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MY STORY, 756 Yale Street, Los Angeles, East Los Angeles, CA (2025)

11/30/2025

When I was six years old, something happened that no child should ever have to face. Someone in my own family — someone I was supposed to feel safe around — violated my trust and my innocence. In that moment, I lost more than my voice; I lost a part of myself that I didn’t yet understand. I was pushed into experiences far beyond what a child’s mind could handle, and it left me confused, afraid, and ashamed. Even though I didn’t have the language for what happened, the impact stayed with me. I learned to keep quiet, to swallow my pain, and to protect the very people who should have protected me.

Growing up, that silence became a heavy mask I learned to wear every day. I built walls so tall that even I couldn’t see over them. I learned to hide my feelings, to disconnect from my own body, and to pretend I was okay. Inside, I felt unworthy, unseen, and unloved. I believed my value came only from pleasing others, especially men, because that early trauma twisted my understanding of love, affection, and acceptance. Being a preacher’s kid made it even harder; topics like abuse were never discussed, so I convinced myself there was no space for my truth.

As the years went on, the silence followed me into adulthood. I graduated college, entered relationships, served in church, and smiled through every storm while carrying a secret that weighed me down. On the outside I looked strong — singing, serving, showing up — but inside I was battling memories, emotions, and confusion I didn’t know how to process. No one knew that each week I stood in front of people worshiping God while holding onto a truth I was terrified to speak.

By 2013, the weight of that silence became too much. I reached a breaking point — a moment where staying quiet felt more painful than confronting the past. With trembling hands and a heart full of fear, I told my mentor. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Not long after, I told my family. The moment was terrifying, emotional, and overwhelming, but it became the beginning of my healing. It took me 20 years to speak up, but that does not diminish the strength it took to finally share my truth. Telling someone didn’t erase the past, but it gave me back my voice.

I didn’t stop there. I took the pain I carried for so long and transformed it into purpose. I created One Touch Transformation, a space dedicated to supporting survivors and educating the community on sexual abuse. I began to understand that my story — the one I once thought would break my family — had the power to uplift, encourage, and bring healing to others. What once felt like a burden became a mission.

If you are a survivor reading this, please know: your story matters. Your voice matters. Your healing matters. You don’t have to carry the weight alone. Tell someone when you are ready. Whether it takes 20 days or 20 years, what matters is that you reclaim your truth and step into the freedom you deserve.

You survived something you never should have gone through — and you are still here. That alone makes you powerful. You are not defined by what happened to you. You are defined by the strength it took to endure, and the courage it takes to heal.

11/29/2025

I grew up in a large family. My mother had eight children, and by the time I was born—her youngest—she was already 37 and exhausted from years of raising a big household. My siblings were much older than me, teenagers when I was still a baby. I often felt like I was growing up in the middle of chaos, with very little time, attention, or protection from the adults around me.

Some of my earliest years were marked by experiences no child should ever have to face. I was too young to understand what was happening, too young to even describe it, and too young to defend myself. The harm came from people inside my own home—older siblings who should have cared for me, not hurt me. My nephew, who was the same age as me because he was born around the same time, suffered too. The things that happened in that house left marks on both of us that lasted into adulthood.

My nephew went on to struggle with addiction and homelessness. I don’t blame him. I know he carries wounds from childhood that were never addressed, never acknowledged, and never healed. As for me, I grew up battling long years of emotional pain, trust issues, and deep discomfort with intimacy. I spent much of my life wondering why I felt so different, so guarded, so broken inside. Now I understand exactly why.

When I was eight years old, another painful chapter unfolded during a camping trip with one of my older sisters. She already had her own struggles—alcohol, instability, and unresolved trauma. That night became another moment in my life where someone who should have protected me instead harmed me emotionally. I remember freezing in fear and confusion, not understanding why it was happening or what I was supposed to do. I didn’t tell anyone at the time. I was a child trying to survive adults who acted like children themselves.

Later that day, my sister’s partner’s niece quietly told me that something similar had happened to her. We were just kids, trying to process things far too heavy for our age. We made a pact to stay silent because we were terrified, and we didn’t think any adult would help us.

Years later, as an adult struggling through life, I confronted my sister about what happened. Instead of apologizing or admitting the truth, she became furious, denied everything, and called me a liar. My mother sat there in silence, offering no support—not even a moment of comfort. Once again, I was left alone with the truth, and with the pain.

Not long after, one of my young nieces had a medical issue that raised serious concerns. Deep inside, I knew what it meant—I had been through enough to recognize the signs. But once again, the adults in the family denied everything. They insisted it was something the child had done to herself, which of course made no sense. When I tried to speak up, my mother shut me down. She told me she didn’t want to ruin the family’s image. She said she didn’t want her son to go to prison.

But what about me?
What about my nephew?
What about my nieces?
What about the children who were hurting right in front of her?

Her silence protected the wrong people.

As I grew older, I realized just how deeply that silence ran. My oldest sister was a social worker who worked with abused and neglected children. She protected other families—but not her own. She could see red flags in strangers’ homes, but somehow ignored them in ours. That betrayal has stayed with me for years.

Eventually, I made the painful decision to go no contact with my mother and my siblings. Protecting myself was something no one else ever did for me growing up. Walking away from them was not easy, but it was necessary. Still, the pain and confusion linger. I think about it almost every day—not because I want to, but because trauma has a long memory.

I often ask myself:
Why didn’t my mother protect me?
Why didn’t my older sister step in?
Why did no one speak up for the children in our family?

I wish I had told my father before he passed away, but I was taught by my mother to keep everything quiet. That silence cost me years of peace, trust, and emotional health.

Now, as an adult who has survived so much, I share my story because I hope it reaches someone who needs to know they are not alone. I share it so that others can feel seen, understood, and validated. I share it because silence protected the wrong people for too long.

And most of all, I share it because every child deserves safety—and every adult survivor deserves healing.

11/29/2025

When I look back at my childhood, I see a little kid who was hurting long before I ever found the words to explain it. I grew up in a place where love was inconsistent, where the adults who were supposed to protect me were often too distracted, too overwhelmed, or too careless to notice what I was going through. Someone close to my family—someone who should have been a safe person—began crossing boundaries little by little. It started with attention I had never received before, small gifts, promises, and moments that felt confusing even then. At that young age, I didn’t understand manipulation, but he did.

I was scared, but I was even more scared to speak up. I was warned not to say anything, told that terrible things would happen if I opened my mouth. And when I finally did try to reach out for help, instead of being protected, I was punished. I learned very quickly that telling the truth in my home came with consequences. I learned to stay quiet, to swallow my fear, to carry the weight alone because I felt I had no other choice.

The silence followed me everywhere. It opened the door for more people to take advantage of me, because children who believe they have no voice can be hurt again and again. Every time something happened, I buried it deeper inside, convincing myself that keeping quiet was safer than asking for help. By the time I was barely a teenager, I had already lived through things that no child should ever have to endure.

But surviving all of that didn’t break me. I carried the trauma, yes, but I also carried strength I didn’t even know I had. Years later, as an adult, I finally began to understand that what happened to me was not my fault. I learned that silence can protect the wrong people, and speaking up can be the first step toward healing. It took time, courage, and so much pain, but I eventually realized that my voice matters.

Today, I tell my story not to relive the hurt, but to reclaim the power that was stolen from me as a child. I share it for the kids who are still afraid to speak, for the adults who are still healing from wounds no one ever saw, and for the people who need to know that surviving trauma is not a sign of weakness—it is proof of incredible strength. Healing is not easy, and recovery is not fast, but it is possible. And most importantly, none of what happened was ever my fault.

I survived. I’m still here. And my voice is finally my own.

11/29/2025

When I look back at my childhood, I see a little version of myself who endured things no child should ever face — emotional harm, neglect, manipulation, fear, and exploitation from the very people who were supposed to keep me safe. Between the ages of four and six, my world was shaped by adults who used their power to control, intimidate, and silence me. I was exposed to situations that no child is equipped to understand, let alone protect themselves from.

A relative who should have cared for me instead created a home filled with fear. She entrusted me to someone who harmed me, and when the truth began to surface, she dismissed it in a way that left me confused, scared, and deeply ashamed. Even as a child, I knew something was terribly wrong — but the adults around me minimized it. When I finally told my mother and grandmother, law enforcement became involved, and I participated in a forensic interview at a Child Advocacy Center. But after that… nothing. No justice. No protection. No closure. The harm was brushed aside and eventually treated as though it never happened.

Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I lived in a family culture shaped by narcissistic behavior, manipulation, spiritual pressure, and emotional mistreatment. My father was absent from the beginning, and the adults who remained in my life often imposed their own brokenness onto me. I grew up surrounded by chaos — dysfunction was normal, silence was expected, and “love” was something I had to earn through keeping the peace. By the time I reached adulthood, I was carrying years of unspoken trauma, depression, and anxiety that I didn’t know how to name.

At twenty years old, I found myself repeating patterns I never wanted — staying in toxic relationships, accepting mistreatment, and believing that brokenness was all I deserved. I made mistakes out of pain, not because I lacked value, but because no one had ever taught me what healthy love looked like. I struggled mentally and emotionally, and there were moments when I questioned whether my life even mattered. But even in my lowest moments, something — or rather, Someone — kept me alive.

God wasn’t done with me.

Giving my life to Christ became the turning point that began to shift everything. Later, becoming a mother transformed me even further. Those two moments planted seeds of healing in places where I had felt nothing but darkness for years. Slowly, I learned that I deserved peace, protection, love, and safety — things I had never experienced consistently.

By age 33, I finally reached a breaking point. With God’s strength, I walked away from generational cycles of abuse, manipulation, secrecy, and dysfunction. I refused to be controlled by the same patterns that defined my childhood. It was painful, but necessary. Healing required me to confront truth — even when doing so made me the villain in other people’s stories, even when it meant losing relationships I once valued.

Some people no longer benefit from my lack of boundaries, and that’s okay. My peace is more important than someone else’s comfort.

Today, my life looks nothing like the one I grew up in. I now work as a Treatment Coordinator at a Child Advocacy Center — the same kind of place that once tried to help me. I’ve transformed my pain into purpose. I’m also a Christian Life Coach and a YouTuber, using my testimony to help others find hope in Christ and break free from the cycles that once broke me.

I choose to heal out loud because silence protects abusers, not survivors. My story is my weapon. My faith is my foundation. My daughter is my inspiration. And my future is proof that what once ran in my family ended the moment it ran into me.

11/29/2025

I grew up in an environment no child should ever have to face — a place where safety didn’t exist, where every adult who should have protected me instead caused harm or allowed harm to continue. My childhood was shaped by instability, neglect, and the constant threat of violence. From my earliest memories, our family lived on the edge of survival: homelessness, unsafe living conditions, constant moves across different states, and a home environment controlled by fear and manipulation.

I am the sixth of eight children. My parents were deeply unwell, overwhelmed, and involved in behaviors that put all of us at risk. Instead of seeking help, they hid everything. They moved us from state to state, living in old cars, temporary shelters, run-down motels, and eventually a house that was falling apart. It had mold, insects, no proper walls, no privacy, and barely enough space for all of us. Most of us slept on the floor. Conditions were unsafe in every imaginable way.

While we lived like this, my siblings and I were exposed to constant emotional, physical, and psychological harm. My parents did not intervene when dangerous things were happening between older and younger siblings. Instead, they dismissed, denied, or even blamed us as children for things that were never our fault. That level of neglect and denial made the situation even more traumatic, because it meant we had nowhere to turn — not even to the people who were supposed to keep us safe.

There were moments when the outside world could have helped. Child protective services showed up many times throughout our lives, yet every time, the system failed us. Reports were made, warnings were given, but nothing changed. We continued living in an environment filled with fear, instability, and deep emotional wounds.

When I was around ten, things became even more confusing and terrifying. My mother crossed boundaries no parent should ever cross. Privacy didn’t exist. Safety didn’t exist. The people who should have stopped the harm often encouraged silence. Our family’s religious community also failed us — they discouraged seeking outside help, mental health support, or police involvement. They told us to “pray” instead of reaching out for real protection. This left my siblings and me trapped with no voice, no advocate, and no escape.

The trauma in our house only escalated with time. My sister with severe disabilities was neglected for years, and her health declined until she passed away as a teenager. Even after her death, no accountability was ever brought against our parents. The grief and helplessness from that still follow me today.

By age thirteen, the emotional and physical damage I carried had grown heavier than I knew how to handle. As a teen, I felt invisible to every adult in my life. I survived things no child should face, while the systems meant to protect children repeatedly ignored our situation.

The turning point came shortly after my eighteenth birthday. Someone — one of the very few people in my life who saw what was happening — secretly bought me a plane ticket. Three days after turning eighteen, I gathered what little strength I had left and escaped to another state. It was terrifying, but it was the first time I chose myself. It was the first time I felt a small spark of hope.

Because of everything I endured, I now live with long-term physical and mental health challenges. I have trauma responses, phobias, disabilities, and intense emotional struggles from years of chronic harm. It affects my ability to leave my house or trust others, especially men. Even simple things can feel overwhelming.

But I am still here.
I am healing in the best ways I can.
And today, I am 100 days sober, which is something I never thought I would reach. That milestone matters deeply to me. It proves that even though the world failed me repeatedly, I am still fighting for my life, my future, and my peace.

I joined this group because I feel alone and lost and unsure where to begin, but I want to start somewhere. I want to connect with people who understand trauma, survival, and the long road of healing. I want to feel less invisible. I want support from a community that listens and believes survivors.

I’m tired… but I’m also still here. And for now, that is enough.

11/28/2025

I am a survivor who grew up in circumstances no child should ever have to face.
My story begins when I was seven. Around that time, my mother seriously injured her back and could no longer work. Losing her job triggered a rapid decline in her mental health. She turned to alcohol, pain medications, and unhealthy coping just to make it through each day. With no stability at home, my older sister — only a teenager herself — became the person who tried to keep our small world from falling apart.

As I got older, I learned that the hardships in our family did not begin with us. My mother had grown up surrounded by violence, racism, addiction, and severe mistreatment. The man who raised her caused lifelong trauma, and she never received the support or healing she needed. Later, I also discovered that my sister had endured harm in those early years as well. Understanding that painful history helped me see the patterns that shaped our lives, even though it did not excuse what happened next.

Our financial situation grew worse. Some days we had no heat and barely any food. My mother tried to get assistance, but without the proper documents to verify her background, she was repeatedly turned away. Even local organizations refused to help her because she didn’t fit their expectations. I will never forget the shame and helplessness of watching adults close their doors on us when we needed compassion the most.

During this time, decisions were made that put my sister and me in danger. Instead of protection, we were pushed into situations that no child should ever be placed in. Survival became the only focus, and everything else — safety, innocence, childhood — was sacrificed. My sister, trying to be strong, rarely talked about what she had endured. She carried her trauma quietly, tucked behind a brave face that only cracked when no one was looking.

Years later, the burden became too heavy for her. She lost her battle with depression and passed away, and it happened on my birthday. Some believe it wasn’t intentional, that she was reaching out for help. But regardless of the circumstances, the pain of losing her — and the timing — reshaped my life forever.

Growing up in trauma left me with emotional and psychological wounds that took years to understand. I’ve struggled with PTSD, nightmares, dissociation, obsessive behaviors, fear of abandonment, and deep patterns of survival-based thinking. I have been in therapy since I was fourteen, learning, unlearning, healing, and trying every day to break the cycle I was born into.

Despite everything, I’m still standing.
And I want other survivors to know this:

You are not alone.
Your story matters.
Your voice can bring healing — not only for yourself, but for others who are still silent.

Many of us were raised to hide our suffering, to pretend everything was fine, or to keep family secrets buried out of fear or shame. But silence protects the wrong people. Speaking up gives your pain a name, and it gives someone else the courage to finally say, “Me too.”

Today, my life is nothing like the one I grew up in. I have a loving family, a support system I never dreamed of, and a sense of peace that once felt impossible. I am grateful for the grace that carried me through. I believe in healing, in hope, and in the strength of surviving what was meant to break you.

If you are reading this and have lived through something similar, please know this:
Your story deserves to be heard.
No shame belongs to you.
And healing — real, gentle, life-changing healing — is absolutely possible.

11/28/2025

My name is Randy, and my story begins when I was only five years old. At that age, I should have been thinking about toys, cartoons, and playgrounds—not trying to survive the abuse of an 18-year-old who lived in the home of my babysitter. It started with grooming, the kind that confuses a child into believing that harmful behavior is love. He told me he cared about me, that what he was doing was normal, and that I should trust him. For a long time, I believed him—because I was a child, because he was older, and because no one had ever taught me what danger looked like in the face of someone who acted friendly.

As time went on, the abuse grew worse. The emotional manipulation, the threats, and the fear became part of my everyday life. He would tell me it was my fault, that no one would believe me, that people would hate me, that I was somehow responsible for what he was doing. He used shame and fear as weapons. His family was deeply religious, and he twisted their beliefs to terrify me even more—telling me that I would be the one punished, that I would go to hell because I “made him want me.” These were words no child should ever have to hear, let alone carry.

There were moments when I felt like nothing more than a possession, a helpless child who had no way to fight back. But everything changed the year my baby sister was born. When he found out she would be cared for by the same babysitter, he made a chilling comment—that once she started coming around, he “wouldn’t need me anymore.” That sentence shattered something inside me. The fear I had lived with for years was suddenly replaced with a fierce need to protect her. I didn’t care what happened to me—I just couldn’t let him hurt her.

Around that time, I saw an episode of the “Sally Jessie Raphael” show that focused on child abuse. At the end, Sally looked into the camera and said, “If you’re watching this and going through this, please tell someone. It’s not your fault. You must speak up.” At that moment, it felt like she was speaking straight into my soul. I walked into my baby sister’s room, looked at her sleeping peacefully in her crib, and something in me clicked. I had to do something. I had to break the silence.

I pulled my grandmother aside, took her into the bathroom, and told her everything. She believed me—thank God she believed me. When the truth came out, he eventually confessed under questioning and was locked away for a very long time. Without my grandmother’s belief and courage, who knows what would have happened to me… or to my sister.

My journey afterward was not easy. Trauma left scars that I didn’t know how to cope with, and for years, drugs and alcohol became my escape. I carried anger, confusion, shame, and a deep sense of betrayal from the adults who were supposed to protect me. I look back and still cannot understand how anyone thought it was okay for a teenager to have sleepovers with a five-year-old child, or to be left alone with me without question.

But today, things are different. I am nearly a year sober. I’m learning how to heal, how to rebuild, how to see myself not as a victim but as someone who survived the unimaginable. I’m a parent now, and I am fiercely protective of my children. I see danger with clarity. I understand boundaries. I speak up loudly. And I will never allow anything like this to happen to them.

Looking back, as painful as my life has been, the compassion and strength it has given me are things I would never trade. I share my story for all survivors—but especially for the boys and men who still live in silence, trapped by shame or fear in a world that tells them vulnerability is weakness. That is a lie.

The most courageous thing a man can do is speak up.
You are not weak. You are not alone. And your truth matters.

11/28/2025

When I was seven years old, my world had already been shaken by the loss of my father. In the middle of that grief, I was placed in the care of a child psychiatrist who was supposed to help me heal. Instead of offering support, he betrayed that trust in the most damaging ways. He used my vulnerability against me, and when he learned that I was transgender—a truth I didn’t yet fully understand myself—he used the era’s prejudice as a means to control my silence. In the early 1970s, being trans was still labeled a disorder, and as a mental health professional, he held the power to threaten my stability, my home, and my future.

Years later, I finally told my mother what had happened. By then, she had remarried, and I was able to stop seeing the psychiatrist. But the home I returned to was not the safe place I needed. My stepfather was manipulative, controlling, and verbally cruel. Over time, his cruelty escalated into physical harm. He hid it at first, choosing moments when my mother wasn’t around, but alcohol took away his restraint. Eventually, she saw enough to understand what had been happening.

Leaving him wasn’t as simple as packing a bag and walking out the door. He had drained her financially and discouraged her from working so she would remain dependent. She wanted to protect me, but she also didn’t want to uproot my life right before I graduated high school. She made a careful plan, one built on patience and determination. And just a month after my graduation, she finally had the strength and opportunity to leave him for good.

For many years, I carried my story quietly, unsure how to process the layers of harm I had endured—from professionals, from authority figures, from people who should have cared. But I have learned that silence only passes pain forward. Telling the truth gives that pain somewhere else to go. Sharing my story has become my way of reaching out to others who feel alone, misunderstood, or afraid to speak.

I have survived things I never should have faced, but I am still here. I share what happened not for sympathy, but so others know they are not alone, and so they can see that healing—slow, complicated, imperfect healing—is possible.

My past does not define my worth.
My identity does not diminish my strength.
And my voice cannot be taken from me anymore.

I tell my story to help others find theirs.

11/27/2025

My life began with challenges no child should have to navigate. As a very young girl, I experienced mistreatment within my own home—harm that left deep emotional marks. What made it even harder was the silence that surrounded it. The person who should have noticed, the one who should have protected me, chose not to see what was happening. That silence shaped so much of my early life.

When I was old enough to understand that what I was living through wasn’t normal, I tried to reach out. I wrote a letter to my boyfriend, hoping someone would finally hear my truth. But when my mother found the letter, instead of believing me, she reacted with anger and denial. I remember telling her the truth with all the strength I had, but she still refused to accept it. That moment was painful, but it helped me realize that I needed to rely on myself if I wanted to break free.

At seventeen, I left home in search of peace, safety, and a life that belonged to me. For years, I carried my experiences quietly, not knowing the full extent of the secrets buried in my family. It wasn’t until after my parents passed that I learned the truth: others in my family had also been harmed. They kept silent for their own reasons—fear, shame, or simply believing no one would help. Learning this was heartbreaking, but it also validated everything I had endured.

Now, at almost 74, I have reached a place of acceptance. I cannot change the past, but I can tell my story with honesty and strength. I am writing my life story with the intention of publishing it. Not because I want sympathy, but because I want to give a voice to the child I once was—and to others who feel unseen.

One of the greatest honors of my life came from a poem I wrote in 2001 called “I Am the Child.” It came from a place of deep reflection and compassion. I never imagined it would travel beyond my notebook—yet it did. I was invited to read it at the 6th Annual Child Abuse Homicide Victims Candlelight Vigil in Raleigh, North Carolina. Later, it became part of the Blue Ribbon for Kids Campaign in Johnson County, North Carolina. Over time, it was shared around the world, becoming a message of awareness and remembrance for vulnerable children everywhere.

My identity is made of many pieces.
I am a child of God.
I am a survivor.
I am a creator—a poet and a singer.
I am a mother, a grandmother, and a friend.
I am someone who faced darkness and still found the strength to shine.

Though I am disabled now, I continue moving forward with determination. I admire the younger generation for their courage, their openness, and their willingness to break cycles of silence. They remind me how far society has come—and how far I’ve come, too.

I am almost 74, still fighting, still creating, still telling my truth. My story is a testament to resilience. My past may have shaped me, but it did not define me. I am still here, still standing, and still speaking for the child who deserved love, safety, and protection.

And I will continue to share my story for as long as I am able—because every child deserves to be heard.

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