A Note on Privacy:
This series shares parts of my personal journey as a woman, a mother, and a believer walking through hard seasons. When my daughters or son are mentioned, their stories are shared only with their awareness and consent, and details are intentionally limited to protect their dignity, privacy, and emotional well-being. This is my journey through the trenches — not a retelling of theirs.
The Day Everything Changed
I was in middle school when my dad was diagnosed with cancer, Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. The doctors said it was “curable,” but what I heard was the quiet fear nobody spoke aloud: he could die. His spleen was enlarged, filled with so much blood that if it ruptured, he would bleed out almost instantly. There would be no time for goodbyes. No time to say the things you’re supposed to say. Just… gone. His health was fragile, and every day felt uncertain.
And nobody talked about it.
At least not to me. Not in a way that helped a middle school girl process the terror of watching her dad go through chemo, knowing that every day he was still alive was a gift that could be taken back without warning. My body reacted before my mind could make sense of it. Cold sores appeared, from stress, a friend’s mom, who was a nurse, told me. I’d had them as a kid, but they’d been gone for a while. Now they were back, a physical manifestation of the fear I had no words for. Anxiety settled into my bones. I had no words for any of it.
So I found other ways to cope.
When Pain Becomes Control
I don’t remember the first time I cut myself, but I remember the release.
When life feels completely out of control, when fear sits in your chest like a stone, physical pain can feel like something you control. The pain is yours. The blood is yours. The release is immediate. It wasn’t about wanting to die; it was about needing a release from emotions I didn’t know how to carry.
Psalm 34:18 says, "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit."
But I didn’t know that then. I didn’t know God was near. I just knew I felt like I was drowning, and cutting was the only way I knew how to come up for air.
The Coping Mechanisms We Carry
Over time, I discovered healthier outlets thanks to counseling.
- Journaling became my safe place.
- A snapped rubber band became a substitute for a blade.
But the most dangerous coping mechanism of all was silence.
I learned to bury everything. To smile. To function. To keep going. To pretend the fear and pain didn’t exist.
Proverbs 12:25 tells us, "Anxiety in a man's heart weighs him down, but a good word makes him glad."
I carried that weight alone for years, never learning that sharing the burden could lighten it.
That silence followed me into adulthood. Into marriage. Into motherhood. I became the woman who could hold everything together on the outside while quietly crumbling on the inside.
When Your Daughters Walk the Same Road
Fast forward to 2020. One of my daughters was carrying emotional burdens far too heavy for her age; pain she didn’t know how to articulate, and emotional weight that crushed her spirit.
The darkness I had known as a teenager was now threatening to swallow my daughter whole. She began struggling with suicidal ideation, and the situation escalated to a crisis point that still makes my heart stop when I think about it.
Then, in the fall of 2024, my other daughter began cutting. What started as fingernail scratches became something we couldn’t ignore; scars that mirrored the invisible ones I still carried. Her pain escalated until we had no choice but to seek professional help through a behavioral crisis center.
Two daughters. Two different seasons. The same desperate fight for survival.
And suddenly, everything I had lived through made sense.
The Purpose in the Pain
Isaiah 43:2 says, "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you."
I understood my daughters in a way that only someone who has walked that road can. I recognized the signs. I understood the silence. I knew how easily the mind can turn pain inward when the world feels too heavy to bear.
But I also knew what had helped me survive.
- Journaling.
- Rubber band snapping.
- Honesty.
- Naming the darkness out loud so it lost some of its power.
I taught them the same tools that once saved me, not perfect solutions, but lifelines. Moment-by-moment ways to choose survival over surrender. Ways to feel pain without creating new scars.
One of my daughters still uses the rubber band technique when stress threatens to overwhelm her. It’s not a cure, but a choice. A sting instead of a scar. A redirect instead of destruction.
I went through hell as a teenager, so I could guide my daughters through theirs. My unprocessed trauma became processed wisdom. My pain became purpose.
The Woman I Became
That terrified middle school girl shaped the mother I am today.
The silence I learned became both a strength and a struggle; I can carry heavy burdens, but I still wrestle with asking for help. The need for control taught me resilience, but also the false belief that I had to carry everything alone.
Unprocessed trauma doesn’t just disappear. It shapes you. It becomes the lens through which you see the world, the filter through which you parent, the foundation on which you build your life.
But here’s what I’ve learned: God doesn’t waste our pain.
Romans 8:28 says, “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.”
But notice, it doesn’t say all things are good. But God can take what the enemy intended for destruction and turn it into a weapon of compassion, wisdom, and strength.
He took a girl who cut herself to feel in control and equipped her to recognize the signs in her own daughters. He took unprocessed trauma and transformed it into processed wisdom. He took my darkest season and made it the very thing that prepared me to help my girls fight when they entered their own darkness.
To the Mom in the Trenches
If you see yourself in this story,
The girl who cut. The woman carrying unspoken trauma. The mom watching her child battle inner darkness.
Hear me: Your pain wasn’t wasted.
The darkness you survived wasn’t meaningless. The coping mechanisms you used, even the unhealthy ones, kept you alive until you could heal. And the scars you carry, visible or not, can become someone else’s roadmap out of the dark.
Psalm 73:26 says, "My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever."
God is in the business of taking our broken pieces and creating something beautiful, not by erasing what happened, but by redeeming it.
You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t have to be fully healed before you can help someone else. Sometimes the most powerful ministry comes from showing up in the trenches with your scars still visible and saying, “I survived this. You can too.“
Reflection Questions
- What unprocessed trauma are you still carrying from your past?
- What coping mechanisms, healthy or unhealthy, helped you survive?
- How has your pain equipped you to help others?
- Where do you need to break the silence?
A Prayer for the Brokenhearted
Father, thank You for being close to the brokenhearted. Redeem the wounds we carry. Give us courage to face the trauma we’ve buried and wisdom to help others from a place of grace, honesty, and compassion. Use our stories to bring light into someone else’s darkness. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
This is the first post in the “From The Trenches” series—a raw, unfiltered look at faith, failure, and finding hope in the valley. If this post resonated with you, I’d love to hear your story. You can comment below or reach out privately at danece@momleavesalegacy.com. You’re not alone in this fight. 🩷🩵
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