Scribed In Light

Every time I thought of my childhood, the chains tightened around me.

I could feel them—a constriction, a weight, a silent force—clenching around my heart. They grew tighter with every moment I witnessed a mother nurturing her child, every gentle touch I never knew. My heart— starved for the affections every child rightfully deserves, shrank beneath the weight of longing.

The coils of those chains bit into my soul, a cruel, unrelenting reminder of what never was.

Each time she presented herself to others as an adoring mother—warm, gentle, supporting, loving—I shrank into myself, the wounds splitting open like old scars torn anew.

Her tenderness toward the world—her desperate need for validation, for the acknowledgment and praise of a mother she had so horribly diminished from at the start of my youth—sharpened the blade that had already cut me so deeply.

And with every display of the mother I had longed for, the echoes of my own reality reverberated louder—shattering in the fragile barriers I had built to contain the ache.

I recoiled, not just in resentment, but in a grief so consuming it threatened to unravel me. I had spent my life trying to outrun the past, only to find its shadow waiting in the places I least expected—wrapped in the softness of a love that had never been mine.

The Silent Bystanders

Perhaps even more harrowing than the dark shadows my sisters and I endured, was the constant reckoning with the world outside our hellish nightmare.

The relentless confrontations. The challenges. The pointed whys from family members—Aunts, Uncles, distant relatives—those who had been bystanders to our suffering. They witnessed more than fleeting glimpses—they saw, at times, the striking firsthand acts of heated violence, the verbal lashings that carved deep into our innocence, and the bruises that spoke of horrors behind closed doors,. And yet, they turned away.

Even more harrowing were the assaults that left their own children, as they shared once becoming adults—our cousins, our childhood confidants—in silent question of their parents’ inaction.

The Weight of Accountability

Yet as we stepped into adulthood, the weight of accountability shifted.

Instead of reckoning with their own silence, they sought to justify it— turning the burden upon us. And let me tell you how that came as a slap in the face. It took everything within me to crucify the flesh that rose up from that and channel it into spirit, and grace, in an attempt to maintain those relationships.

They demanded explanations for the distance we had long placed between ourselves and those who had failed to protect us…our parents.

It was, in a sense, a cruel mimicry of the very abuse we had endured— only now, it was wrapped in the suffocating expectation of compliance.

As if we were meant to submit once more—this time not to our abusers, but to the denial of those who should have intervened.

Whether their turning away had been from discomfort, fear, or the unbearable weight of facing our suffering, the truth remained:

They questioned us years too late.

Seeking answers, projecting guilt upon us to ease their own, all while truth had long since been buried in the wreckage of our 3 sisters’ lives.

The despair was never just in the abuse itself—it was in the knowledge that so many who could have made a difference chose not to.

Breaking The Silence

But THIS is not about condemning the past.

This is about making sure that the silence never has the last word. That no child suffers in the shadows because someone deemed it not their place to intervene.

This is about breaking the cycle.

Not about condemning. Not about finger-pointing. Not about demanding a reckoning. It is about breaking the silence. It is about calling out the quiet complicity that allows cycles of abuse to continue unchecked. Not to shame, but to AWAKEN.

Because the truth is, there are still children out there.

Still suffering in silence.

Still waiting in fervent, desperate hope.

Still waiting for someone— to open their eyes, their hearts, their spirit, their mouths— and ACT.

I Write for Them

I don’t share my story for pity. I have grown past that.

I don’t write these words for vengeance. I found no solace in that.

I no longer need apologies to heal. I no longer need acknowledgment to be free.

I no longer need to carry the weight of what should have been.

Forgiveness became irrelevant.

Not because they deserved it, but because I deserved the peace and freedom to transform.

I write for THEM.

For the ones trapped behind closed doors that no one knocks on.

For the ones whose bruises are overlooked, whose cries are muffled beneath “It’s not my place.”

For the unseen victims of today’s everyday and present world—the ones who cling to hope, while listening for the sound of rescue in the deafening silence of their suffering.

For The Silent Bystanders

And for those who choose to remain bystanders—the silent enablers, the unwilling accomplices to suffering—not out of malice, but out of your own fear, discomfort, or self-preservation.

Know this:

Silence does not absolve; it binds.

It holds you within the very cycle and grips you turn from, your inaction threading new links in the same chain of suffering.

Yet, even now, the choice remains.

You can remain idle, lost in the distractions of the world around you…

Or you can step forward.

Bold. Unwavering. Filled with the light of empowerment and rescue.

You can be the hands that lift, the voice that speaks, the presence that says:

I SEE YOU, AND I WILL NOT LOOK AWAY.

May You Instead Rise

For in the end, we are all bound together— not just in the suffering, but in the power to heal. One for all. And all, accountable for one another.

For those who choose silence—I pray God’s mercy upon your soul. I pray for His protection over the loved ones within your own family, for the generations yet to come—lest they too find themselves entangled in the same chains of neglect, bound by the silence you once upheld.

May you instead rise— Rise above the distractions of this world. Resist the lull of ignorance, and become the voice, the hands, the light that reaches them—before it’s too late.

In the end, silence is not just the absence of words—it is the weight of unspoken truths, the chains of suffering left unbroken.

But the choice remains.

You can look away. Or you can see.

You can turn your back. Or you can step forward and act.

You can remain silent. Or you can be the voice that breaks the cycle.

If you have ever known suffering—or if you have ever turned from it—now is the time.

Step into what can be changed, healed, and made whole.

Rise.

Break the silence.

Be the Light.

Because somewhere a child is waiting for your courage to create a difference in their world…in their suffering.

Martin Luther King Jr.—”In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

James 4:17—So

whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.