They say journaling is a great way to heal. In 2016, I found myself writing things I never imagined I’d live through. Every entry was a lifeline—a sacred, gritty, and sometimes disorienting thread holding me together.
September 7, 2016
“Realizing that our house is filled with stress again after our conversation with the city prosecutor…”
That day, I started waking up to the reality that not all systems meant to protect you actually will. There I was, retraumatized by the same court system I thought would bring justice. Instead, I got a maze of unprepared interns, missed facts, and courtroom performances that felt more like theater than truth-seeking.
“It’s the most radical form of bullshit known if you ask me.”
Exactly that. There’s a pain that comes from surviving violence, but there’s a different kind of ache—one that cuts deeper—when the people who are supposed to help you just don’t care.
“I feel wounded still. On many levels I still am. Life is a gift even when it is turbulent.”
And still, I held both. The trauma and the gratitude. I started a new job. I smiled for my coworkers. I got up each day and surfed with friends at dawn. I kept moving. Because the only thing worse than what happened would be letting it define me.
September 10, 2016
“I surfed with Jen this morning. I am starting to enjoy life more.”
The ocean was the only place I felt free. In the water, my body didn’t have to defend itself. I could laugh again. Feel the sun on my skin. Share inside jokes and forget—if only for a few waves—that I was in the middle of a legal battle that treated my injuries like inconveniences.
September 19, 2016
“Sometimes a part of us must die before another part can come to life.”
Reading this on that day felt like divine timing. That month, I was molting. Grieving an old self that thought if I told the truth, people would do the right thing. That version of me had to go. And in her place? A woman who stopped waiting for the world to validate her pain.
September 28, 2016
“Sitting at the rehearsal dinner seeing myself crying from heaven looking down at my family missing me …had I died?”
This one shook me. That’s how real it was. That’s how close I came to not making it. And yet here I am. Writing. Living. Loving my daughter. Building a life on the other side of heartbreak.
The truth is, healing doesn’t come from a courtroom verdict. It comes from telling your story, no matter who listens. It comes from surfing at sunrise. From tight jaws and tears that need to fall. From holding both rage and grace in your heart at the same time.
If you’re in it now, keep writing. Keep breathing. Keep getting back in your body. This is not how your story ends.
Strangled In La Jolla 