Everyone carries a chapter in their life they don’t read out loud. Some truths are bitter—hard to believe, harder to accept, and even harder to share with the world.
I am a full-time worker committed to helping children and young women who suffer in ways most people can’t imagine. These are the ones no one talks about, no one knows exist—those for whom human love, care, and comfort feel foreign, strange, and unfamiliar. At least once a year, I volunteer overseas with marginalized and vulnerable communities, working with children who have been abused, abandoned, and even left to die.
People often ask why I do what I do—why I raise funds and awareness for poverty and sex trafficking. My usual answer is that sex trafficking is a very real threat to the young girls I’ve volunteered with. But there is another reason, one I didn’t share for a long time: I was once in a deeply unhealthy relationship.
I was never physically abused, but many times I truly believed I would be.
We met in 2014 and bonded over a shared dream of creating a safe house for vulnerable women and children. He was a single father with a very young daughter, and the first month felt hopeful and promising. But it didn’t last long.
Very soon, I began to notice how opinionated and controlling he could be. Alarm bells started ringing when he raised his voice whenever I disagreed with him or caught him in a bad mood. He would often say, “I AM ALWAYS RIGHT. PROVE ME WRONG.” Those words stayed with me.
I also noticed how he spoke about women—always in a degrading and derogatory way. Even now, I struggle to repeat the things he said because they still make me feel sick and angry.
Over the next few months, I was frequently yelled at for lacking “common sense.” I was told that my behavior caused his reactions—that I made him yell. It was always my fault, and I was reminded that I was lucky he never hit me. He wanted credit for having self-control, for not crossing that line. Respect was something he demanded from me, especially in how I spoke to him, but it was never mutual. It was always a one-way street.
He belittled me in front of his friends, quickly labeling me immature whenever my views differed from his. I was told to put more effort into my appearance, to dress sexier so he would look good in front of others.
Not long after, the pressure for sex began. He constantly watched pornography and told me he would find it elsewhere because he “wasn’t getting any.” He even showed me the kind of pornography he enjoyed—something that made me feel physically ill, knowing some of the women in those videos could have been trafficked.
There were moments when I felt completely numb, too exhausted to react. I found countless suggestive messages he had sent to women he claimed were just “friends.” When I confronted him, he laughed and accused me of being overreactive.
Less than eight months into the relationship, I was prescribed antidepressants. The constant degradation, accusations, guilt, blame, and manipulation became unbearable. I often asked myself how I had allowed it to go on for so long. He would occasionally attempt to apologize, and I would find myself making excuses for him.
This was a man who called himself a Christian. It took many months to process the anger, hurt, and disappointment, and eventually, I chose to forgive him.
I am deeply grateful for the close-knit group of friends who supported me during that time. They prayed with me, cried with me, and sometimes simply sat beside me in silence. My faith in God was essential in helping me survive that season.
For a long time, I shared this part of my life only with my closest friends. I was embarrassed to admit I had been in such a relationship—especially because I didn’t see myself as a weak woman. But abuse comes in many forms, and not all of them leave bruises. When someone repeatedly uses words to demean, frighten, or control another person, it is verbal abuse.
Abuse can happen to anyone. Any form of abuse is never okay.
So why do I do what I do? Why do I continue to speak up about poverty and sex trafficking? Because the fear is real—for the young girls I have worked with in South-East Asia.
I understand what it feels like to have no self-worth.
I know what it’s like to live in fear, never knowing when someone will lash out verbally—or worse.
I know what it feels like to be trapped.
I know depression intimately—crying myself to sleep, wishing I were dead, and waking up in tears simply because I was still alive.
It has been an incredible privilege to speak for the vulnerable, for those who have no voice. And while I would never wish that pain on anyone, I am grateful for the journey that gave me the strength—and the urgency—to speak up.
