Scribed In Light

by Tina N. Campbell | Scribed in Light

I saw her face again today — Gabby Petito — and that ache hit like the first time. We remember her now as a headline, a hashtag, a tragic symbol of everything we didn’t see soon enough. But long before her story trended, she was still breathing, still crying, still trying to be believed. That’s the part that breaks me most… because I know what that feels like.

I know the sound of disbelief. I know the look people give when they’ve already decided who the “unstable one” is. The tone that shifts from concern to condescension. The whisper that becomes a weapon. You try to tell the truth, but by the time it leaves your lips, it’s been rewritten by someone else’s calm smile and calculated charm.

Gaslighting doesn’t always come from one person — sometimes it comes from a crowd. From the onlookers who’d rather keep the peace than confront the pattern. From the ones who say, “Well, you both have your issues,” as if abuse and accountability share the same weight. From the ones who hear the tremor in your voice and still ask, “Are you sure it’s that bad?”

My kids and I lived it. We were branded by the fallout of other people’s comfort zones. Society loves a redemption story, but not when the victim’s still standing, still fighting, still messy. They want pain tied up with a bow — not the truth that bleeds and breathes.

The world applauds survival once you’ve risen, but mocks it while you’re crawling. And God help you if you react. Cry too hard, and you’re dramatic. Go quiet, and you’re complicit. Show strength, and you must have exaggerated. The cycle is cruel — and it’s older than hashtags.

That’s the sickness no one wants to name. We don’t just fail to protect women like Gabby — we often crucify them emotionally while they’re still alive. We idolize them once they’re gone, but demonize them when their story doesn’t fit the script of “perfect victim.”

I’ve seen the way people twist a woman’s confusion into comedy, her trauma into a talking point. I’ve watched friends stay silent because speaking up cost them their peace, their families, their sanity. The truth is this: we still live in a culture that finds it easier to doubt the broken than to confront the breaker.

But here’s what I’ve learned walking through my own fire:
Truth doesn’t need proof to exist. It just needs light.
And grace — real grace — doesn’t ask you to stay quiet. It stands beside you in the trembling and says, “You’re not crazy. You’re healing.”

I used to pray for people to see the truth. Now I pray for hearts to hold it when they do. Because seeing doesn’t always mean believing. Sometimes it just means turning away.

To those still in it, still unheard, still piecing yourselves back together: your tears are not drama. Your fear is not exaggeration. You are not what they called you when they needed to cover their guilt.
You are evidence that light survives the dark.

To everyone else — the friends, neighbors, coworkers, the church folk — start believing before the hashtag. Before the headline. Before the memorials. When the victim’s still breathing, and the truth is still whispering through her shaking voice.

Proverbs 31:8–9

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves; ensure justice for those being crushed. Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless, and see that they get justice.”

Until the world learns to listen sooner,
I’ll keep writing for the ones still whispering.

— Tina N. Campbell | Scribed in Light