I’ll never forget the night when everything changed. I was 10 years old, sobbing alone in my room after one of my mother’s explosive episodes. I was devastated, asking why she hated me, why I was so unloved, why I wasn’t good enough. And then, something extraordinary happened. A light appeared in the corner of my room, and at the foot of my bed, I saw an illuminated figure. I wasn’t afraid, though I normally lived in fear. It was Jesus, and I felt an overwhelming sense of love.

He spoke to me, saying, “Child, she knows not what she does, but you are loved.” In that moment, I felt peace for the first time in my life. I knew that despite the rejection and chaos in my home, I was not unloved. I had a love greater than anything my mother could take from me. That experience changed everything for me. It gave me a sliver of hope, a spark that told me to hold on.

My mother was a broken woman. She had her own demons, likely undiagnosed mental illness. Growing up in the 60s and 70s, mental health wasn’t something people talked about. She never saw a doctor for her manic episodes or her alcoholism, so we all suffered. My father, a busy attorney climbing the career ladder, suffered too. To the outside world, we were the perfect family. But behind closed doors, it was chaos.

My mother raged, she belittled, and she hurt. I became a caretaker at a young age, cooking for the family, soothing my younger sister, and hiding the dysfunction. I spent years learning how to dissociate from the pain. I could endure anything because I had mastered the art of pulling my mind away from my body. It was a coping mechanism I developed to survive the unpredictable storm that was my mother.

By the time I was 14, I was big enough to stop her. She came at me once while I was in the bathroom, and I caught her hand mid-swing. I looked her dead in the eye and said, “If you lay another hand on me, I will kill you.” And I meant it. From that day on, she never hit me again. But the emotional and mental abuse? That continued. It took years of therapy to unravel that damage. I continue to repair myself in my daily walk.

My mother never wanted children. She was trapped in a marriage she didn’t want, burdened by responsibilities she never asked for. I was never the daughter she dreamed of, and she made sure I knew it.

After my parents divorced, my father raised my sisters and me. My mother was in and out of our lives, and her eventual death in 2003 came as a strange kind of relief. She had battled alcoholism and mental illness for years, and when she passed, I wasn’t upset. I felt relieved that she was freed from her earthly demons. I had forgiven her long before, not because she deserved it, but because holding onto that anger was hurting me more than it was helping.

In my twenties, I made peace with her. I told her I forgave her, and I let go of the bitterness. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary for my own healing. When she passed, I made sure her apartment was cleaned up before anyone else saw it. I didn’t want her to be remembered for the filth or the mess her life had become. That was my final act of love for her—the love she could never give me.

One of my greatest accomplishments in life has been breaking the cycle of abuse with my own daughters. I had two outstanding girls, and from the moment they entered my world, I was determined they would never know the life I lived. I wanted to give them what I had never received: unconditional love, safety and stability.

It wasn’t easy, and it took a lot of conscious effort. The scars of my childhood ran deep, and there were times when I felt fear creeping in, that I might unknowingly repeat the patterns I grew up with. But I was vigilant. I made sure my daughters never saw the terrifying life of an emotionally, mentally and physically abused child. They grew up knowing their mom cherished, valued, and kept them safe.

I nurtured an environment filled with love and understanding, always making sure they felt heard and respected. I made it my mission to provide them with the emotional support I had lacked. I knew that the abuse I endured could end with me, and it was within my power to change the narrative for my family.

Through it all, I learned a vital thing: I am resilient. My strength didn’t come from her; it came from within me. It came from the love I craved, the love I found in faith, in family, and finally in myself. I spent most of my life trying to fill a void that my mother’s absence left, but what I eventually discovered is that the love I needed wasn’t from her. It was from me.

The abuse didn’t define me; it shaped me, yes, but it didn’t own me. I’m here, telling my story because I want others to know that they’re not alone. I know what it feels like to be starved for affection, to grow up in a home where love is absent. I know how hard it is to rise above that.

I am living proof that healing is possible, even after years of pain. It took a long time, and I still have work to do, but I’ve reached a place where I can say, “This is me.” I am no longer afraid to show the world who I am, without the masks, without the facade. I am an authentic, committed, loving and free leader to help others.

If you’ve experienced a similar journey, know that there’s hope. You are loved, even when it feels like you aren’t. Healing takes time, but you will get there. I did, and so can you.