My rocks have been my four amazing children. they are my reason for living, my purpose to fight for life. There are no words I could write, speak, or think that could express the love, gratitude, pride, and admiration I have for them. They all make my life complete. All I can say is thank you! Thank you for being the beautiful people you are, the amazing children you were, who loved me unconditionally.  I cherish you!

My story is not unique one, and I know I am not alone. What I’ve been through, along with recent events and revelations in the world, has helped many people let go of misplaced guilt or shame about their own experiences. Back in my time, there was no access to counsellors or anyone to talk to. You stayed quiet, blamed yourself, and did your best to protect yourself and your younger siblings.

Even so, when I share snippets of my journey, people often ask, “Have you written your story?” My answer has always been, “I will, I will.”

One evening over dinner with friends, we reminisced about the good old days. Nick made an insightful observation—our generation grew up listening to stories from our grandparents. We’d sit at their feet and hear tales about the old days. But now, the younger generation is engrossed in iPads, tablets, and computer games. Nick was right—we didn’t have television back then, so we found joy and adventure in the stories of our elders.

I remember my grandmother telling us about their journey to a new country on a wagon pulled by oxen. They built a one-room house, then later added a bedroom. The walls were made of mud bricks, formed by mixing mud with grass and other elements, then dried under the scorching sun. She described how they used an outdoor toilet dug into the ground and fetched water from a nearby river for drinking, bathing, and cooking.

As kids, these stories seemed so far-fetched, especially when we lived in a three-bedroom house with electricity, running hot water, and an indoor toilet. But years later, when I visited that “big” house from my childhood, I realized how small it truly was—and had a good laugh about it!

I’ve often said I’d write a book someday, if only so my children and grandchildren could know my story without sitting at my feet to hear it. Then one day, I opened Facebook and saw a post encouraging people to write their stories. It said, quote, unquote, “Some will read it, and some won’t, but somewhere, a small voice will say, ‘That’s me. I can survive.’” That struck a chord in me somewhere deep in my soul.

If sharing my story helps even one person survive what I’ve endured, then every moment of terror, trauma, heartache, and sadness will have been worth it.

You might wonder, as I did growing up, “Where was God throughout your life?” As you finish this book, I hope you’ll see the answer. He was there yesterday, is there today, and will be there tomorrow, watching over me. He was exactly where He’s always been—right beside me. I just didn’t realize it.

My prayer is that my story brings you hope and reassures you that, even in your darkest moments, you are not alone. Whatever you’re going through, God is always there—whether or not you know Him yet. He is the one who heals the brokenhearted; you just have to let Him in.