Nearly one year ago, I was running for my life, literally.
September 24, 2025, started like any other day with him. But it ended with his hands around my throat, squeezing until the world went black. When I woke up, I realized something had finally broken inside me, not my spirit, but my denial. I finally understood: He was going to kill me.
I left him that day, two days before my 23rd birthday.
I thought leaving would be the hard part. But surviving the aftermath was a different kind of war. I moved back into my mom’s house, a roof over my head, yes, but not a home. At 23, I was sharing her bed, her room, her space. My sister treated me like a burden. My enabling mother gave everything to my brothers while I was expected to just exist in the chaos. I had no privacy, no peace, and no room to heal. I was out of the fire but still sitting in the ashes.
I went back to the Family Justice Center, and they connected me with Day One.
I didn’t know what to expect. I just knew I couldn’t do it alone anymore. Day One didn’t just give me a caseworker; they gave me a lifeline. They listened to my story without judgment. They saw a survivor, not a victim. And then they did something I still can’t fully put into words: they helped me apply for Rapid Rehousing.
That was the moment everything started to shift.
While I waited, I didn’t sit still. I started school in January 2025 and never stopped. I became a behavioral technician, a job where I get to help kids the way I wish someone had helped me. I started saving every dollar. I booked a trip to the Dominican Republic for my birthday, something he never would have taken me on. I started believing I deserved good things.
On August 21, 2026, I got the call.
My housing coach, Eddie, told me I had the keys to my very own apartment. Not a shelter. Not a couch. Not a room I had to share. My own door. My own lock. My own peace.
I walked into that empty apartment, and I cried. Not because I was sad, but because, for the first time in my life, I heard absolute silence. No screaming. No gaslighting. No sister walking through my room. No serving a man who never loved me. Just the sound of my own breath in a space that was mine.
This weekend, I’ll be buying my first bed, a pink couch, and a rolling cart to haul my groceries and laundry up the stairs. It’s not a mansion. It’s better. It’s mine.
Day One didn’t just house me. They saw me when I was invisible. They helped me believe that I wasn’t “starting over” from nothing. I was escaping into everything I deserved. They reminded me that I am the author of my own story now.
To anyone reading this who is still in that dark place: It took me four years, a strangulation, and a lot of prayer to get here. But I made it. If I can, you can too.
My advice? Apply. Show up. Tell your truth. And when you get your keys, walk in and take up all the space you deserve.
Because your Day One isn’t just a program. It’s your permission slip to finally live.
