I survived twelve hours of brutality—strangled three times, sexually assaulted, and kicked with steel-toed boots. But the violence didn’t end when the attack stopped. For nearly a year, PTSD has followed me—nightmares, panic, and the weight of memories I can’t shut off. What hurts just as much is how the systems meant to protect me—courts, national DV hotlines, organizations—let me down. In rural areas, we’re told there’s no funding, no space, no help.

That silence becomes a second kind of violence.

Still, I keep going—for my two amazing kids who deserve hope. Healing is slow, uneven, but love is bigger than trauma. Survivors don’t just “move on.” We carry the weight, every day. And by sharing, I hope to remind others: we are not alone, and our communities must do better.