I am Phoenix Rising—26, a mother of two, writing from a place that demands bravery I didn’t know I had when I was a child. This post is a confession turned into a vow: to name the harm, to honor my healing, and to insist on a future where my body, my voice, and my love are protected.
To the younger me who endured more than any child should: You carried a weight that wasn’t yours to bear, a burden beyond your years. I see you in the mirror of today—bright, curious, hopeful, and wary all at once. The truth you learned in the hardest ways does not define you; it informs you. It teaches you where your boundaries must lie, and it reminds you that safety is not a luxury but a right.
To the adult me that stands up for you now: If strength had a shape, it would be a steady breath before saying, “No more.” If courage had a color, it would be the quiet blue of a night sky after a storm—present, calming, and powerful enough to guide you home. I am learning to hold both tenderness and boundaries—that softness is not weakness, and setting limits is not aggression. It is care, for you and for the people you choose to trust.
What happened was not your fault. The harm inflicted by someone who claimed to care for you does not determine your worth or your destiny. Healing isn’t about erasing the past; it’s about rewriting the script so that it serves your safety, your children, and your future.
Here are the steps I’m choosing, one day at a time: Speak truth, even when each word feels like a weight. Naming the abuse, in safe spaces with trusted people or professionals, is the first act of reclaiming power. Build boundaries that protect your body and your heart. Boundaries aren’t barriers; they’re your map to safety and respect. Seek support. Therapy, survivor groups, or trusted mentors can help translate pain into insight and action. Focus on your children. Show them what healthy boundaries look like, what consent sounds like, and what resilience can become through honest living. Seek accountability where possible, not for revenge, but to prevent future harm and to honor your own healing journey. Practice self-compassion. The reminders you give yourself will be repeated by your future, stronger self in moments of doubt or fear.
To the child you were, the person you are, and the person you will become: Your body is not a doorway for someone else’s harm. Your mind is not a stage for someone else’s fantasies. You did what you had to do to survive, and that is a testament to your resilience, not a stain on your character. Your truth matters, and your safety matters more.
To the future you—the mother you are becoming: I want you to model safe, healthy love for your children. I want you to show them that asking for what you need is a sign of strength, not weakness. I want you to move toward a life where your past informs your courage, and your future is built on boundaries that protect your peace and your family’s well-being.
If accountability is possible in the systems you navigate, I will pursue it—not to punish, but to heal and to protect others who walk the same road. If accountability isn’t immediate, I will continue the work of healing anyway: therapy, community, journaling, and the daily practice of choosing what keeps you safe and what doesn’t.
To those who have stood with me in quiet ways or loud ones, to the people who believed in my capacity to change, I see you. Your support is a thread in the fabric of my future, and I will carry it forward as I teach my children what it means to live with integrity, courage, and care.
This bottle is a witness and a witness bearer. It holds the truth I could not carry alone for too long and the hope I refuse to abandon. I am not finished writing this story, and I will not let fear silence the parts of me that deserve to be free.