Unraveling the Cycles

Unraveling the Cycles: A Journey to Reclaim My Voice and My Body

Disclaimer: This is my personal story. It may make you uncomfortable. 

There’s a whisper that comes from Spirit when something long buried begins to stir. It doesn’t shout. It nudges. It brushes against the heart like wind through tall grass, asking you to pause, to feel, to look back with softer eyes. Lately, I’ve been feeling that whisper more clearly, as if my soul is finally ready to unravel some of the threads I’ve kept tightly wound in the shadows.

Throughout my life, I’ve been a strong woman. A warrior. I’ve always picked myself up, dusted myself off, and kept moving. But in the quiet, Spirit has been asking: Have you healed? Or have you simply survived?

The truth is, I’ve lived through many moments that left marks on my spirit—experiences that were violating, dismissive, and dehumanizing. And until recently, I didn’t see how these experiences were not just isolated incidents, but part of a repeating cycle. A pattern I never asked for, but one that kept finding me.

I was just 11 when I had a slumber party with my girlfriends. Our room was lit with glowing blacklight posters, and we were laughing, dancing, innocent. Then I looked over—and there was a man in a white hat peering into the window, watching us. The fear that rushed through me still lives somewhere in my body. The police were called. He was arrested. But the memory never left.

Later, after moving to a lake in Georgia, I loved riding my bike in the summer sun. I was curvy, radiant, and free. But even then, my body was not respected. A boy in the neighborhood made a habit of riding past me, brushing his hands across my chest. I warned him. He laughed. So I pushed him and his bike into a ditch. He cried. I didn’t. I just wanted to be safe.

At 14, during a school field trip to the town’s steam plant, I stopped to use the restroom. As I exited, a large man started guiding me toward a corner. I didn’t freeze—I pushed him hard against the wall and ran. My instincts always knew how to protect me.

And yet, the cycle kept returning.

In my late 20s, I worked in a small-town grocery store. The owner had wandering hands and no boundaries. He preyed on the women who worked there—cornering them in back rooms, taking what was never his to take. Some felt trapped. They charged groceries on account and couldn’t risk losing their job. I worked in the office, which only made me more accessible to him. It was traumatic, suffocating, and deeply demeaning.

I wasn’t allowed to quit. My husband at the time said we needed the money. I felt like a prisoner. One afternoon, after another uncomfortable encounter, I went to my aunt’s house during lunch, shaking. When I told her what happened, she picked up the phone, called the store, and told them I wouldn’t be returning. She gave me back my voice when I couldn’t use it. My husband didn’t speak to me for months.

There have been more moments. I’ve been raped—twice. I don’t share this for pity. I share it because hiding it has only allowed the pain to keep echoing through my life. I share it because I know I’m not alone.

We repeat what we don’t repair.

And I’m beginning to see that this lifetime—this beautiful, painful, sacred lifetime—may be my opportunity to end the cycle. To release the cords. To heal what has lived in silence. Not just for myself, but for the women who came before me, and for those who will come after.

It takes immense courage to unravel. To look into the places you’ve locked away because the pain was too much. But Spirit keeps whispering, You’re ready now. And maybe I am.

I’ve always been a warrior. But now I want to be a healer—for myself. I want to honor my body as sacred. I want to walk in the world without flinching, without fear, without the weight of unhealed wounds guiding my steps.

If you, too, have lived through pain… I see you. If your story feels too heavy to carry alone, please know—you’re not alone. The path of healing begins not with forgetting, but with remembering… and then gently letting go.

This is the beginning of that journey for me.

And I believe, truly, it can be the beginning for you too.