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Some people grow into hardship slowly.
I didn’t.
I was born into a family already carrying wounds heavy enough to shape every part of my life.

Two years before I was born, my mother’s best friend — our cousin, John Michon — died by suicide.
His birthday is November 6th, the day after mine.

His death shattered my mother, tore through the family, and created a wound no one ever truly recovered from.

And the trauma surrounding his death made it worse:

When John died, his ex-girlfriend C found his body —
but she didn’t report it for three days.
She said she “couldn’t let him go.”
In that time, she stole his clothing, and because of her delay,
no one in our family was allowed to say goodbye.

My mother never got closure.
My family never got to see him one last time.
And I was born into the aftershock of a suicide that was never allowed to be properly mourned.

That was the emotional landscape of my life before I was even born.

Three Months Old — My First Funeral

At just three months old, I attended my great-grandmother’s funeral.
Her final wish was for me to be baptized during her service.

The church refused.

Even as an infant, I was already part of heartbreak that adults couldn’t fix.
That moment became a pattern:
love mixed with loss, wishes denied, and grief shaping my milestones.

Growing Up Sick — And Being Ignored

My body hurt long before anyone understood why.
Doctors dismissed me for years.
My mother believed them because they were “professionals.”

I was written off, talked over, minimized — until I became my own advocate at just 15 years old.

I logged my symptoms, demanded answers, and fought for myself.

That’s when everything changed.
A specialist told my mother:

“She may need at least two surgeries.”

It shattered the denial instantly.

My mom had a panic attack during my first surgery — realizing the truth she had missed for years.

Then came:

• eight major surgeries
• chronic pain
• medical trauma
• misdiagnoses
• isolation
• near-death withdrawal
• pain medications so strong they’re used at end-of-life

At one point, I needed hydromorphone every two hours and fentanyl patches 24/7.

I wasn’t living — I was surviving.

16 Years Old — Fighting to Be Believed About Endometriosis

As if everything wasn’t already enough, at 16 years old, I developed severe endometriosis.

But instead of help, the first gynecologist —
Dr. Navi —
looked at a sixteen-year-old girl in agony
and called me a drug seeker.

A child.
In pain.
Dismissed as an addict.

It was disgusting.
And it was traumatizing — one more medical betrayal on top of everything else.

Then came the doctor who finally believed me:
Dr. Brooks.

He saw what was wrong immediately.
He took me seriously.
And he treated me.

But the treatment was brutal:

At 16 years old, I was put on Lupron injections
— forced into chemical menopause
for five years.

A teenager experiencing hot flashes, bone pain, night sweats, hormonal chaos — everything adult women don’t even want to go through.

After those five years, I was switched to Depo-Provera shots
for years, until I was 26.

My body was medically suppressed for an entire decade of my life.

And despite everything, I fought back.

Through specific vitamins, supplements, and dietary changes,
I eventually entered remission —

something doctors never believed would happen.

October 2018 — Saying Goodbye While I Was Falling Apart

In October 2018, my grandmother was taken off life support.

Even though I was severely ill — physically deteriorating and barely functioning —
I forced myself to go to the hospital to say goodbye.

My illness was so visible that my cousins, for the first time, finally saw how bad things really were.

My Uncle John, who still hasn’t spoken to me since, was so shaken by how sick I looked that he couldn’t speak at all.

He physically pulled my mother out of the hospital room because he couldn’t emotionally process seeing me like that while I was saying my final goodbye to his mother.

It was a breaking point months in the making.

The Night Before Thanksgiving — When My Mind Finally Broke

Everything in my life collided the night before Thanksgiving 2018.

Pain.
Trauma.
Surgeries.
Endometriosis hell.
Withdrawal from opioids.
Losing my grandmother.
Mental exhaustion.
Generational grief.
Physical collapse.

I fell into full psychosis.

Not fear.
Not panic.
Not anxiety.

A complete detachment from reality itself.

Doctors told my mother I might never come back fully.

But I did.
Piece by piece.
Day by day.
Thought by thought.

I rebuilt myself from a place most people never return from.

A Life Surrounded by Suicide

With John’s suicide as part of my family history,
with the trauma surrounding it,
with the silence and grief that followed,
suicide was never abstract to me.

I grew up recognizing:

• bipolar patterns
• manic depression
• the mental illness no one talked about
• the warning signs
• the generational trauma
• the emotional cycles

So when Collin died, it hit a part of me already cracked open.

People forget he spent time at my ranch as a teenager.
He helped build my arena.
He was part of my story before life fell apart for both of us.

His death wasn’t just tragedy —
it was familiar trauma resurfacing.

I understood his mental state because I had seen it before.
I understood his girlfriend, Michelle’s grief because I’ve lived that grief — more than once.

Animals, Rescue, and Rebuilding My Life

Despite everything I’ve lived through —
or maybe because of it —
my healing came through animals.

Horses.
Dogs.
Cats.
Bottle babies.
Rescues abandoned by the world.
Animals surviving their own trauma.

They didn’t judge me.
They didn’t dismiss me.
They didn’t call me dramatic or drug-seeking.
They didn’t walk away.

They healed beside me.

I rescue because I know what it feels like to need saving.
I rehabilitate because I rebuilt myself from ruins.
I give second chances because I am one.

My ranch became the sanctuary I never had growing up —
for animals and for me.

Why I Tell My Story

People see the strong version of me.
The healed version.
The “bright, hardworking, resilient” version.

But behind it is a lifetime of:

• suicide loss
• generational grief
• endometriosis hell
• being called a drug seeker at 16
• forced menopause
• 10 years of hormone injections
• eight surgeries
• opioid-level pain
• near-death withdrawal
• saying goodbye to my grandmother while dying inside
• psychosis
• repressed memories
• animals saving me
• rebuilding my entire life
• surviving again and again

I share this because someone out there feels alone in their grief, trauma, illness, or survival.

You’re not alone.
I survived.
I rebuilt.
I am still healing.
I am still here.

This is my story.
This is why I understand loss — especially suicide — in a way most people never have to.
This is why I show up for others.

This is how I became the woman I am today.