This is an Open-Ended Letter to Past Traumas

Dear Past Traumas,

I write this letter with the intention of reclaiming my narrative, the story that you sought to define but could never fully own. As I reflect on my journey through childhood trauma and the adult trauma that followed, I acknowledge the shadows you cast over my life. However, I also realize that my experiences are not the sum of my existence. They are chapters in my story, but like any good book, I am the author of my own ending.

Let's start with accountability. I take responsibility for my naivety—my inability to recognize the warning signs when your true colors were unfurled before me like banners of impending doom. I trusted easily, believing the best in people, only to be met with abuse that would shape my understanding of love and safety. But in admitting this to myself, I understand that accountability does not mean shame. It means recognition of my past choices and learning from them.

What you’ve done to me—those moments of hurt, betrayal, and confusion—do not define me, nor do they get to dictate the person I strive to be. I learned that my value is not dictated by circumstances inflicted upon me but by the choices I make moving forward. I choose strength, resilience, and the wisdom that comes from overcoming my past.

In the words of Stevie Nicks, "I wanna be the lighthouse." I want to illuminate the path not only for myself but for others who find themselves swallowed by darkness. I want to shine a light in stormy weather, for there are others who are facing their own traumas, feeling lost and adrift. I want to bring us all together, to teach those who listen that we can fight back against the shadows that loom over us.

Trauma can be a thief, stealing not just our innocence but also our hope for a beautiful future. Yet, it is important to remember that we possess the power to fight back. I have leaned into my faith in God, who offers guidance and grace in the face of overwhelming circumstances. His presence reminds me that I am not alone as I navigate this journey of healing and reclamation. There is profound comfort in knowing that, as I take ownership of my story, it is ultimately God who holds the final say on my worth and my future.

I have come to understand that my past does not dictate my destiny. I have the will and determination to rise, to reach for the best version of myself. This is where I reclaim my power, allowing my experiences—not to shackle me—but to free me. I will not allow abuse or trauma to plot the course of my life; instead, I will reshape my narrative, one filled with courage, love, and understanding.

So, here’s my declaration: I will remember the lessons learned through hardship, but I will not be imprisoned by them. I will rise like a phoenix, carrying the weight of my past with grace but allowing it to fuel my desire for a brighter future. I assert that what happened to me is not who I am, but rather a catalyst to becoming a stronger, more compassionate person.

To anyone else grappling with their own traumas, I offer you, my hand. Together, let us share our stories, support one another, and embrace our journeys toward healing. Remember, we are not defined by the darkness of our past but rather by how we choose to stand in the light of our futures.

With strength and conviction,

Kristi Moore

Whispers of a Forgotten Self

Deeply embedded in my mind,
memories of him, I cannot rewind.
Searching for relief,
a quick fix in a bottle,
I thought I’d found it,
a sweet escape to throttle.

In that alcohol-induced dream,
I felt, then faded—a silent scream.
Numbness wrapped around my heart,
left me face to face with
the male I was running from,
a ghost that never departs.

He stripped away the layers,
revealed my tender scars,
his hands, raw and rough,
painted shadows across my body
with every stolen spark.
The old me died,
yet echoes linger in the dark.

A hollow shell, a wandering ghost,
Behind my smiles,
is a life that no one knows,
a pain woven into my seams,
I wear the guise of strength,
to keep them from my dreams.

So if I don’t cry,
and carry the charade,
maybe, just maybe,
they won’t see the masquerade.
In this labyrinth of sorrow,
I sometimes feel lost,
a whispering thought,
of who I was, and the cost.

I am the sum of every touch,
the warmth that turned to winter,
a fractured self,
a forgotten splendor.
And yet somewhere in the haze,
beneath the sinking weight,
lies a flicker—a flame,
perhaps not too late.

So I rise, I breathe,
facing the melodies of my despair.
For in this spoken silence,
I reclaim what’s rare.
With each step, I’ll write,
a new chapter, a new art,
for even in darkness,
I’ll find the light in my heart.