“Small Victories Each Day “

As I sit with pen in hand, the weight of my memories presses gently but firmly against  my heart. Writing this book has not been easy. For years, I kept certain moments tucked away, hidden in a little box at the back of my mind—memories too heavy to carry in the open, too raw to examine in the light. But as I began to write, I realized that to truly understand my own resilience, I needed to open that box and let those memories breathe. Each page became a journey back through time, to moments that marked me in ways both visible and invisible. There were days when the words came slowly, as if my heart was reluctant to let go of what it had so carefully protected. I remembered the nights I spent quietly holding my pain, not wanting to burden anyone else, and the mornings when I forced myself to rise, determined to keep moving forward for myself and for my children. Some memories stung more than others—the sound of a slammed door, the echo of harsh words, the loneliness that sometimes ...

Some mornings, the weight of sadness feels almost too heavy to lift. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I’ll find the strength to face another day. My body feels swollen with emotion, my mind clouded with questions about my purpose and whether I’m still needed in this world. The loneliness creeps in, whispering doubts and making it hard to move. But then, through the quiet, I hear the gentle chorus of birds outside my window. Their songs are soft at first, then grow stronger, weaving through the morning air. I close my eyes and let the sound wash over me. For a moment, I forget the heaviness. The birds don’t know my struggles, yet their music feels like a reminder that life continues, that beauty still exists even on the hardest days. I slowly sit up, feeling the familiar nudge of my pets at my side. Their presence is comforting—a warm body pressed against my leg, a soft purr, a wagging tail. They don’t ask questions or expect answers. They just want to be near me, an...

There’s a certain ache that comes with distance—a quiet longing that settles in the heart when you’re far from home and the people who shaped your soul. My friendship with Finding Strength in Darkness has always been a constant, a thread woven through the tapestry of my life, no matter how many miles or years stretch between us. We grew up together, our laughter echoing through sunlit streets and our secrets whispered under starlit skies. Even as life pulled me away from my homeland, that bond never faded. Being away made me realize just how much I left behind: the comfort of familiar faces, the warmth of shared memories, the easy  understanding that only old friends can offer. I think about them every day—my friends, my family, the places that hold my childhood. Each summer, I count down the days until I can return, even if it’s only for a short while. The anticipation builds with every passing week, and when I finally step off the plane and breathe in the air of home, it’s as if...

N ineteen years have passed since I left the place that shaped my soul. I remember standing at the edge of my childhood home, the green mountains rising like gentle giants behind me, the salty breeze from the beaches carrying the laughter of children and the distant calls of birds. I left with hope in my heart—a hope that my children would have a brighter future, that my dreams would take root in new soil. But even as I built a new life, the memories of home never faded. I miss the mornings when the sun would paint rainbows across the misty hills, and the forest would come alive with the songs of birds and the rustle of animals. I miss the simple joy of walking down the street, greeted by every friendly face, each smile a thread in the fabric of my community. There was a warmth in those daily encounters, a sense of belonging that wrapped around me like a familiar blanket. Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I close my eyes and let the sounds of home fill my mind—the chirping, the laught...

  Another day begins, and I find myself on the couch, the familiar weight of anxiety and depression pressing down. My mind races through the possibilities—should I play the piano, tend to my garden, or maybe just sit quietly with my dogs? Each option feels both inviting and impossibly far away, as if a thick fog separates me from the world outside my thoughts. Some days, the struggle to move is overwhelming. The energy it takes to simply stand up feels monumental. I wonder if today will be any different, if I’ll find the strength to water my plants or step outside to feel the breeze. The battle with PTSD and eating disorders is relentless, and motivation is a rare visitor. But then, my eyes land on the pictures of my kids. They’re grown now, living their own lives, but their smiles in those photos remind me that I am still needed. I am still their mama, no matter how old they get. That thought is a lifeline—a gentle tug back toward hope. I remember how far I’ve come. I am no longer...

My granddaughter—the little light that has brightened my world in ways I never imagined. There was a time not so long ago when my days felt heavy, weighed down by sadness, uncertainty, and worry. I often wondered if I would ever feel whole again. But then she arrived, and everything changed. The first time I held her, I felt a warmth spread through my chest, a piece of my heart that I didn’t even know was missing suddenly falling into place. Her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, and in that moment, the world felt softer, kinder. Her laughter, so pure and unburdened, became the sweetest music in my home. Even on the hardest days, the sound of her giggles would lift the shadows from my life. She is my happiness, my reason to keep moving forward. I find myself dreaming of the future—of watching her grow, of being there for her through every milestone, every scraped knee, every triumph. I miss her when she’s not near, and I count the days until I can hold her again. She is the joy I had ...

For so long, I moved through life not knowing the strength that lived inside me. I let others take from me—my peace, my confidence, my sense of self—without realizing how much I was losing. I grumbled through the days, feeling broken into pieces, unsure if I would ever feel whole again. But something changed. There was a moment, quiet but powerful, when I looked at all those scattered pieces and decided to gather them up. I realized that every fragment, every scar, was a part of me. I chose to put myself back together, stronger than before. I stopped allowing anyone to hurt me, to steal my light. I learned that my strength was always there, waiting for me to claim it. Now, I know what I am capable of. Anything I set my mind to, I can pursue. I choose happiness, not because life is always easy, but because I know I have the power to face my past with courage. My strength is my own, and it has made me who I am today.

  There are mornings when I stand before the mirror, the early light streaming in and catching my face, illuminating the lines and contours that tell the story of my journey. I see myself—truly see myself—and for a moment, the light is all there is. But just beyond the edges, in the corners of the glass, the shadows linger. They are the echoes of my past: pain, self-doubt, the urge to self-destruct. These shadows have followed me for years, sometimes whispering, sometimes shouting, always trying to reclaim their place in my life. Yet, every day, I choose to face them. I look into my own eyes and remind myself that I am not defined by those shadows. I am the light that shines through, the peace I have fought so hard to find. There was a time when the darkness felt endless, when the weight of my past threatened to pull me under. But I kept searching for the light, even when it was just a glimmer. I learned to find motivation in the smallest things—a kind word, a quiet morning, the wa...

There are days when the world feels heavy, when the sky darkens and the wind howls through the trees, rattling the windows of my soul. In those moments, I find myself sitting by the window, watching the rain pour down in steady sheets, each drop a tiny percussion on the roof above. The storm outside mirrors the turmoil within, and for a while, it feels as though everything is being washed away—old worries, lingering sadness, the weight of things I cannot control. But then, as the storm begins to pass, I notice the subtle changes. The rain softens, the wind quiets, and the air feels fresh and new. I step outside, barefoot on the damp earth, and breathe in the scent of wet soil and blooming leaves. The garden glistens, every plant adorned with droplets that catch the light. Birds return, flitting between the pots, their feathers ruffled but their songs bright and hopeful. I kneel beside my favorite plant, tracing the path of a raindrop as it slides down a leaf. In this simple act, I fe...

  Beyond the bruises, I am still here. My body carries the map of my past—each bruise, each scar, a silent witness to the pain I endured at the hands of my ex-husband. For years, I lived with the ache of old injuries and the weight of new ones, each mark a memory I never asked for. There were days when I wondered if I would ever feel whole again, if the pain would ever fade, or if I would always be defined by what had been done to me. But somewhere beyond the bruises, I found something unexpected: hope. It started quietly, in the gentle kindness of a friend who listened without judgment, in the laughter I thought I had lost, in the small acts of self-care that reminded me I was worthy of love and healing. I reached out for help, and slowly, the world began to open up again. The day I realized I could love and be loved was a turning point. It wasn’t dramatic—just a simple afternoon, sunlight streaming through the window, and a new partner who looked at me not with pity, but with adm...

  There are moments when the past echoes in the present. I remember the chaos of my past: the shouting, the things thrown in anger, the fear that settled into the corners of our home. I tried to shield my children, to be the barrier between their innocence and the storm, but some things slipped through my fingers, beyond my control. For a long time, I believed that children were resilient, that they would forget the worst of it. I focused on keeping them happy, on laughter and small joys, hoping it would be enough to patch over the cracks. But as they grew, I saw the shadows linger. The trauma, tucked away in the back of their minds, began to surface in unexpected ways—hesitation in their voices, a guardedness in their eyes, struggles with trust and confidence. Yet, in the midst of all this, I also saw something else: strength, despite everything, they learned to stand tall. I know the pain of their fractured innocence will never fully disappear. But I also know that the resilienc...

For many years, I lived in silence. I was not allowed to show emotions to friends or family, and the weight of that silence pressed down on me every day. I felt as though I was drowning in sorrow, pain, sadness, and disappointment. Inside, I wanted to scream, to let the world know how long I had been away from my own country, living in a house that never felt like home. My arms were open only to protect my children, shielding them from the pain I carried inside. The agony of each day was knowing that tomorrow would bring the same questions: What else must I endure? What have I done wrong to not deserve love, attention, or honesty? Why was I not protected by the one person who was supposed to be my shelter? I was far from home, far from the family and friends who might have protected me from harm.  The worst moment of my life came when I misscarried at 8 weeks. The truth of how and why it happened haunted me, drowning me in guilt and sorrow. For years, I stayed quiet, letting the pa...