For much of my life, I carried a heavy burden—a deep, gnawing sense of inadequacy and unworthiness. These feelings weren’t just whispers of self-doubt; they were reinforced loudly by someone I should have been able to trust most—my mother. Instead of being a source of comfort, she became an unexpected source of pain.
Her way of coping with her own struggles was often through alcohol, and in those moments, when she drank, her words cut deep. It was during those times that I heard what I believed to be her true feelings about me. At school, I would watch my friends and relatives, constantly measuring myself against them—wishing for their clothes, their hairstyles, their boyfriends. I wanted to be seen, to be valued, but I felt invisible.
Looking back, I realize I was desperate for attention, any attention, regardless of the cost. That longing propelled me onto a path of self-destruction—one that would span decades. I battled a 40-year addiction to methamphetamine and found myself trapped in a cycle of toxic, unhealthy relationships with men who never truly cared for me. Eventually, this downward spiral landed me on the streets, homeless for six long years.
Life on the streets of Tucson was harsh and isolating. I lived in a tunnel, surrounded by people who were part of the same destructive lifestyle, but none who truly cared about my well-being. Every door I knocked on either remained firmly shut or slammed in my face. I was utterly alone, and hopelessness weighed heavily on me.
But in the midst of that darkness, something remarkable began to stir—a flicker of hope, a sense that I was still worthy of love and care. And this hope came in a way I could never have expected.
One night, I was walking a long, lonely stretch in the dark, dragging behind me a suitcase so worn that its wheels no longer worked. Frustration and despair welled up inside me. I cried out to God, yelling in pain and anger, asking for help. And then, in that moment of raw vulnerability, I prayed for a simple thing: a shopping cart to make my journey easier.
The next thing I knew, there it was—a shopping cart, waiting for me under a lamppost. It felt like a sign, a small but powerful message that I was not forgotten, that someone cared.
My struggle was reaching a turning point, even if I didn’t fully understand it yet. The night before I was arrested, I hoped the police would stop me for having the shopping cart—because it was against the law—and that I would be taken in due to outstanding warrants. That didn’t happen right away. But the very next day, as I sat in the tunnel wondering how to change my life, three police officers appeared before me. I felt an unexpected sense of relief, even joy, because I knew my life was about to change.
What followed was the beginning of a journey I never imagined possible—a journey toward healing, freedom, and ultimately, salvation. It all started in jail.
One Saturday afternoon, a group from a church came to the jail. They set up chairs and prepared for baptisms. I remember hearing that anyone who wanted to be baptized could do so. Something inside me shifted. I felt overwhelmed with emotion. I knew I had to be baptized. And so I was.
That baptism marked the start of a new chapter in my life. The forgiveness and freedom I found in Jesus Christ have transformed me completely. The heavy weight of guilt and shame that once crushed my spirit was lifted, replaced by a new identity rooted not in the approval of others, but in the unwavering love of God.
Today, I am no longer ashamed of my past. I have left behind the desperate pursuit of acceptance from people who could never truly provide it. Instead, I stand tall, confident in the knowledge that I am a beloved child of God. This truth gives me a strength and peace I never knew existed.
Sharing my story feels important because I know I am not alone. There are countless women facing the same battles—feeling unseen, unloved, and hopeless. If you find yourself struggling, I want to encourage you to reach out to God. He is always ready to receive you with open arms, no matter how far you’ve fallen or how broken you feel.
During a drug treatment program, I discovered a verse that spoke directly to my heart, offering a glimpse of the boundless love God has for each of His children. It’s from Zephaniah 3:17:
“The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in His love He will no longer rebuke you, but He will rejoice over you with singing.”
This verse reminds me that God doesn’t just tolerate us; He delights in us. He celebrates us with joy. And that is a truth that no addiction, no painful past, and no harsh word can ever erase.
If you are searching for worth, for healing, or for a way out of the darkness, know this: you are worthy of love. You are not alone. And there is hope—hope that changed my life and can change yours too.
