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Sometimes I sit with a heavy thought, the kind that doesn’t rush in loudly, but settles quietly in mind, especially in quiet moments. I think about how different life could have been if I had been given the chance to simply live… instead of constantly learning how to survive. There’s a grief that comes with that realization. A deep, complicated grief for the version of me that never got to exist. For the childhood that was shaped more by fear than freedom. For the years spent

I don’t always remember the date right away, but my body does.   There are certain dates my body remembers before I do. I don’t always wake up and think, “This is that day." Sometimes it’s quieter than that. Heavier. A tension I can’t explain. A weight or profound sadness that settles in before I’ve even had time to name it.   And then I realize.   This week marks the anniversary of the last time I was trafficked.   There’s no ceremony for days like this. No clear script fo

Recently I heard a song that stopped me in my tracks. The lyrics described something I have lived with for years but often struggle to explain to people who have never experienced trauma. As I listened, I found myself thinking, this is exactly what it feels like to live in a body that remembers. As a survivor of human trafficking, I’ve learned that healing isn’t just about leaving the situation behind. It’s also about learning how to live with a nervous system that spent a lo

Raising awareness that the realities of human trafficking go far beyond human trafficking awareness month. January is Human Trafficking Awareness Month. Every year, I see social media posts, events, trainings, and fundraisers aimed at shining a light on an issue that desperately needs attention. And I’m truly grateful for that. Awareness matters. Education matters. Conversations matter. But as a survivor of human trafficking, January brings up conflicting feelings for me. On