I Lived It Before I Wrote It: The Truth Behind The Freedom Series

Lately, my youngest daughter and I are house-sitting, and the change of scenery has given both of us space to rest and breathe. My friend's home is lovely; shades of cream sprinkled with bright color, accented by thoughtful touches and gorgeous art. Plentiful garden, huge bathtub, cuddly dogs. And a living room couch perfect for writing.

Earlier this week, during a break from sculpting fictional fear and fury in STILL FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, I sat surrounded by real-life peace and simple beauty—and had an online conversation about survivor stories, resilience after trauma, what healing really looks like, and why I write what I write.

This isn't a Christian blog, and it isn't likely to become one. But I'm a writer, focused on using trauma-informed storytelling to help hurting people find light in the darkness of life's hardest seasons...and my faith isn't something I can ignore. Because in the darkest days of my life, when the legal system failed me and complex PTSD symptoms took over, God met me in my trauma. And changed everything.

Sometimes I think people are resistant to God because they believe they're too far gone. Too messed up. Too hopeless. Too lost. Maybe they think that if Jesus is love and redemption, then church and uncomfortable stories can't co-exist. Maybe it stems from the fearful human instinct to look away from grisly wounds and painful birth and bloody wreckage, lest it somehow soil us by proxy. Maybe it's the need to silence stories that aren't pretty.

Christians love to zoom in on their post-Jesus era. The shiny, smiley, “God is good” part. It's Diet Redemption: a watered-down version of the miracle of salvation, without so much as an aftertaste of the mess that came before. Too often, all we accept is a two-sentence backstory, a painted scene from the moment God showed up, and a three-minute montage of sugar-coated hope. And I'm not saying testimonies don't matter, but the fact is, healing doesn't look the same if we never see the wound.

Maybe that's why the Freedom Series matters so much to me. Why I'm willing to start a domestic violence survival novel with a graphic beating and a mortal wound. Why I chose to ignore all the rules on how to write triggering scenes with care, in favor of writing difficult truths with honesty. Because diluting these stories is a disservice to the people who live—and die—in them.

Yes, FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM is an emotionally raw fiction story. And yes, writing about domestic violence is difficult. But the best, most authentic stories are often molded from the courage to use real-life inspiration for fiction. And in many ways, the story behind my novel...is real.

I’ve never been, and may never be, invited to share my own story—not in its entirety, because there are some stories that just aren't easy to hear. They're too scary. Too sad. Too...dark. But for me, darkness is more than a backdrop for light. Darkness isn't just the intro to my story. It's the whole reason the light in my story matters.

It was April, 2005. My daughter slept peacefully every night in her crib, but I hadn't done more than nap in days. Every moving shadow looked like my husband. Every sound was a window sliding open.

He told me he'd kill me. "I'll hunt you down, bitch!" Right there in the voicemails the judge wouldn't listen to, the man who swore to love and protect me only a few years before screamed obscenities. "I'll shoot you, I swear. I'll take the baby from your arms while you bleed out."

And what if he really did it? He never even learned to spell her name. How would he know what do if her heart problems got worse? What if she got ahold of his drugs...again? No, there was no space for sleep. There was no one to guard her but me.

God and I sat alone together in the dark, getting to know each other. Not as acquaintances introduced by mutual friends, but as friends in our own way for the first time. We met on Easter weekend, I'd told him how afraid I was, and he hadn't left me since.

But I didn't trust him yet. Not really. So I sat curled in the dark, in a chair wedged into a corner. Door locked. Windows closed and covered. Every cell attuned to my surroundings, every heartbeat strained, every breath painfully slow. Surrounded by silence, only broken by the quiet rustle of thin paper as I turned the pages of my first Bible.

I read Israel's escape from slavery in Egypt, filled with fear as I thought of those voicemails. I read the Egyptian pursuit, tears rolling down my face as I thought of how I couldn't shower without panicking. Couldn't bear the vulnerable nakedness showering required. Couldn't stand closed doors, not knowing what might be unseen on the other side. I read Israel's fear at the seaside, their terror, their sense of entrapment—and I wept at the similarities. They contemplated going back, giving up. Giving in. I had done the same.

And then God whispered, from the pages in my hands. "Do not be afraid," he said. "Stand firm, and you will see deliverance. I will fight for you; you need only to be still."

It wasn't a magical fix. Everything wasn't suddenly better. I still didn't sleep that night. And I was still afraid. But for the first time, I started to believe that God wasn't.

*****

There is a shower scene in FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM, complete with the same breathless panic that used to terrorize me. Art imitating life, I suppose. There is graphic violence in the first chapter, much of it modeled after real beatings I saw my mother subjected to. There are flashbacks and nightmares. There is sorrow, and grief, and regret. The Freedom Series is meant to be a full and complete look at one woman's escape from domestic violence, and I had no intention of sugar-coating the devastation of spousal abuse.

I don't know if there are specific rules or guidelines on how to write dark fiction—and honestly, I suspect that the challenge of this particular topic will limit the success of The Freedom Series. But writing the hard stuff still matters. Mustering the courage and the will to look matters. Domestic violence awareness and survivor support matter. Because somewhere, someone out there is still desperately fighting for their own freedom, and if this story makes even one person feel a little more seen...then it's worth every moment I poured into it.

My writing is in many ways both the seeping of poison from my soul and the healing salve that eases my wounds, but I want to leave this post on a lighter note, with a reminder that there is hope. I won't lie and say these last 20 years have been a field of rainbows and gumdrops...but I'll say that in between moments of struggle these years have been filled with growth I'm grateful for. I have had moments of fear, moments of heartbreak. But I've also celebrated blessings too numerous to count.

And maybe that's the lesson that matters most: to truly appreciate the beauty of light, we must first understand the desperation of darkness. Because that’s where all the best stories begin.

With darkness that teaches us light is worth hoping for—and gives us the strength to...