My Testimony

If I had to summarize my life in one sentence, it would probably be something like “during nearly ten years of rejection, abuse, fear, and loss, the only comfort I had was through the Man on the Cross.” Yes, I know, very poetic of me, but it’s true. For the first twelve years of my life, I had a typical Christian childhood. I went to church, memorized Bible verses, and sung all the songs. I also got to travel a bit because my father was in the military, and we would go back and forth between our houses in Georgia and Florida. We were not a perfect family, we were just an average, middle class family of five—two adults, two girls, and one little boy.

It wasn’t until I was around thirteen that things began to change. My mom moved her three children to New York City until my father could find a new house in Maryland, the location of yet another assignment. I didn’t know my mother’s parents very well, so the idea of being uprooted from my comfortable life to go stay with them for an indefinite amount of time wasn’t exactly appealing. But, I didn’t have a choice either, so up to the north we drove, and we have been living there ever since. New York City was a huge culture shock to me, and it’s where my entire world fell apart, and I learned what Psalm 23 really meant.

It began when I was thirteen, experiencing the wonderful roller coaster called Puberty. The onslaught of emotions and mood swings both confused and frustrated me, so I went to the one person who should have been able to offer me some sort of comfort—my mother. I have forgotten what exactly I said to her, but I will never forget her reply. The one person I should’ve been able to rely on looked me straight in the eye and said something like “whatever this is that you’re going through, you need to figure it out on your own and leave me out of it.” I was stunned. I was only thirteen, how was I supposed to figure out what was going on with me? I thought it was part of my mother’s job to help me, but I guess I was wrong. That wasn’t the only knife that stabbed me, one that carried my father’s name has it’s place on my back too.

Sometime around 2018, my father decided he no longer wanted to be part of our family. One cold winter morning when he was visiting from Maryland, I woke up to find that my father had left the house and he had no intention of stepping foot inside again. That morning, he stood outside the gate and texted me to say that he was done being married to my mom, so I handed him his stuff and he returned to Maryland. I don’t know what happened between them that day, my mother was at work that morning and her and I were out late the night before. That story is there own to share, and I blame both of them for that separation.

It took me about eight miserable years to ride that coaster, and it wasn’t close to easy. I had to endure a lot of emotional abuse from both my parents and my sister, which left me lonely, depressed, and deeply scarred. There were many late nights, after everyone was asleep, when I just cried and sung songs to my Savior. During those nights, there were no arms to hug me and no hands to wipe away my tears; only Jesus heard me cry and counseled me. Every time I entrusted my feelings and pain to my family, they turned around and used it against me. And yet, I couldn’t find it in me to abandon them like they did to me, especially not after the greatest event shook our household.

On a Saturday morning in 2023, we were participating in a karate promotion like we had done since we had moved to NYC. My sixteen-year-old brother never finished it because as he was sparing, he had a heart attack and fell into a coma. The following Tuesday, the youngest and happiest member of our family was declared brain-dead. I remember feeling almost nothing at the time, I was so used to blocking my emotions that I really had to put in an effort to know if I was feeling anything at all. Yet, during those four days, I remember feeling at peace. I was never worried or angry, I was content with whatever happened. That Monday, I think I knew he wasn’t going to wake up, because I had the urge to tell him that it was okay for him to go and that I would take care of our mom and sister. I don’t know if he heard me, but he was gone that night.

That loss was perhaps the biggest thing that shook our family, and yet it also brought some peace and comfort. My father wanted full custody of my brother, and that meant my innocent little brother would be introduced to my father’s newfound world of polyamory. However, my brother was safe with Jesus now and his innocence was never taken advantage of. One of my biggest desires was that I could protect my brother from all the pain I had suffered, and God gave me that wish in an unexpected way.

During that decade, I learned that the only person I could rely on was Christ Jesus, for He never held my stupid mistakes against me. During that time of pain and loneliness, God was teaching me how to depend on Him and trust Him entirely. The only Friend I had when I really needed someone was Jesus.