I came from a small town where most of my friends were molested by family friends, relatives, or people who should have protected them.

I was raised in neglect by people who did everything they could with the tools they had. The people who raised me tried to protect me in the only way they understood. They did not know my brother’s girlfriend would take a pellet gun — one that looked a hell of a lot like a Glock — and shoot me and my other brother with it.

I was shot multiple times with that pellet gun. At first, I believed it was something far more dangerous. I was hit at point-blank range, and I was sure I was going to die.

I was not even fifteen years old.

The woman said she took the gun from the brother I would later realize was my best friend.

I know I was shot with plastic rubber bullets.
I know I had bruises no one saw.
I know I feared for my life that day.

I also know my brother — the one everyone said was insane — was the one who put his body between me and a woman who was carrying a knife and wanted me dead.

I escaped through a window that day.

No one believed that I truly felt my life was in danger. But I know, deep in my core, that if my brother had not been there, I would not be sitting here now, typing out my thoughts about how alone I feel.

I lost my best friend in August 2021, when he died of a pulmonary embolism after a medical system treated him as unworthy of the correct care.

I lost my mother in October 2023, only a few months after my husband left me for another woman.

I did everything I could to fight for my life while I lived in that area. Then I lost everything and everyone when I chose to move to a town where no one knew me.

I kept to myself.

No one cared.

Before I left, I found a job I genuinely enjoyed. I was used and abused by the company, and by a coworker I thought was my friend.

What I have learned is this: I am a fighter.

I will fight for everyone and everything that needs an advocate.

I do not care if someone wants to hurt me because I refuse to live in a building with roaches, closed air ducts, and people willing to damage my property.

I will always fight for the rights of others, even when it means putting myself in front of the firing line.

Maybe I have not gone to every protest. Maybe I have not shown my face on the physical front line. But I have been working on a quieter, more strategic approach — one that still matters. One that takes time. One that is still a fight.

I know I may never become the change I want to see in the world.

But I also know this: without people like me, the people who have the power to make life easier or harder for others are more likely to choose harm, because causing pain is often easier than choosing kindness.

I want to be the love-spreading activist I can feel myself becoming.

I also know that becoming that person puts me at risk for targeted harassment. I know the people around me may feel that risk too.

I wish I could protect everyone.

I cannot even protect myself.

So how do I accept that someone has my back when so many people who claimed they did were the same people who put a blade in it?

I am afraid of success as much as I am afraid of failure.