My Testimony

I didn’t grow up with safety. I grew up navigating chaos—emotional, physical, spiritual. My earliest lessons weren’t about love or laughter. They were about survival. Abuse wasn’t a one-time thing. It was layered. Repeated. Sometimes from people who were supposed to protect me. Other times from strangers who didn’t even know my name. By the time I was old enough to name my trauma, I had already survived more than most people talk about in a lifetime.

I wasn’t just a runaway—I was kicked out. Discarded. Forced to figure out life on my own before I was even fully grown. I experienced sex trafficking. I experienced violation from family members, neighbors, and strangers long before the word “trauma” entered my vocabulary.

I was in and out of juvenile detention centers, including Caliente Youth Facility. I was also a participant at Mingus Mountain Academy in Prescott, Arizona—a therapeutic boarding school for girls like me, who didn’t just need discipline, but healing. I cycled through psychiatric hospitals like Montevista and Spring Mountain Treatment Facility, and programs like WestCare in Las Vegas. I was shuffled through broken systems that sometimes helped—but mostly just tried to contain me.

And yet—I still made it out.

I graduated at 15 and a half while at Caliente. That didn’t erase what I’d been through, but it proved I was never just a product of my pain—I was a force of purpose waiting to be remembered.

I was expelled and kicked out of multiple schools for fighting, acting out, and expressing the only emotion I knew how to—rage. I had authority issues. I got arrested. I harmed myself. I struggled with suicidal ideations and attempts that I don’t romanticize—I survived them. I struggled with binge drinking. I tried drugs I can’t even remember. I grieved my best friend when heroin took her life. And through it all, I became a mother at 18—abandoned and homeless, with no roadmap and no safety net.

My mother kicked me and my daughter out. I was forced to survive in a new state, in a world that felt both unfamiliar and unforgiving. I bounced from place to place. Slept where I could. But I knew deep down—this wasn’t sustainable. Something had to change. That season of rock bottom became the turning point. I didn’t want to just survive—I wanted to live. I wanted to build.

Las Vegas raised me, but it didn’t define me. The trauma I experienced there—the instability, the family dysfunction, the pain—forced me to confront my identity and ask: who am I, really? And why am I here?

I was raised in dysfunction—an alcoholic father and a deeply abusive mother. I didn’t grow up with softness. I grew up with resilience. But I knew there had to be more. I’ve walked through fire and came out with clarity. I’ve broken cycles I never asked to be born into. I’ve turned pain into purpose—not because it’s pretty, but because it’s necessary.

Now, I’m a mother of two. And everything I do—from my mentorship work to the podcast I host, to how I show up in my community—is rooted in purpose and impact.

I lead workshops, mentor one-on-one, speak to youth and survivors, and create spaces where truth is welcomed and healing is possible. Whether I’m behind a mic or showing up in real life, I’m building safe spaces for people to rewrite their stories and remember their worth.

I don’t tell my story for applause. I tell it so someone else knows they’re not alone. So the girl sitting in silence, the boy no one checks on, the survivor who still doesn’t have the words—can see what’s possible when you keep going.

Everything I’ve built is for them. For you. For us.

I’m not here to perform pain—I’m here to create space for transformation. Whether it’s through my podcast, my books, one-on-one mentorship, or the workshops I’m building—I show up so others can rise.

I believe in the power of voice, the power of healing, and the power of reclaiming your story on your terms.

This isn’t just my testimony.

It’s a living invitation:

To speak truth.

To heal loud.

To come home to yourself—without shame.

I’m not here to be the hero of the story.

I’m here to hold the mic while you become the author of yours.