Chapter 67: Full Circle
In June, I received an invitation that brought my journey full circle in an unexpected way. The Birmingham shelter where Susan and I had stayed twenty-six years ago was celebrating its fiftieth anniversary. They wanted me to speak at the celebration.
"I don't know," I told Jake, holding the invitation. "That shelter represents such a dark time in my life."
"It also represents the beginning of your freedom," he pointed out. "You stayed there for three weeks before moving to Riverside. That was where you first felt safe enough to imagine a future."
He was right, of course. The shelter had been terrifying and liberating all at once. A place of last resort that had become the foundation for everything that came after.
I called the director, a woman named Patricia Chen, and accepted the invitation.
Two weeks later, Jake and I drove to Birmingham. The shelter had moved to a larger building since my time there, but the philosophy remained the same—providing safety, support, and resources to women and children fleeing violence.
Patricia gave me a tour before the celebration. The building was bright and clean, with separate apartments for families, a children's play area, a computer lab, and a counseling center.
"We serve about two hundred families a year now," Patricia explained. "We've expanded our services to include job training, legal advocacy, and long-term housing assistance. Many of our staff members are former residents who wanted to give back."
She introduced me to several staff members. One of them, a woman named Maria, looked familiar.
"We met years ago," Maria said, seeing my confusion. "You probably don't remember. I was staying here with my daughter when you were here. You told me that one day I'd be strong enough to help others the way people were helping me. I didn't believe you then. But here I am, working as a counselor."
I did remember her—a young mother, maybe twenty-five, with a baby who cried constantly. She'd been so ashamed, barely able to look anyone in the eye.
"You told me that shame was the abuser's tool, not mine to carry," Maria continued. "That changed everything for me. I stopped hiding and started healing."
The celebration that evening was attended by hundreds of people—former residents, current staff, donors, community partners, and advocates. The energy in the room was joyful, a celebration of resilience and hope.
When it was my turn to speak, I looked out at the crowd and saw my own journey reflected in so many faces. The fear, the courage, the determination to build something better.
"Twenty-six years ago, I came to this shelter with my five-year-old daughter and forty-seven dollars," I began. "I was terrified. Broken. Convinced that my ex-husband would find us and kill us both. I couldn't imagine a future beyond the next day, the next hour, the next minute."
I paused, letting the memory wash over me.
"The women in this shelter saved my life. Not just by giving me a safe place to sleep, but by showing me what survival looked like. There was a woman named Gloria who'd been there for two months. She had a job and an apartment lined up. She was leaving the next week. And she was excited, not scared. Watching her pack her things and plan her new life—that's when I first believed escape might actually lead somewhere good."
I saw several people nodding in recognition.
"This shelter doesn't just provide beds and meals. It provides something more important—hope. The concrete, tangible kind of hope that comes from seeing other women make it out and build good lives. That hope is what carried me to Riverside. What gave me the courage to stop running and start building. What eventually led me to create an institute to help other survivors."
I clicked to the next slide, showing photos of the institute.
"Everything I've accomplished started here. In this shelter. With women like Gloria showing me that survival was possible. With counselors who believed me when I said I was in danger. With volunteers who watched Emma while I went to job interviews. This building is where I learned that I didn't have to do everything alone."
After the speech, I spent two hours talking with current residents. Their stories were heartbreakingly familiar—violence, fear, escape. But their eyes held something mine had held twenty-six years ago: hope struggling to break through the terror.
One young woman, barely twenty, approached me hesitantly. "Did you ever stop being scared? Like, really stop?"
I considered her question carefully. "The fear changes. It gets smaller and quieter. There are still moments when I'm scared—but now I know the fear doesn't have to control me. I can be scared and brave at the same time."
"How long did it take?"
"That's different for everyone. But I can tell you this—every day you survive is a day of healing, even when it doesn't feel like it. Even when you're just getting through the hours. That's healing too."
She nodded slowly, absorbing this.
Before we left, Patricia pulled me aside. "Several residents asked if you'd be willing to come back and speak regularly. Maybe quarterly? Your presence here means a lot to them."
I agreed immediately. This felt right—coming back to where my journey began, offering hope to women just starting their own journeys.
On the drive home, Jake reached for my hand. "That was powerful. Seeing where you started."
"It's strange. That shelter used to represent the worst time in my life. Now it feels like the best thing that could have happened. It saved us."
"It gave you a chance. You did the rest."
We drove in comfortable silence for a while. Then I said, "I want to do more work with shelters. Not running programs or institutes, just showing up. Talking to women. Being proof that survival leads somewhere good."
"I think that's perfect for this phase of your life."
Over the next months, I visited shelters across the Southeast. Just showing up, sharing my story, answering questions. No cameras, no publicity, no grand initiatives. Just one survivor talking to others.
It reminded me why I'd started this work in the first place. Not for recognition or impact metrics or policy changes—though those things mattered. But for the simple, profound act of helping one person believe they could survive.
The scared woman in the parking lot had become many things—advocate, founder, speaker, author. But the most important thing she'd become was proof that transformation was possible.
And sometimes, being proof was enough.