Anchor: The Beginning

An anchor holds you in place through storms, through silence, through seasons.
I’ve been that.
For so many.
A steady presence when they drifted. A safe harbor when they were lost.

But no one ever anchored me.

This is the part of the story I never said out loud. The part where I admit that I was tired. That I needed someone to hold me. To see me.

And when no one did… God did.

That’s where this begins. Not at rock bottom, but at sacred stillness.
When everything around me felt like it was breaking, I finally felt what it meant to be grounded in something higher.

This is my Anchor.
And maybe, it’ll speak to something in you too.

Dedication
To my grandmothers, whose wisdom, grace, and quiet strength live in every part of who I am…

To the little girl who never stopped dreaming—even when the world tried to convince her otherwise.

To my sons, my forever why.

To my chosen mother and sister. God-sent women who became living proof that family is built by soul, not blood.

To every woman who has fought battles in silence, may you always find the courage to speak, to rise, and to anchor yourself in truth.

And to the God who held me, healed me, and anchored me when I had nothing left to give.

Anchor: Introduction – The Storms That Tried to Break Me
Some people are born into love. I was born into resistance. And the hardest part? That resistance often came from the very people who were supposed to love and protect me. From the beginning, my own mother was my biggest opposition. Not in loud, obvious ways, but in quiet ones. The kind that hide behind discipline and tradition. The kind that plants doubt before you can even name it. The kind that shapes how you see yourself before you even know who you are.

My mother was obsessed with my father. And my mother and I? We were always oil and water. I often felt like collateral damage in their relationship caught between a love that wasn’t mine to understand, but one that deeply shaped how I was treated. She only pretended to love me because she loved him so deeply. I truly believe her love for me was an extension of her love for him—not something that existed on its own. That created a tension unspoken, yet deeply felt, that followed me throughout my life.

I was always more connected to my father’s side of the family, and it showed. Not just in how I looked, but in how I thought, how I moved, and how I dreamed. That difference set me apart, and in my mother’s world, standing apart was the same as standing against. From childhood, I was always made to look like the problem. I was the black sheep as far as she and her family were concerned. My feelings were often invalidated, my intentions misunderstood, my voice dismissed.

There are storms in life that come without warning—waves so strong they threaten to pull you under before you even realize what’s happening. Some storms are external, crashing into your life through circumstances beyond your control. But the most dangerous storms? The ones that creep in slowly, working their way through the people closest to you, through words left unspoken, and through the silent battles you fight within yourself.
For years, I lived in these storms. I watched as people, some disguised as friends, family, and even significant other tried to extinguish my light. Not in obvious ways, but in covert, insidious ways. The kind of darkness that masks itself as love, as concern when in reality, it was manipulation, jealousy, and spiritual warfare designed to keep me small.

And for a long time, I let them. I stayed silent. I didn’t call it out. I didn’t protect myself the way I should have. I convinced myself that if I just worked harder, loved more, and gave my all, things would change. But that’s the thing about covert attacks—when you don’t speak up, when you don’t fight back, they don’t stop. They grow. They take root inside you. They manifest as anxiety, depression, exhaustion. They wear down your mind and, eventually, your body.

I am a walking billboard for what happens when you carry too much in silence. When you allow people to siphon your energy without setting boundaries. When you push down your truth instead of standing in it.
I saw it in my own family—how my mother moved against me in ways so subtle yet so damaging.

And perhaps the most painful part? How that energy trickled down into my relationship with my sister. We didn’t start out that way. With a ten-and-a-half-year age gap between us, she started out as my protector. As a child I idolized her. But over time, our bond began to fray. Not because of who we were, but because of what was whispered around us. What was planted. Stirred. Positioned. Our mother had a way of creating tension where there once was love. I didn’t attend my sister’s wedding. And by then, we were strangers. Not by choice, but by influence. My sister, who I love deeply, made it clear that my success was only acceptable as long as it didn’t surpass hers. Support that felt genuine, until it wasn’t. Love that turned cold the moment I began to thrive beyond their comfort level. I will never forget the sting of my sister’s words when I lost my job: “Yes, because you made too much money.” As if my hard work and ambition were a crime. As if I wasn’t supposed to exceed expectations, build something greater, and create a life on my own terms. And yet, it was as if she was only comfortable with me as long as I wasn’t too successful. Looking back, I see the pattern how my mother and sister were more alike than I ever wanted to admit, how I was always different. Even physically, I stood apart. People from our hometown would be shocked to learn I was my mother’s child. I favored my father’s family—in looks and mentally, I aligned more with them than the environment I grew up in.
I never wanted to be like my mother or her family, so it didn’t bother me to separate myself. But I never expected that my light, my ambition, my drive, my ability to create something from nothing—would make me a target in my own family.

It wasn’t until later in life after leaving behind a 14-year relationship that I began to see that not all connections built through hardship are meant to be lost. That relationship was with someone who, like so many others, claimed to love my light, but in reality, he tried to dim it. Intentionally. Covertly. His actions mirrored some of the same subtle manipulations and emotional tactics I had experienced with my mother. That was the biggest red flag. He was yet another covert narcissist—someone who studied me, admired me, and still tried to destroy me from the inside out.

But even in that, God found a way to leave behind beauty. Through that experience, I met two women who would become more than just companions during a difficult chapter, they became my chosen family. What started as a connection through someone else blossomed into something God-ordained. They saw me clearly. They embraced me without conditions. And when I was at my lowest, they stood in the gap with joy, laughter, prayer, and presence. They nurtured parts of me that had been neglected, and their love was a reminder that real family isn’t always blood, it’s the people who show up when it matters most.

Though the person who introduced us has not been part of my life for nearly two years, and won’t ever be again, the bond I share with those women remains rock solid. They are still in my life, still family. And alongside them, I gained my bonus children, especially my bonus son, who I had the most access to during the relationship and built a special bond with.

As life unfolded, I also formed a deep friendship with a woman who once knew him too. Her husband had been his best friend for over twenty years until his betrayal fractured that trust. But even in that unraveling, God left behind something beautiful.

That friendship became yet another blessing. A reminder that even in the wreckage, there are pieces worth keeping. Some connections are designed to last a lifetime, no matter how they begin.

I am not perfect. I have made mistakes, and I will never claim otherwise. I have misjudged, miscalculated, and sometimes reacted from a place of pain. But never have I moved with malfeasance. Never have I sought to harm, manipulate, or diminish another person for my own gain. My intentions, even in my missteps, have always been to build, to love, to create, and to uplift.

And yet, despite everything, I never fully drowned. Even at my lowest, there was always something. Some unseen force that kept me from going under completely. Looking back, I realize: I was anchored. Not by people. Not by money. Not even by my own strength. But by something greater. A force that never let me fall too far, no matter how strong the current was against me.
Eventually, what I refused to confront emotionally showed up in my body. Loudly. Unrelentingly.

This book is my story, but it’s also yours. I spent years fighting silent battles, thinking I had made it out. But on January 6, 2025, my body told me the truth, survival wasn’t enough. The weight of everything I had carried finally caught up to me, forcing me to stop, to listen, to heal. This is the story of how I almost lost myself… and how I fought to get myself back. It’s a testament to divine timing, to unseen battles, to resilience. It’s a reminder that when life tries to drag you under, when people try to extinguish your light, when silence starts to feel like safety, you must hold onto your anchor. You must speak, fight, and refuse to let darkness claim you.

Because the storm may rage, but it will never break you if you know where your anchor lies.

If this spoke to you, there’s more to come.
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