The Toy Box
For much of my life, I believed a lie.

I grew up experiencing sexual abuse, and those experiences colored the way I saw myself, relationships, and even my own worth. Somewhere along the way, I began to believe that sex was the only thing I had to offer—that it was the reason someone might want me, and that, at my core, I was unlovable.

So when my brother’s friend unexpectedly asked me to marry him, I responded from the only place I knew.

I assumed he wanted sex.

I gave him every excuse I could think of to convince him that marrying me was impossible. And it worked. He was in the military and stationed overseas, so eventually he left, and I never spoke to him again.

Forty years passed.

Then, unexpectedly, our paths crossed again over the phone. My brother had suffered a stroke, and I called to share the news with him. We talked for a long time, catching up on four decades of life.

At the end of the conversation, I told him, “I’m really glad I got to talk to you. I think about you all the time.”

What he said next stopped me in my tracks.

He simply said, “Yeah… me too.”

There was something in his voice—the pause, the softness, the certainty—that I couldn't misunderstand.

In that moment, I realized something I had never allowed myself to believe:

He had truly loved me forty years earlier. And somehow, he still loved me.

That realization began to dismantle a lie I had carried for most of my life.

If he could love me, then maybe I was lovable.

And if I was lovable, maybe I could finally learn to love myself.

Maybe I could allow God to love me, too.

Then something extraordinary happened.

I had a picture come into my mind: a little four-year-old girl sitting in front of a giant toy box. She was reaching inside, pulling out one toy after another.

And as she examined each one, she realized that what she thought was inside the box wasn't necessarily what was actually there.

I understood that the toy box represented everything I had believed about myself.

For years, I had reached into that box and pulled out messages that said I was broken. Unworthy. Unlovable. That my value was tied to what had been done to me.

But those weren't truths.

They were lies that abuse had taught me to believe.

And for the first time, I began to separate what had happened to me from who I actually was.

That was the beginning of seeing the real me.

The Toy Box became a powerful reminder that sometimes we spend our lives carrying beliefs we never chose, simply because someone put them inside us. But we have the power to open the box, examine what we've been carrying, and decide what is true.

My past may have shaped my story, but it does not get to define my worth. And the lies I was handed as a child do not have to become the truth I live by as an adult.

My Story: From Victim to Victor
My book is more than a collection of memories—it is my origin story.

I grew up in a life marked by abuse, experiences that left me feeling broken and powerless. For many years, I carried the weight of what had happened to me, believing that those experiences somehow defined who I was.

As I grew older, I began to understand an important truth: what happened to me was not my fault. I did not cause it, and I was not responsible for the choices of those who hurt me.

But recognizing that truth was only the beginning.

At one point in my journey, I realized that although the abuse was in my past, my abusers were still influencing my present. They were still shaping how I saw myself, how I viewed my future, and how I lived my life.

That realization became a turning point.

I made a choice: I would no longer allow my past to define me. I could remain a victim of what had happened, or I could choose a different path—to become a survivor, an overcomer, and ultimately the victor in my own life.

I chose to take ownership of my future.

Writing my story became part of that transformation. It gave me a way to process my journey, reclaim my voice, and turn experiences that once made me feel powerless into a source of purpose.

Today, I am willing to be vulnerable enough to stand on stages and share my story with the world. I speak not simply about what I survived, but about the power of choice, resilience, healing, and reclaiming ownership of your life.

My story is a reminder that your past may be part of your story, but it does not have to write your future.