quiet moment, or a sense that we are not as alone as we feared.
His steady hand carries us. Whether someone has known God for years or is only beginning to wonder about Him, the promise is the same: strength will come for today, and tomorrow will meet us when it’s time.
A woodland path opens onto a glowing sunset over rolling fields and a tranquil lake.
Grief is one of the most powerful emotions we face. It can shake our routines, soften our confidence, and make life feel unfamiliar. But even though grief influences us, it does not decide our future. It does not get the final word.
As we move forward, we can choose to hold onto hope. We can look toward new possibilities and trust that we have the strength to shape the next chapter of our story. Hope doesn’t erase pain, but it reminds us that our lives still hold promise.
Even in the darkest seasons, God has the power to transform what feels unbearable. He walks with us through loss, offering comfort, clarity, and steady support. When grief shifts our world, we naturally reach for something dependable — and God becomes that anchor. He is the One who steadies us when everything else feels uncertain.
Your heavenly Father is your foundation. He is present in every moment of sorrow, every question, every long night. You are meant to lean on Him as your rock and fortress.
What’s remarkable is that God sees light even when we cannot. In the middle of grief, He is already working, already healing, already guiding. These challenging moments serve as fertile ground for deepening trust, allowing God to gently reshape our lives in profound ways.
The journey through grief can feel overwhelming, but hope remains. Good can rise from pain. Strength can grow from struggle.
Two Adirondack chairs and warm mugs overlook a misty mountain lake at sunrise.
Losing both parents in just three days is a kind of heartbreak that settles deep in your spirit. It’s a sorrow that changes you, and it reminds you how important it is to cherish every moment with the people you love.
In March 2009, one of my sisters and I flew to Vancouver for our dad’s heart surgery at St. Paul’s Hospital. The night before his operation, another sister called with news that shook us to the core — our mom, who was in a hospital in another province, was very unwell and didn’t have much time left. The weight of those two realities at once was almost too much to take in.
We immediately called our eight siblings so they would have the opportunity to visit Mom while she was still with us. When I phoned our youngest sister, she told me not to call so late — it was just after 11 PM her time — and then she hung up. In her mental state at the time, I don’t think she understood what she was saying. When I told my sister beside me, we both burst out laughing. It was such an unexpected reaction from someone so close to Mom, and that small moment of laughter was exactly what we needed to break the tension.
The next morning, Dad’s surgery went well. The doctors told us their biggest concern wasn’t the operation itself but his nearing congestive heart failure. Once he was stable, we booked the earliest flight back to Alberta to be with our Mom.
I will never forget how Dad cried when he realized we had to leave. Even though my parents had divorced nearly forty years earlier, he still had feelings for her. They had eleven children together — a lifetime of shared history. Seeing his emotion was strangely comforting.
My sister slept most of the way home — on the plane to Edmonton and again for three hours while I drove toward Valleyview Hospital. I was exhausted, and eventually I had to wake her to drive the last hour.
We reached Mom’s bedside around 5 AM. Later that morning, around 9:30, I called Dad to update him. Shortly after that call, Mom passed away.
The next day, two of my sisters phoned Dad to see how he was doing. His voice was already slurred, and he was beginning to retain fluid in his lungs.
While we were planning Mom’s funeral, Dad’s nurse called from Vancouver. She told us that if we wanted to see him, we needed to get there as soon as possible.
I arranged flights and a different sister, and I drove to Edmonton and flew back to Vancouver. We reached the hospital at 9:30 PM. Dad was unconscious, but we stayed with him until 1 AM. Exhausted from two sleepless nights, we found a room across the street from the hospital and rested for a few hours.
About four hours later, Dad’s nurse called us, and we rushed back to the hospital. We were able to talk to him briefly — and then he was gone.
It was one of the hardest weeks of my life. A week that taught me how fragile life is, how quickly everything can shift, and how important it is to hold close the people we love while we still can.
A sunlit afternoon tea is shared around a table adorned with a colorful flower bouquet and homemade treats.
Love shapes our lives in ways nothing else can. It’s the quiet strength that holds our relationships together and gives them meaning. When love is missing, life can feel scattered, heavy, or even a little empty. But when we choose to embrace love — to show it, to receive it, to let it guide how we treat others — something beautiful happens.
Love softens our interactions. It deepens our conversations. It helps us see people with kinder eyes and a gentler heart.
When we lead with love, our connections become real. They grow roots. They feel safe. They feel warm. And they remind us that we were never meant to walk through life alone — we were meant to walk together, supported by the steady, healing power of love.
Choosing love isn’t always easy, but it is always worth it because love turns ordinary relationships into meaningful ones and simple moments into lasting memories.
A woman embraces a peaceful sunset moment along a rugged coastal trail.
There are places where my whole being exhales — where peace doesn’t have to be chased, because it gently finds me.
I truly relax in moments like these:
Walking in Mother Nature, feeling sunshine warming my skin or light rain softly tapping against my shoulders. Whether the sky is sunny or misty, nature’s quiet rhythm helps me relax.
Sitting on the sand by a lake or the ocean, listening to the water’s soft, steady sound. The shoreline always smooths out my thoughts, eases my worries, and reminds me that calm is never far away.
Driving through the mountains, watching the peaks rise like ancient guardians. The winding roads, the deep forests, and the endless sky help me rise above the stress and mental clutter that usually fills my day.
These simple places restore me. They ground me. They remind me that rest is not something I earn — it’s something I’m allowed to receive.
Every time I return to these spaces, I feel myself coming home.
