Justice for Ohio Kids

When I was just eight years old, I experienced something no child should ever endure. The trauma of that abuse stayed with me throughout my life — shaping how I saw myself, how I trusted others, and how I learned to survive. I grew up carrying wounds that were invisible to most people, but painfully real to me every single day.

For years, I stayed quiet because I thought silence was safer. I thought it was the only way to move forward. But the truth is this: the things we are forced to carry as children never truly disappear. They follow us into adulthood, into parenthood, and into every part of who we become. No child should ever have to grow up with those scars.

When my son Thor was assaulted at fifteen, my past collided with his present. Everything I had survived — everything I had buried — suddenly resurfaced the moment I realized he was living the same nightmare I once lived.

His pain became my pain. His fear reopened every wound I carried from childhood. What happened to him didn’t just break my heart — it woke something inside me. Something fierce. Something determined.

Seeing my son harmed by an adult who should have protected him forced me to confront not only my past, but the failures of a system that allowed this to happen again. This wasn’t just about my child — it became about every child who doesn’t have a voice, every family who feels powerless, and every survivor who thought their story no longer mattered.

On January 6, 2025, by the grace of God, I came home earlier than expected with my stepdaughter. I wasn’t supposed to be there at that time. I wasn’t supposed to  open that door at that exact moment — but God placed me there.
The second I opened Thor’s bedroom door, my life split into a “before” and an “after.” We walked in on him being assaulted, and time stopped. I will never forget the look in Thor’s eyes. I will never forget the fear on his face. And I will never forget the image burned into my mind — a moment that replays whether I want it to or not.

I felt my heart shatter and something inside me break open — a mix of terror, rage, heartbreak, and a desperate need to protect my child from a world that suddenly felt unsafe in every direction. I wish I could erase that moment from his memory. I wish I could take his pain and carry it for him.

But I also know that walking through that door saved him. We stopped something that could have gone on longer. We stopped something that could have changed him even more.

That moment didn’t just change Thor. It changed me as a mother. It awakened every instinct in me to fight — not just for my child, but for every child who has ever been silenced, ignored, or unprotected. It is the moment that fueled this movement. It is the moment that made me vow that Ohio would never again allow a child to be failed the way mine was.

I am fighting because silence protects predators — not children. I am fighting because my son deserves justice, and because no other mother should ever stand in my shoes.

Ohio’s laws failed my son the moment he needed protection the most. They failed me when I was a child. And they continue to fail countless families who don’t have the strength, the resources, or the platform to fight back.

But I do. And I will.

This movement is not about anger — it is about purpose. It is about breaking generational cycles of trauma. It is about demanding laws that put children first. It is about confronting the systems that ignored us for too long.

I am fighting because our children deserve better. Because truth deserves a voice. And because justice, once overdue, will not be delayed any longer.