Childhood Trauma and Triumph
“‘Freeze, Miss Piggy! Spread your legs and put your hands up!’” Those were the words I heard my brother Patrick shout before the gun went off. The bullet flew past my right ear, missing my eye by mere centimeters. We were playing cops and robbers, completely unaware the gun was real—it belonged to my mother. I was five years old, hiding under the covers, thinking we were playing hide-and-seek. That terrifying moment became my first memory of God’s favor protecting my life.
Shortly after, I heard a man’s voice demanding, “Where’s the money at?” and felt the cold metal of a gun pressed to my head while still under the covers. My mother, calm but terrified, gave him what she had. He left. I remember my siblings and I running down the road in our pajamas to the nearest police station, hearts pounding. That was the second moment I felt God’s protection over me.
I am the youngest of five children: two sisters, Bridgette and Latisha, and two brothers, Raymond and Patrick. My mother, a single woman working two jobs, did her best to provide for us. I remember my oldest sister Bridgette telling stories of how my father would beat my mother and even pushed her down a flight of stairs while she was pregnant with me. Shortly after I was born, my mother ran away to protect us.
Most people assume I hated my dad—and in some ways, I did. I hated what his actions made me feel: lost, unwanted, and scared of becoming him. There were days I dreaded looking in the mirror because my sister said I looked just like him.
By second grade, we moved to another housing project called Palmetto, known by locals as PPU—Poor People University. Shortly after the move, I walked in on my mother crying. “Mommy, what’s wrong?” I asked. She brushed it off, saying, “Oh, nothing, Kimmi. Mommy will be okay.”
Days later, I overheard her telling my sister that my dad had sent a letter from prison with divorce papers. That moment changed our lives. My mother sank into depression and became addicted to drugs. Birthdays and Christmas no longer held magic—they were just another day, and we had to be grateful we were alive.
Eventually, my two oldest sisters moved out. My brothers and I, only a year apart, became inseparable. We learned to fend for ourselves early: cooking, cleaning, washing clothes—all before turning ten. Some nights, we would go to neighbors’ houses, each of us asking for small amounts of food so we could create one meal to share. Sometimes, the power would be cut off because bills went unpaid. I remember winters spent in coats, lying in front of the stove with the oven door open. Once, when the oven wouldn’t light, we tried to ignite the water heater with a lighter and rolled-up newspaper. Flames shot up at me, burning my arms and some of my hair. My brothers and I feared Mom’s reaction, but later we laughed, realizing we had done anything to survive.
We washed clothes by stomping them in tubs of water with detergent, wringing them out with towels, and hanging them to dry. Other kids—and even some parents—would bully us because we didn’t have Christmas presents or new school clothes.
School became my escape from pain, and basketball became my lifeline. In third grade, we were asked to write about our Christmas vacation. I read aloud: “There is no Christmas in the projects because we have no chimneys, but I hope for a bicycle.” The next week, my teacher, Mrs. Vaughn, said, “Santa Claus brought you something.” After class, she led me to her car and handed me a brand-new Beach Cruiser. That day, I learned that kindness and hope could still exist amidst hardship.
My mother’s addiction was the type where she would go out to get a fix, return home, and lock herself away. She would sometimes yell, but never hit us. She always reminded me, “Kimmi, no matter what you go through, stay true to yourself, love yourself, and never let anyone treat you differently.” She taught me love and humility, even when she struggled to love herself. I didn’t resent her; I understood she was battling something bigger than us, and I held onto the hope that change would come.
When I was nine, my mother met a man named H. Calm on the surface but deeply dark, he often hurt her. I woke one night to her screams, ran to her room, and tried to save her. H would dismiss it, saying, “We were just playing.” My mother would hold me tight, whispering, “You keep me alive, I love you so much, Kimmi.” Alone in my room, I would pray silently, speaking to someone I didn’t yet know was God: “I know there’s a better life than this. Protect my mommy.” Some nights, I didn’t think this life would end—the hunger, the fear, the crying—but I held onto a small piece of faith.
Years passed, and the abuse continued until one night my mother told me, “I’m running away to get myself together.” My spirit knew she was fleeing another violent attack from H.
A New Life with My Sister
In sixth grade, I moved to Sanford, Florida, with my oldest sister. I struggled there, feeling as if I was supposed to forget my mother. I was bullied daily by the same girl until one day I fought back, which landed me in Juvenile Detention for fifteen days. One night, drenched in sweat, I cried out, “God, please help my mother!” Everyone told me to rest, but I sensed danger. The next morning, I learned H had found my mother and attempted to murder her, stabbing her across her body and face.
It was during these dark times I realized the presence I had spoken to nightly was God. My faith existed long before I understood it fully. This realization became the foundation of my brand, HolyWater, representing the power to speak life and prosperity over your own life.
After a year with my sister, my mother became drug-free, and I returned to Daytona Beach. In high school, I took basketball seriously, knowing it was my path to a better life. Freshman year, I made Varsity, and Assistant Coach Herman Perry became a guiding light. He treated me like his own daughter, ensured I had meals, clothes, a phone, and exposure to WNBA games. He reminded me I had a gift bigger than basketball—I just had to believe in it.
My mother became my fiercest cheerleader, running up and down the sidelines, yelling “Voodoo on that rim!” or jokingly calling psychics into the game. I remember passing her the ball, feeling she was my teammate. I was named Central Florida’s MVP three years in a row and earned a full athletic scholarship to Stetson University, where I completed my bachelor’s degree. I became the first in my family to graduate college, inspiring my mother to finish hers as well.
Giving Back
I returned to the projects where I grew up, tutoring children and sharing lessons no one had taught me. I wanted to instill hope, resilience, and self-belief. I also volunteer with Sleep in Heavenly Peace, helping provide beds for kids sleeping on floors.
My purpose is to serve, uplift, and remind people they are greater than their circumstances. Through my brand HolyWater, I raise funds to help families with groceries, clothing, and essential items. My ultimate goal is to write my story and speak at events, inspiring children to persevere, dream, and know they are not a product of their environment—they are much greater.
