Since 2019, life has felt like navigating an unending storm. After returning from my military service in Colorado, I was unprepared for the reality of being homeless with my seven-year-old and expecting another baby. I’ll never forget the sheer panic when a snowstorm destroyed our car, leaving us stranded and without a plan.
Amidst the chaos of long work hours during the pandemic, I met someone who offered hope but quickly became a source of terror. The memory of giving birth on a cold bathroom floor in 2021 haunts me—a moment meant to be filled with joy overshadowed by violence, as I was refused medical care by my abuser.
Escaping in September with my four children, we carried more than just suitcases; we carried injuries and trauma, evidence of the relentless attacks. Seeking safety cost us everything, draining my savings and leaving us entangled in medical bills. The anxiety of potential eviction is a constant companion.
Each day, I fight for a future where my children know only security and warmth. As I work towards completing my education, I envision a home where laughter replaces fear and where the pain of the past is just a distant memory. Our journey is steep, but I hold onto the hope for brighter days ahead.
