Beautiful cabin but not a realistic “safe house” in a city.
In May of 1989, my three children and I walked into A Safe Place — the Strathcona Shelter Society in Sherwood Park, Alberta. For women and children escaping violence, it is far more than a shelter. It is a lifeline: an emergency refuge, a crisis line, and a community determined to end domestic abuse. It is the kind of place where fear finally loosens, and hope begins to breathe again.
We stayed there for three weeks while I searched for a home of our own. I eventually found an apartment in Edmonton where my children and I could start fresh. I kept working my part‑time teller’s job at the bank until September, and with government support, I completed a one‑month word‑processing course.
After that, I applied for administrative work through a temporary agency, where I soon secured a full‑time position. I continued rebuilding my life one small, determined step at a time.
Within that year, I divorced my spouse. It was not a joyful moment — I was deeply sad — and that sadness made the choice I faced months later feel easier than it should have.
As the children continued seeing their dad, things between him and me began to shift slowly. During this time, JP asked if we could try again. Even though our relationship had been very unhealthy before, I agreed.
My children’s dad said we would put the kids into Strathcona Christian Academy, and at the time, that sounded promising — like maybe things could finally change.
A pastor at the church affiliated with the Academy encouraged reconciliation, but not an immediate return. His guidance was clear: we needed counselling, time, and proper support before making any decisions.
Like many women who hope for change, I wanted to believe things could be different. Instead of following his recommendation, we got back together right away. As many women learn, hope alone cannot transform an unsafe situation.
Many things happened before this and after, but I choose not to go into detail here — not on my blog and not on Facebook. What matters most is the truth that every woman’s journey is deeply personal, and every step toward safety is courageous.
I share this to remind every woman reading: new beginnings are real. A shelter is not a sign of failure. It is a sign of courage. It is a place where you gather strength, steady your breath, and take your first steps toward safety.
If you are living in fear today, please hear me clearly: you are not alone. There are people and places ready to help you, just as they helped me.
Your future can be peaceful, healthy, and free. Every small action you take — reaching out, asking for help, choosing safety — is an act of profound strength.
You deserve protection. You deserve calm. You deserve a life where you and your children can thrive. I walked this road, and I stand with you as you begin yours.
I also want to share one more truth: this was not the last time I left. In reality, it took eighteen attempts before I finally walked away for good — and by then, our children were grown and married. I don’t say this to judge myself, but to be honest about how complicated and painful these situations can be.
I can only encourage you, ladies, not to repeat my pattern. If you leave because of abuse, stay out and do not return. The “safe” period that follows is usually brief, and the cycle almost always begins again. Your safety, your peace, and your future are worth protecting the very first time you step away.
Stepping stones lead across a misty lake toward the warm glow of sunrise.
“Anyone who lets himself be distracted from the work I plan for him is not fit for the Kingdom of God.”
Luke 9:62
There are days when I feel the Lord quietly drawing my attention back to what truly matters. His plans for my life are good and purposeful, yet I can so easily drift into the noise and pull of everything around me. Distractions don’t always arrive loudly — sometimes they slip in gently, almost unnoticed, until my heart feels scattered.
The enemy works hard to keep us unfocused. He would rather see us tangled in worry, busyness, or confusion than walking in the simple, steady path God has prepared. And in the world we live in, distractions seem to multiply.
Sometimes it shows up in people‑pleasing — when I begin caring more about what others expect than what God desires. Their voices grow louder, and His becomes quieter, not because He stops speaking, but because my attention wanders.
Sometimes even the simple joys in my life can quietly take up more space than they should. Hobbies and interests are good gifts, yet when they begin to overshadow what nourishes my spirit, they gently pull my heart away from the work God is forming in me.
Sometimes the past becomes a soft distraction — whether through longing for what used to be or carrying regrets that feel heavy. Either way, it can blur the beauty of what God is offering today. The past may feel familiar, even comforting, but it can quietly hold a person back when it draws their focus away from His tender work in the present.
Distractions come in many forms. Yet God’s invitation remains simple and kind: lift your eyes, steady your heart, and trust the path He is unfolding right now.
What distractions try to pull your heart away from the quiet, beautiful work God is doing in you today?
A mossy forest path winds from a shadowy rainstorm into warm golden sunlight.
God did not promise sun without rain,
Light without darkness or joy without pain.
He only promised strength for the day,
When the darkness comes and we lose our way.
HELEN STEINER RICE
Please note: I’m sharing these words today—written by Helen Steiner Rice—because they’ve stayed with me for a long time. They’re printed on a small bookmark I’ve kept close, and over the years they’ve come to hold a quiet, tender meaning in my life.
A carefully balanced stack of stones rests beside a flower-filled stream beneath a bright mountain sky.
A positive mindset, caring relationships, and steady personal growth help build lasting happiness. People who stay joyful listen patiently, share openly, and show kindness in everyday moments. When we learn to balance our thoughts, feelings, and responsibilities, we start creating our own joy instead of waiting for it to appear.
Life teaches us through both the good moments and the difficult ones. Every experience—whether uplifting or painful—carries a lesson that can guide us toward a more meaningful and fulfilling path. When we pause long enough to reflect, we often discover that even our hardest seasons have shaped us in ways that help us grow.
I believe in staying positive and looking for the bright side, even when life gets messy. No matter how tough things get, I work hard to stay hopeful and grounded. Living this way reminds me how powerful a positive outlook can be, especially when life feels uncertain.
Positive thinking doesn’t mean ignoring our struggles. It means facing them with a “can‑do” spirit and believing that we can move forward, even if the steps are small. Grateful people thrive because they notice the quiet joys that show up throughout the day—a warm cup of tea, a kind word, a moment of peace.
Gratitude strengthens our happiness and deepens our relationships. When we show appreciation to the people who lift us, it encourages them to keep shining—and it also helps us feel more appreciative. Gratitude is a gentle cycle that keeps giving back.
When we recognize the good in our lives and reflect honestly on our challenges, we shift our focus away from negativity. This practice shows our personal growth and reminds us of our strength, resilience, and ability to find joy again, even after difficult seasons.
Happy people often embrace change because they see life as a journey filled with opportunities to grow. They care for their physical, emotional, and mental well‑being in simple, meaningful ways—resting when needed, staying connected to others, and finding small moments that bring peace or laughter.
A growth mindset helps us see failures as lessons instead of roadblocks. Everyone faces setbacks, but people who choose joy use those moments to learn, adjust, and move forward with new strength. They know that real growth often comes from the very places that once felt overwhelming.
Happiness is personal. It looks different for each of us.
You can build lasting happiness by nurturing a positive mindset, valuing meaningful relationships, and focusing on your own growth. Protect what truly matters and let go of what no longer serves your peace.
These gentle steps can help you move through life’s turning points with resilience, gratitude, and purpose. You’re stronger than you realize, and every new day gives you another chance to grow.
Your children learn from the way you grow. When they see you stay hopeful, practice gratitude, and keep moving forward through life’s turning points, it teaches them how to face their own challenges with courage. Your growth becomes their example, and your joy becomes something they can carry into their own future.
A rustic path winds through sunlit countryside toward a cozy cottage beneath dramatic evening clouds.
To every woman living in abuse today, I speak this over you:
You were not created for fear. You were created for peace, for dignity, and for a life where your spirit can breathe again.
God sees your tears. He sees your strength. He sees the quiet hope you still carry, even in the dark.
May His courage rise in you like a small, steady flame. May His comfort wrap around you and give you room to breathe. May His hope whisper that your life is meant for more than surviving pain.
You are worthy of love that does not wound. You are worthy of safety, gentleness, and respect. You are not invisible, and you are not forgotten.
God is calling you toward a tomorrow where you can walk freely, rest safely, and feel love that never turns into fear.
Hold onto that truth. Let it guide you toward escape, toward healing, and toward the life He longs for you.
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.
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 woman and two children walk hand-in-hand along a sunlit garden path surrounded by greenery.
Dear Moms and or Single Ladies,
If you’re feeling scared, tired, or overwhelmed by a difficult situation at home, I want you to know you’re not alone.A woman and two children walk hand-in-hand along a sunlit garden path surrounded by greenery.
It’s okay to recognize that something isn’t right. Your fear might be hidden, but your kids can sense it. They’re learning to navigate chaos, and it’s not your fault; it’s the result of someone else’s choices.
You have more power than you realize. Each small step you take towards safety sends a message to your children: pain isn’t love, and being brave is possible.
Begin with small, steady actions: talk to a trusted friend, reach out to a counsellor, and write down what’s happening so you can see it clearly. Let yourself acknowledge that the situation isn’t okay, and from that honesty, start planning a safe path of escape.
These are not signs of weakness; they are brave steps towards clarity and safety. Remember, going back teaches tolerance for suffering, while even small steps towards leaving show your kids that safety matters.
If you have faith, know that it encourages safety and peace. If not, remember you deserve both just as you are.
Change takes time, and it’s okay to take small steps. I understand the journey; I’ve been there too. At 72, I now live a joyful, peaceful life after years of struggle.
It’s not too late for you. You’re not alone. Your kids need your bravery, and you deserve your own peace. Take just one small step today, and you’ll start to see the path forward.
I believe in you and your strength. You’ve got this!A woman enjoys a restful nap on the couch while her cat sleeps nearby under a cozy blanket.
She inhaled freedom by the lake as the sunset closed the chapter of her pain.
