about

Her Story

A few years ago, I met a girl from Myanmar. She was around my age with eyes that told of burdens far beyond her years. She was the oldest of eight kids. Her father had left them, and her mother was ill. I met her at a university convenience store, and we bonded over our love of books. She shared with me her dreams with eyes shining at the thought of past possibilities, then quickly dimming at the sting of her sacrifice. She'd wanted to study at the university and get a job that would make her enough money to eventually care for her family and see the world. However, that dream drowned in responsibility when her father left them, and she was the only one capable of providing for her family.

She sighed deeply and smiled as she told me about her decision to work at a university convenience store in order to be close to books. I marveled at her strength but instantly regretted my words of admiration when I saw her eyes fill with tears. She shook her head, and with a pained smile, said, "I'm not strong. This is how I survive."

We were silent for a little while. Then, with sight blinded by tears, I searched for her hand. I apologized for my ignorance. Not too long ago, I had traveled an ocean in search of stars, only to face horror after horror before grabbing onto a pen for dear life. Then we talked, cried, and laughed. We felt the strings of memory fall off as we shared what had happened to us. We didn't have to act the role of a survivor anymore; we could just be. We didn't have to mask our anguish, nor did we have to suffer guilt every time we saw hope in unimaginable things. We could be free. We cried and laughed until her hands stopped trembling and clasped mine in understanding.

—

My story began long before I crossed oceans with my mother in pursuit of the “American Dream,” but it took a significant turn when I became a child slave in what I would later discover was domestic servitude, a form of human trafficking. It was an experience I did not fully acknowledge until college, after a fateful encounter eventually led me to advocacy work and mentoring young trafficking survivors.

Through that experience and the deep losses that followed, writing became both a refuge and a way of bringing beauty from ashes when my pen was placed in the hands of the Lord. Over the years, I have come to believe that God has given me the ability to paint hope with words; not just for my own healing, but in hopes of mending the hearts of others.

Whether through writing, counseling, or speaking, the desire is the same: to help others feel seen, find healing, and connect with hope along their journey. I often say, “If there is so much evil in the world, then there must be so much good.” I found that good in Christ, and it is my heart that my words might be little lights along the way for anyone searching for hope.

Q & A

  • The Bible. I always say my Father taught me how to paint with words because the Bible is very poetic. When God speaks, His words seem to give us the ability to see His heart. I find that really fascinating. Poetry is able to convey things in such a way that you can almost feel what the writer feels and see what they see. It provides a sort of depth to words that makes the reader stop and take notice. I can tell you something is beautiful, and at a glance you may agree or disagree, but I can describe it in such a way that even if you eventually disagree, you are made to stop and really take notice of it. That is the beauty and power of poetry.

  • Hopelessness. I have seen many people who have been maimed by their past and have lost hope. I especially see this with people who have had to endure multiple hardships and traumatic experiences. I believe much of the world is sighing heavily from the exhaustion of living with wounds and are in need of hope.

  • It has always been my prayer that as people read my work, they feel seen and it is hope that their heart sees. I pray that they experience freedom. I pray that my writing opens the door to hard conversations around the topics of trauma, healing, and faith.

  • Poetry allows me to express myself. It helps me process difficult emotions. There are times I don't know how to verbally put into words what l'm feeling, but once I take pen to paper, the words flow freely. Above all, poetry has allowed me to paint hope with words.

    My favorite poet/ author of all time is C.S Lewis. I believe there is a depth of wisdom that is borne through suffering and to be able to take that pain and turn it into purpose in helping others, is truly remarkable.