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Road To Bright, 89 Centennial Olympic Park Drive NW, Atlanta, GA (2025)

12/09/2025

I was only seven years old when my childhood shifted in a way I could not understand. What should have been an age of innocence became a time marked by confusion, fear, and violations of trust from people who were supposed to love and protect me.

It began subtly, in ways that felt strange but not yet clearly wrong to my young mind. My father started crossing boundaries that no parent should ever cross. Little by little, those inappropriate actions escalated. He targeted moments when the house was quiet, when my mother and siblings were asleep, and used those opportunities to take advantage of my vulnerability. As a child, I didn’t have the language to describe what was happening—I only knew that something felt deeply wrong, and that I was afraid.

He used manipulation to keep me silent. He told me lies meant to confuse me and make me feel trapped. He suggested that no one would believe me if I spoke up, and that speaking out would cause chaos and heartbreak. For a child who already felt shy and quiet, that kind of psychological pressure was paralyzing. I began withdrawing into myself even more. It felt safer not to be noticed. It felt safer to stay small.

At one point, when I tried to resist his behavior, he reacted with anger and used threats to intimidate me. Facing that kind of fear from your own parent leaves a mark that is hard to put into words. It teaches you survival, but not in the way a child should ever need to learn it. It teaches you to hide your pain, to silence your voice, to carry burdens far too heavy for someone so young. As if that weren’t enough, another violation came from someone I should have been able to trust—one of my aunts. She crossed boundaries as well, reinforcing the belief that I had nowhere safe to turn. Layer after layer of betrayal built inside me, and I didn’t know where safety even existed.

Eventually, I found the courage to tell my mother. And when I did, she acted immediately. She didn’t question me, blame me, or hesitate. She got me out of that environment and sent me to live temporarily with another aunt—one I loved deeply and felt safe with. Only later did I learn that my older sister had also been subjected to the same abuse by our father. The truth was heartbreaking, but it also confirmed something important: I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t alone.

The emotional weight of my childhood followed me into my teenage years and adulthood. I began searching for love and acceptance in relationships that weren’t healthy, trying to fill the void that trauma had carved out inside me. I didn’t know how to heal. I didn’t know how to feel whole or worthy or safe. I didn’t understand what healthy love looked like, because for years, I had learned the opposite.

But everything changed when I decided to fully surrender my pain to Christ. I realized that healing wasn’t something I could achieve by my own strength. It required grace. It required releasing the shame that was never mine to carry. It required letting God rebuild parts of me that had been broken for far too long.

God blessed me with a husband who loves me in the way I always needed but never thought I would find. He is gentle, patient, supportive, and deeply grounded in faith. He prays for me and prays to love me the right way. He encourages me to share my story with others, not from a place of pity, but from a place of purpose. He sees who I am beyond the trauma—and he loves me wholeheartedly.

My past was painful, and there are parts of it that will always carry weight. But I wouldn’t erase it, because it shaped me into someone strong, compassionate, and determined to help others. Today, I feel called to speak out—especially to children who feel afraid to use their voice. I want to visit schools and let young people know that speaking up is not betrayal. It is bravery. It is protection. It is survival.

We must continue sharing our stories, because silence breeds more silence. And silence is where abuse hides.

I am a survivor.
I am no longer living in fear.
And it was my faith—my unwavering faith in God—that carried me through the darkest chapters of my life and led me into healing, peace, and purpose.

12/09/2025

The first time my boundaries were violated was when I was only eight years old, and it happened at the hands of my own sister. Back then, we would build forts in our shared bedroom—blankets draped over chairs, pillows piled into corners, the kind of innocent world children are supposed to feel safe in. I trusted her, and I didn’t understand that trust could be misused. One day inside one of those forts, she crossed a line I didn’t have words for. I just remember the confusion, the fear rising in my chest, and the tears I couldn’t hold back because something felt deeply wrong, even if I couldn’t name it.

This continued for years. I didn’t know what was happening, only that it made me uncomfortable and scared. By the time I was eleven, I finally understood that what she was doing wasn’t just confusing—it was wrong. I threatened to tell our parents, but the truth is, I never found the courage to say the words out loud. I didn’t want to break their hearts or cause chaos in our family. My mother passed away never knowing, and even now, I don’t think I could ever bring myself to tell my father.

As I grew older, I eventually learned that my sister had been hurt too—abused by one of our aunts. Suddenly things made sense in a heartbreaking way. That same aunt’s children—our cousins—also took advantage of me when I was young. They were older, and I trusted them, the way children trust the world around them. They used that trust against me. I still didn’t understand what any of it meant; I just knew it didn’t feel right.

But nothing compares to the trauma I experienced with an older male cousin—something that still shakes me to this day. We lived out in the country, where everyone knew everyone and kids played outside without fear. One day we were getting ready to go skating at a small local rink. There was a little shed where we kept our skates, a place that should have been harmless.

But when we stepped inside, everything changed.

He shut the door behind us and blocked my way out. There was a moment—just a few seconds—when I realized something terrible was about to happen, and I felt completely powerless. He had a weapon with him, and he used it to threaten me, to overwhelm me, to control me. He attacked me with a level of violence no child should ever face. I remember the panic, the helplessness, the pain, and the terror of knowing he was capable of killing me. He threatened my family, too, and that fear alone kept me silent.

What he did left me injured, terrified, and barely conscious. At one point, he tried to take my life. I still don’t know why the weapon didn’t fire. Maybe luck, maybe fate, maybe something bigger than me was watching. When that failed, he turned to beating me, determined to finish what he had started.

I would have died there if someone passing by hadn’t heard me. They found me unable to stand, unable to get myself out. I went home shattered, inside and out. But even then, I still couldn’t tell my parents the truth. I didn’t go to the hospital. I told them a story about being attacked by strangers, and they believed it—because the real truth felt unbelievable, even to me.

To this day, I have never spoken these truths out loud to another human being. Writing them now feels like reopening wounds I’ve kept buried for most of my life. It hurts. It shakes me. It feels like reliving things I never wanted to remember.

I still ask myself what I did to deserve any of it. I still fight feelings of shame and embarrassment that should never have belonged to me in the first place. I was a child. A child who was hurt by people who should have protected me, cared for me, loved me.

But as painful as it is to write this, there is strength in naming what happened—even if it is only here, in this moment. You deserve compassion. You deserve healing. And you deserve to know that none of this was your fault.

12/09/2025

My story begins in a place of hardship, confusion, and circumstances no child should ever have to face. I experienced sexual abuse from both my father and my stepfather at very young ages. I share this not to shock anyone, but to acknowledge the reality of my past and to show that healing, hope, and strength are possible, even after experiences that deeply wound the heart.

When I was little, my mother was serving in the Army. She worked long hours and carried the weight of providing for our family. My father stayed home to watch me, but the environment I grew up in was unstable. There was heavy drinking, drug use, and a level of chaos that made the home unsafe. I was extremely young, so many of the memories from that time are vague or difficult to access, but what I do remember — and what I later learned — showed that I endured things no child should endure.

Eventually, my father was taken to jail for unrelated lifestyle choices. That event pushed my mom to move us to New Mexico, hoping we would find a fresh start. She remarried, hoping life would improve. But instead of safety, my sister and I found ourselves in another harmful situation. For several years, my stepfather acted in ways that were deeply wrong and inappropriate toward both of us. It created fear, confusion, and silence — the kind of silence children keep when they feel trapped and don’t know how to ask for help.

Everything began to change when I was given an opportunity to speak to a school counselor. For reasons I still believe were guided by God, I chose to open up about what was happening at home. That moment took courage I didn’t even know I had. Because I spoke the truth, my sister and I were removed from that environment and placed into foster care. We stayed with the same foster family on two separate occasions over the course of a year while the adults worked through the situation.

Eventually, my mother left my stepfather and moved us to California. She did everything she could to support us as a single parent, but after she suffered an injury at work, she could no longer manage physically or financially. With limited choices, she made the difficult decision to send us to live with our biological father in Texas — who had re-established his life and promised never to harm me again.

Although he did not hurt me physically at that point, the emotional environment was still difficult. I carried years of trauma with me. I struggled silently with bulimia, shame, confusion, and a deep sense of being overwhelmed. I didn’t know how to help myself, and I felt like I was constantly failing everyone around me. Emotionally, I was exhausted and felt disconnected from who I wanted to become.

But life shifted when I graduated high school and visited relatives in Arizona. During that visit, I was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My heart felt something different there — something peaceful, hopeful, and healing. The Church became a turning point in my life. It offered me stability, guidance, community, and a sense of purpose I had never experienced before.

Through my faith, I began to understand that I was not defined by what had been done to me. I learned that I could build a future that looked nothing like my past. I discovered that I could be a wife, a mother, and a woman with a meaningful identity. I learned that forgiveness was possible — not to excuse what happened, but to free myself from carrying pain that did not belong to me.

For the first time, I understood that God knew me, saw me, and loved me. That truth helped break the chains that trauma had wrapped around my life for so long.

Today, I share my story because I want others to know they aren’t alone. If you have been abused, hurt, silenced, or made to feel powerless, please hear this:

Speak up.
You deserve to be safe.
You deserve support.
You deserve healing.

There are people who will listen.
There are people who will protect you.
There are safe places where you can begin again.

And above everything else, there is a loving God in Heaven who wants you to feel peace, joy, and wholeness. He walks with you, even when your path feels dark or overwhelming.

If you need someone who understands trauma, fear, and the long process of healing, I’m here. I won’t claim to have all the answers, but I can be a friend, a listener, and a source of encouragement.

You are not alone.
Your story matters.
Your healing matters.
And your life can become something beautiful. 🌿💛🙏

12/08/2025

My story isn’t easy to tell, but I’ve learned that silence only protects the people who hurt me.

By the time I was a young teenager, I had already been taken advantage of by different people—people who were supposed to be safe, familiar, or trusted. That history made me vulnerable in ways I didn’t understand yet.

When I was fourteen, someone I thought of as practically family crossed a line that changed everything. He was older, someone connected to my sister, someone everyone saw as “the fun adult.” He used playfulness and joking around as a way to get close to me. Looking back now, it was grooming. At the time, it just felt normal.

One evening, while I was babysitting at a relative’s home, he called asking for someone who wasn’t there. That’s how he learned it was just me and the kids. Minutes later, he showed up. I opened the door without hesitation—I knew him, trusted him, and had no reason to fear him.

He coaxed me into the bedroom under the same “play-wrestling” excuse he had used before. But this time, once he had me exactly where he wanted me, everything changed. What happened next wasn’t violent in the way people imagine, but it was still a violation—still a theft of something that should have belonged to me to give by choice. When I whispered “ouch,” he stopped, but the damage was already done.

I went to the bathroom afterward and saw blood. I didn’t understand everything, but I understood enough to know he took something from me that I could never get back—my ability to choose my first experience, my ability to say yes or no, my control over my own body.

I locked myself in the room with the kids until my relative came home. I didn’t say a word. I had already learned from earlier experiences with others that telling didn’t feel safe.

But it didn’t stop there.

Later, at fourteen, a woman in her thirties befriended me after seeing me dance at a community event. She flattered me, encouraged me, dressed like the “cool older person,” and even got close to my mother to gain more access. At the time, it felt like being seen. At eighteen, when I stayed at her house, I found out what her intentions had really been. She waited until we were sharing a bed to make her move.

Then there was the man I met while working a fast-food job. He approached me talking about ways to increase income. He seemed professional, confident, safe. When I visited the furniture shop where he worked, he started explaining things normally—until he suddenly stood up, walked toward me, and slid his hands under my shirt. I froze completely. Not a word came out. I’m not sure I even breathed. He only stopped because a customer walked in.

I didn’t run because I was brave. I ran because I was ashamed—ashamed that even as an older teen, I still couldn’t speak up. I cried the entire ride home, furious with myself for not stopping him, even though none of it was my fault.

Out of everything I’ve endured—being exploited, groomed, touched, violated—the moment in that furniture store hit the hardest. Not because it was the most extreme, but because I was old enough to understand what was happening… and I still felt powerless. It made me realize how deeply my earlier trauma had shaped me, how silence had become my survival instinct.

I never told anyone back then. Not about him. Not about the woman. Not about the man I had trusted like family.

And that’s why I’m telling it now.

Because silence didn’t protect me—
it only protected the people who hurt me.

Because speaking, even years later, is a step toward reclaiming what I lost.

Because there are others out there who have lived through things they can’t even say out loud yet.

If that’s you:
You deserved better.
You were not at fault.
And your voice still matters.

Even if it shakes.
Even if it comes decades later.
Even if you were afraid back then.

You still deserve healing. ❤️

12/08/2025

I grew up carrying a secret that no child should ever have to carry.

From my earliest memories, I was being hurt by someone who should have protected me—my older sibling. The confusion, fear, and shame I felt as a child never left me, even after the behavior stopped. They moved out when I was around ten, but the damage stayed behind. It lived in my body, in my dreams, and in the way I saw myself.

I tried telling someone once—another family member—when I was in elementary school. The reaction I got made it clear:
I was not allowed to speak about it.
So I stayed silent for decades.

The pain didn’t stay silent, though. It followed me through every season of my life. Nightmares, flashbacks, that heavy sorrow that never lifted no matter how hard I tried. By the time I was in my twenties, I had tried more than a dozen antidepressants. Nothing helped. The sadness stayed. The confusion stayed. The feeling of being broken stayed.

I didn’t fully unravel until I reached my forties. That’s when everything I had pushed down finally demanded to be faced.

Instead of compassion, I was met with cruelty from the person I needed comfort from most—my mother. She blamed me. She said if I “really wanted her to stop it, I should have said something louder.” She insisted that her beloved son—the same person who ended up on the registry for harming others—was being victimized by me.

It was like being hurt all over again.

But here’s the part I want people to hear:

Telling the truth still saved me.

It didn’t erase the years I lost. It didn’t give me back the childhood I deserved.
But it unlocked something inside me that had been trapped for too long.

Slowly, painfully, I began to grow.

I started therapy. I met people with compassion. I learned that what happened to me did not define me. And the more I healed, the more I realized that the empathy I carry today—the ability to truly understand others in pain—came from surviving something that tried to destroy me.

Fast-forward ten years to today:

I’m not the same person I used to be.
I’m stronger. Softer. Wiser.
I understand people in a way I never could have without the journey I’ve been forced to walk.

And I’ve been able to help others heal too—something that brings a kind of meaning that I never expected.

I still have work to do. Healing doesn’t end, but it does get easier. It gets lighter. And for anyone who has been holding onto their pain in silence, please hear this:

**It is never too late to tell someone.

It is never too late to start healing.**

You already know how painful it is to hold it all inside.
You deserve the chance to breathe again.
You deserve freedom.
You deserve peace.

Even the smallest steps will move you forward—and there are so many of us in this world who will hold out a hand and walk beside you.

Healing gives back more than trauma ever took. ❤️

12/08/2025

I was very young when the man my mother was seeing began crossing boundaries no adult should ever cross with a child.

I was nine when my mother started dating someone new. She had just separated from my father after months of secrecy and tension in our home. Almost immediately after the breakup, she packed up and moved my twin sister and me into her new boyfriend’s apartment across town. Everything happened fast, and my sister and I were left confused, scared, and trying to make sense of why our family had fallen apart overnight.

Because my mom worked long hours—sometimes two jobs—we spent more time alone with her boyfriend than with anyone else. Slowly, the lines between “caretaker” and “predator” blurred. He found reasons to separate my sister and me, isolating us one at a time, and taking us into rooms where no child should have been left alone with him. It became routine. Expected. Normalized. And worst of all, allowed.

What hurt even more was how my mother responded. At night, he would make requests that no adult with pure intentions would make regarding children—and she allowed them without hesitation. My sister and I were children desperately in need of protection, and instead we were handed over to a man who used our vulnerability against us.

We later moved into a house with his extended family. That’s when another layer of confusion and betrayal began. A younger girl in the home started behaving inappropriately with me, and I never spoke up. I had already learned that my mom's affection was selective—she seemed to care more about that girl than she cared about her own daughters. So I stayed silent, believing that if I spoke, I would be abandoned even more.

The boyfriend also had older nephews and friends who often stayed over. They were teenagers, and they treated my sister and me like objects instead of children. The atmosphere in that house made us feel like we didn’t have ownership over our own bodies. We were never safe.

The abuse from my mother’s boyfriend continued until I was thirteen.

One afternoon, while visiting my dad, he looked at me with a sadness I will never forget. He gently asked if my mother’s boyfriend had ever touched me or my sister in a way that made us uncomfortable. He saw the change in us—our fear, our withdrawal, our silence around the topic of home.

I lied. I told him everything was fine.
I can still see the heartbreak in his eyes.

A couple of weeks later, my dad died suddenly of a heart attack. I carried the guilt of that lie for years, convinced that if I had told him the truth, something might have been different.

After he passed, my sister and I spent more time with a friend’s family who took us in often. I thought I was safe there. I confided in the friend’s mother and her partner about what had been happening at home, believing they would protect me. Instead, the man who knew my story became yet another adult who took advantage of my vulnerability. I didn’t think my heart could break again, but it did.

My mom never once acknowledged what was happening in her home. I never told her directly, but I am certain she knew. There was an incident—one she pretended not to see—and she still went to work as if nothing was wrong.

Years later, when I married and finally shared everything with my husband, he stood by me with compassion and righteous anger. During an argument, he confronted my mom with the truth. Her reaction was emotionless. Cold. Detached. She dismissed everything as “whatever you think happened.” She never apologized. Never took responsibility. Never acknowledged the pain she let into our childhood.

I’m 31 now, and by the grace of God, I’ve come a long way in healing. I am not the scared child I once was. I am a woman who survived loss, betrayal, generational wounds, and the kind of trauma that tries to destroy you from the inside out.

I have forgiven, because forgiveness set me free.
But forgetting? That’s something I will never do.

12/05/2025

My story began before I even understood the world around me. I was just a small child when someone who should have represented safety, wisdom, and faith became the person I feared most. My step-grandfather was known as a minister — a respected figure, a man who preached about obedience, righteousness, and family values. But behind closed doors, he twisted those teachings into tools of control. He often repeated Scripture in a tone that made it sound like my silence was a requirement, not a choice. I didn’t have the words to question him; I only had fear, confusion, and a sinking feeling that something was terribly wrong.

He controlled everything, even the places that were supposed to belong to me — my room, my privacy, my peace. It was a childhood lived in constant alertness, bracing for moments I didn’t yet know how to name. At church, he appeared holy and harmless. People saw him as a moral leader. But every Sunday, after service, I was expected to hug him in front of everyone. What looked like affection to the world felt like a reminder to me that he held power wherever we went. That public display was never about love — it was about dominance.

My grandmother worked tirelessly, helping families through her job with Head Start, often unaware of what was happening when she wasn’t home. He knew how to take advantage of those moments, and afterward, he would try to “reward” my silence in ways that felt even more confusing. At a young age, I learned how manipulation works — how people in power can twist kindness into currency, and silence into a transaction.

But my grandmother eventually saw what my voice was too scared to say. She noticed the way I shrank when he stood near me, the way I avoided his eyes, the way my spirit dulled around him. Her intuition became my doorway to safety. When she confronted him, his mask slipped — not enough for him to admit the truth, but enough for her to see the depth of the harm done. Her courage was the first step toward my healing.

As I grew older, I refused to let the trauma define the entirety of my future. I made a choice — not to forget, but to transform. I used the same power he tried to take from me and turned it into purpose.

Today, I am an educator, an entrepreneur, an author, and a mother of two incredible boys. I use my voice boldly — to empower, to protect, and to break cycles he believed would stay unbroken. I’ve written about my journey. I’ve created a community called Gumbo for the Soul – Butterfly Circle, where survivors can support each other and where no one has to heal in silence ever again.

After 41 years of unanswered questions about my identity, something beautiful happened: God restored what was missing. I reconnected with my biological father, and together we now co-host a podcast that brings truth and healing into conversations families usually avoid. It has become one of the greatest blessings of my life.

And now I speak to you —
To the child who feels scared and unheard: I believe you.
To the adult carrying secrets that were never yours to carry: your truth deserves freedom.
To every parent: believe your children the very first time.
To survivors: you are not to blame. You are not broken. You are worthy of healing, love, and restoration.
To those causing harm: stop, seek help, and take responsibility.

You do not have to heal alone.
There is power in speaking.
There is peace in healing.
There is hope for every survivor.

12/04/2025

🙏 GREAT NEWS UPDATE 🙏

After days of searching and community concern, 4-year-old Nevin Powell, who was last seen on December 2, 2025, has officially been found safe, according to the Milwaukee Police Department.

This has been an incredibly emotional time for Nevin’s family, friends, neighbors, and everyone who followed his story. The outpouring of support—from people sharing posts, keeping an eye out, contacting authorities, and spreading awareness—played a huge role in helping bring him home.

Situations like this remind us how powerful a community can be when everyone comes together for a child’s safety. Every share, every message, and every prayer mattered. Nevin’s family is deeply grateful for the love shown during this difficult moment.

Thank you to the Milwaukee Police Department for their quick response and dedication, and thank you to every person who refused to give up hope. 💛

Tonight, Nevin is safe—and that is the blessing we were all hoping and praying for. 🙏✨

12/04/2025

🚨🚨 MISSING TEEN ALERT — CROSSVILLE, TN 🚨🚨
Alicia Mendale Brown, a 17-year-old girl from Crossville, Tennessee, has been missing since November 20, 2025. Her disappearance has left her family extremely worried, and investigators believe she may be in the Chattanooga, TN area.

Alicia is described as:
– Age: 17
– Height: 5'5"
– Weight: 125 lbs
– Hair: Brown
– Eyes: Brown

No additional details about her clothing or direction of travel have been released, making public awareness especially important.

If you have seen Alicia or know anything that may help locate her, please contact Detective Harthun with the Crossville Police Department at 931-484-6176 or 931-484-7231 immediately.

Please share this alert. Your post could reach the one person who knows something — and help bring Alicia home safely.

12/03/2025

💔 One moment. One choice. One heartbreaking mistake.
That’s all it took for an ordinary day to become a lifelong source of pain for one Texas family.

Five-year-old Emilio was doing what so many children do — riding in the backseat with the uncle he absolutely adored.
To him, it was just another fun ride.
A chance to be with someone he trusted completely.
A moment filled with laughter, innocence, and the simple joy only a child can bring to a car ride.

But in a single split second… everything changed.

Police say the car attempted to cross the tracks as a train approached.
No anger.
No malice.
Just a decision that, like so many tragedies in life, happened far too fast to undo.

And that moment became the one that would alter every heartbeat, every breath, every future plan this family had.

Emilio never made it home.

And his uncle — a man who loved that little boy as if he were his own — now wakes up each morning carrying a weight no human heart is built to bear.
His charge exists on paper…
but his real punishment is internal, silent, and lifelong.

Emilio’s father spoke words that cut straight to the soul:

“My brother is already living a life sentence.”

This family isn’t asking for anger.
They’re not asking for blame, attacks, or judgment.
They’ve already lost too much.

They’re asking for something far more difficult,
yet far more healing:

✨ Compassion
✨ Understanding
✨ Grace
✨ Prayers for strength as they face the unimaginable

So today, hold space for them:

🙏 For parents standing in the doorway of a little boy’s empty bedroom
🙏 For an uncle crushed under the weight of a mistake he can never take back
🙏 For a family trying to breathe through grief that feels endless
🙏 And for sweet Emilio — a bright, joyful child whose memory will forever be a guiding light in the darkness

May his laughter echo in their hearts.
May his spirit carry them on the days they can’t carry themselves.
May love be louder than judgment.
May healing come gently.
Rest in peace, precious Emilio.
🕊️💛 You were loved — deeply, fiercely, endlessly.

Road To Bright

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