Disclaimer: This story contains mentions of trauma and may be triggering for some.
Life Growing Up
My struggles began early. I was an only child, growing up with my mom and uncle. My father wasn’t in the picture, and to this day, I don’t fully understand why. Life at home wasn’t all bad, but it wasn’t perfect either. My mom struggled with alcoholism, and that created anxiety that followed me everywhere. I hated her drinking, partly because I knew people whispered about us behind our backs. When I was five, I was diagnosed with ADHD. Learning that I needed medication to ‘function’ at such a young age was humiliating. Everyone knew, and it became one more reason I was picked on at school.
Then, when I was seven, a single phone call changed everything. I was mere feet from my mom when I overheard her talking, the worry in her voice unmistakable. Questions like, “Where will she be going?” and “Who said that?” made my stomach twist. I sat in the kitchen, trying to understand, but I knew it wasn’t good news. That day, I learned I was being placed in foster care. Someone at school had reported my mom to Child Protective Services because of her drinking. If you haven’t lived through that, you can’t imagine the feeling of having your entire world ripped away, of being a child caught in the storm.
Foster Care Placement
Over three to four weeks, I moved through four different homes, mostly family members, until October 1998, when I was placed in a foster home for the next seven and a half months. The home was run by two women, Lisa and Kelly. Lisa was kind, but Kelly made me feel unwelcome. I spent many nights eating TV dinners alone in the kitchen, the loneliness pressing down on me. At my new school, I was bullied mercilessly, and visits with my mom and uncle were limited to one hour on Wednesday evenings. Each goodbye felt like a knife to my heart. I often wondered if my dad even knew what was happening or what he would think.
I finally returned home in April 1999, but nothing felt the same. Life moved forward, but I was still bullied, still misunderstood, and still struggling to trust anyone. I wasn’t a leader then, just a follower. It was during those years in middle school that I promised myself life would be different—that I would build a life I could be proud of. But I didn’t yet realize how vulnerable I was, and those years left scars that haunt me even now.
Middle School Struggles
By eighth grade, I was thirteen. That year, my birthday was overshadowed by a recent surgery. Friends could make locker posters for each other, but mine had mostly cruel messages. Comments like, “Hope you die,” and “Don’t come back,” made me feel unwanted. I just wanted to feel seen, to feel like I mattered, but it didn’t come.
Becoming a Victim of Sexual Assault
Then came May 2005, a month that changed everything and shattered my innocence. I was with two girlfriends when we ended up with two older boys and their friends—strangers from out of town. What started as a simple outing to the movie theater turned into a nightmare behind the theater. Two of them assaulted me while I fought to escape. I remember calling for my friend, the fear, the struggle, the feeling of helplessness. Eventually, I broke free and ran faster than I ever had in my life.
I never spoke of it immediately. I was only four weeks shy of fourteen, and I felt destroyed, unworthy, and alone. I believed no one would understand, no one would care. That single event began a spiral of self-loathing and mistrust that shaped my teenage years. The following Wednesday, I broke down at school, telling a friend I no longer wanted to live. That prompted the school to involve the authorities, and my mother eventually learned the truth. That summer blurred by, and I entered high school carrying the weight of trauma, masking my pain with a smile.
Abusive Relationships and Early Independence
At fourteen, I fell into two abusive relationships. The first, during school, involved verbal and physical abuse. My mom had warned me, but I didn’t understand the danger until it was too late. Around this time, my dad reached out. After years of absence, he appeared at my home one evening. We talked, shared stories, and he gave me a photo—the only photo I still have of him. But the next day, after an argument, I pushed him away. I didn’t reply to his letters, a decision I would regret.
Months later, in late 2006, I met someone who would become the worst experience of my life. Over four years, I endured constant mental and physical abuse. I moved out at fifteen to escape my mother’s drinking and dropped out of school at sixteen—one of my biggest regrets. I was trapped in a cycle of fear, control, and trauma, pretending to be okay while my life was anything but. Many nights, I wished for God to take me because it felt impossible to survive.
Meeting My Wife and Finding Hope
Amid the chaos, in 2008, I met Aine through mutual online friends. I was lost, drinking too much, and surrounded by the wrong crowd. But Aine didn’t judge me. She listened, understood, and showed me genuine love. Those first few years were rocky, but she never gave up. She became my anchor, my reason to survive. Her family welcomed me with open arms, and for the first time, I felt like I belonged somewhere.
Loss and Redemption
In August 2009, I tried to reconnect with my father, only to learn he had died by suicide months earlier. The grief was unbearable. About a year later, in September 2010, I reached a breaking point and took a flight to Ireland to live with Aine. Meeting her in person for the first time at Dublin airport was surreal. I was nervous, awkward, and overwhelmed, but the moment she called out to me, I knew I had found home.
Aine showed me love, patience, and self-respect. I slowly began to heal, even as I battled depression, panic attacks, and anxiety. In December 2012, we married. That year marked the beginning of my transformation. In 2013, I pursued photography, and by 2014, I was accepted to college. In May 2015, I launched The Beautifully Broken Project, focusing on mental health and suicide prevention—a purpose born from my experiences and the memory of my father and childhood friends.
Healing and Growth
Today, I still struggle with pain and guilt, but my life is brighter. I am in counseling, on medication, and surrounded by love. I’ve learned that scars do not define me. I am unbreakable. Through trauma, abuse, loss, and heartbreak, I found love, purpose, and resilience. I am living proof that even the most broken can rebuild, and that hope is never out of reach.
