Prologue: The Night I Died

People always tell me I’m a survivor.

They say it with admiration, sympathy, and sometimes disbelief. They see the scar, hear that I was shot in the back of the head, and somehow survived. Then they tell me I must have been saved for a reason.

They’re right.

I was saved.

But surviving wasn’t the miracle.

Learning to live afterward was.

For years, I searched for the right words to describe that night. Attempted murder.

Domestic violence. Trauma. None of them ever felt big enough.

Because when someone raises a gun to the back of your head and pulls the trigger, they don’t just try to end your life. They shatter your sense of safety, your trust, and the person you once were.

The woman who woke up that morning never came home.

Someone else did.

Someone who startled at loud noises, memorized every exit, questioned every promise, and smiled while wondering if she would ever feel whole again.

People think surviving the gunshot was the hardest part.

It wasn’t.

The hardest part was waking up each day trying to believe the world wasn’t as dangerous as it suddenly seemed. It was grieving the woman I used to be while she was still alive in my memories.

For years, I chased the person I was before. Then I realized she wasn’t coming back—and maybe she wasn’t supposed to.

Healing wasn’t about becoming the old me.

It was about becoming someone new without forgetting where I came from.

This book isn’t about the man who shot me.

He changed my life, but he doesn’t own my story.

This story belongs to me.

It’s about surviving violence, grief, fear, and finding the strength to rebuild when everything familiar has been stripped away.

For years, I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell this story because telling it meant reliving it.

But silence protects pain.

Truth has a way of setting it free.

So this is my truth.

If you’re carrying wounds that make you believe your life is over, I want you to know what I eventually learned:

The worst thing that ever happens to you doesn’t have to be the last thing that defines you.

This is the story of how I lost my life…

and how, one day at a time, I found another one.

June 30, 2016

Reclaiming My Story

This story is not about the man who shot me. He changed my life, but he does not own my story.

It is about surviving violence, grief, and fear. It is about finding the strength to rebuild when everything familiar has been stripped away.

For years, I was not sure I wanted to tell this story because telling it meant reliving it. But silence protects pain. Truth has a way of setting it free.

What I Want You to Know

If you are carrying wounds that make you believe your life is over, I want you to know what I eventually learned:

The worst thing that ever happens to you does not have to be the last thing that defines you.

You can find strength in your pain. You can rebuild your life, even when it feels impossible.

You are not alone.