The Woman I Had to Find: Healing What Was Never Mine to Carry

1 In 3 women globally have experienced physical and/or sexual violence in their lifetime.
(Source: WHO, 2021)


Many carry this trauma in silence.

The Woman I Had to Find gives voice to the healing that’s possible.

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This book is written for women who live with the hidden, everyday aftermath of generational trauma and abuse. Women like myself.

Even after therapy, many of us continue to sell ourselves short—through negative self-talk, self-doubt, shame, and guilt.

I’ve lived the pain and emotional chaos that abuse can leave behind. Some memories are still vivid—I can still hear the words that were said. Others were harder to reach, but I felt they needed to be told.

Some scenes may be difficult to read—they were difficult to write. But I hope you’ll stay with me through the hard parts, knowing that this is ultimately a story of redemption, with a happy ending I trust will offer hope to others.

Drawing on my own journey as a survivor of sexual and emotional abuse, along with over 30 years of experience as a group facilitator, mentor, I now support fellow survivors in their quest for emotional freedom as a trauma-informed certified life coach.

The stories I share are not meant as a replacement for therapy—though it was deeply therapeutic to write them.

And they're not about reliving the past. They're about reclaiming today—what the abusers, their actions, and the legacy of generational trauma tried to take from me.

I’ve done my best to tell the events as I remember them—which may differ from how others remember those same moments. People close to me—like my daughter, husband, and sister—have helped me reconstruct the parts of my life I had buried for so long. 

To protect the privacy of some of the people involved, names have been changed, and in some cases, names have been left out entirely. Where important for the story, or when I felt accountability matters, I have chosen to keep names unchanged.

PART I — THE DISCONNECT

It’s time to release what doesn’t belong to me. 

The weight of the lies, half-truths, and untruths is just too heavy to haul around any longer.

The secrets end here. No matter how uncomfortable this makes some people feel.

I’m no longer willing to carry inherited silence or distorted realities. 

The projections that did not belong to me to begin with… I give them all back to where they came from.

With consciousness attached…

With love… although I still hesitate there.

With boundaries… not a shred of hesitation here.

Not knowing the truth has its own kind of pain, and only ever made me feel more lost.

I’m strong enough—that, I’ve always been.

Let the truth come, in its full and perhaps uncomfortable form. 

I need it—to find my way forward. 

The full truth brings peace. However painful, always better than a pretty lie.

It’s not easy to revisit the emotions I buried long ago. It takes effort, care, and gentleness with myself. 

And I remind myself to be kind to me—to hold space for whatever shows up.

Acceptance for what is. 

To release what was never mine to carry. 

And to hold on—only—to what is real.

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Christmas Eve

We were gathering in Dalen, a quaint town in the province of Drenthe, in the northeast of the Netherlands. My sister Celeste and I had rented a nostalgic old farmhouse near the town square—plenty of space for both our families. We didn’t want Dad to be alone for Christmas. Mom had passed away just a few months earlier, and he was struggling without the love of his life. She had been his everything, and without her, life simply wasn’t the same. So my husband, Percy, and I decided to fly in our kids and their partners from the US and Canada for the occasion. We had also invited Mom’s younger sister, Ina, who had recently lost her husband. We pictured a wonderful Christmas, filled with love and togetherness.

Percy and I were the first to arrive at our spacious B&B. Unsure where the entrance was, we tried the narrow cobblestone path to the right side of the farmhouse. Droplets of rain hung lazily from the branches of the old fruit trees that lined a small field, where a volleyball net sagged slightly under the damp air. We passed half-round barn windows framed in the weathered, brick-red stones that gave the color its name. We found the front door. The hosts, a hospitable couple who lived in the back of the farmhouse, welcomed us in. We left our muddy shoes in the small hallway and stepped into the kitchen. It felt cozy and warm inside, despite its wide, open layout. A large breakfast table filled the center of the room; two enormous fridges stood in the corner, and there was enough counter space for a whole team to help with dinner prep. My heart skipped a beat at the thought of everyone together under one roof. It was shaping up to be the Christmas Celeste and I had envisioned after these difficult months. 

After the tour, Percy began unloading the mountain of grocery bags we’d brought with us—enough food to feed a small army for a week. As I looked for space to fit it all, I found the biggest pans I had ever seen in one of the cupboards. Perfect for the pea soup we had planned for tonight.

The oversized dinner table filled the dining room from one end to the other. Cozy lights hung from the exposed beams casting just the perfect warm glow. A stack of board games sat on the side table. Battery-operated candles—real ones being a fire hazard with the straw roof—stood ready to be turned on. Seasonal decorations were in place, and the strings of Christmas lights twinkled softly. We had just hidden the last of the daylight behind the curtains. It had been raining since we arrived—but that did not dampen our excitement. It was going to be a great week.

While our kids set the table, Celeste and I were busy in the kitchen. The pea soup was nearly done, filling the house with the warm smell of comfort food. Oblivious to what would unfold later that night, everything felt perfect for our first evening together.

We were all there: Celeste and her family, Aunt Ina, our daughter and our son, each with their partners, Percy, Dad, and me. All except our other daughter, who was still “in transit.” She had missed a connecting flight out of JFK and wasn’t due to arrive until the next day. As I looked around the room, I couldn’t help but feel intense gratitude—for our families being together, for Aunt Ina’s presence in honor of Mom, and for all of us showing up for Dad. Our hearts—and the farmhouse—were big enough for all.

“Look around this table, Dad,” I said, giving him a hug. “Everybody is here for you. How special is that?” He glanced over at me. There was something in his demeanor that made me hold my breath. Just for a second.

And then he said it.

Just like that, twenty-five years of hard work—trying to move past the unimaginable—were undone in a split second.

Dad was determined to get his grievances out—to play the victim card—as he often did after a glass of wine (or two). But this time it was not about how he lost his mother at age 7, or how he was let go from his job (decades ago). And this time, Mom was not there to stop him.

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This piece is an excerpt from Chapter One of my memoir-in-progress: The Woman I Had to Find.

Due to the sensitive nature of the following paragraphs, I chose to end my blog here. My manuscript tells the whole story. I am happy to share the rest of this devastating first section of my memoir with you. Simply send me an email and you'll receive more.