This foundation exists because the pain of what happens to an abused child does not fade with time it embeds itself into breath, bone, and memory. When a child is violated, something far deeper than the body is taken. Their sense of safety shatters in an instant. Trust collapses before it ever has the chance to form. Innocence is stripped away with a cruelty the child cannot name or understand. From that moment on, the world no longer feels kind or predictable. Fear arrives before language. Shame settles before reason. A child learns to brace instead of rest, to watch instead of play, to survive instead of simply be. Nights become long and restless. Laughter feels dangerous. Love feels confusing. And somewhere deep inside, a child begins to believe that what was done to them must say something terrible about who they are.

That quiet belief that I am broken, that I caused this, that I do not matter, is the wound that bleeds the longest. It breaks my heart because no child should ever carry that weight alone. No child should have their spirit bent by violence, their tenderness punished, their light dimmed before it has a chance to grow. This is why I built this foundation to stand where others turned away, to name harm, to hold children in truth and protection, and to whisper, again and again, you are not broken, you are not to blame, and you are not alone.

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse. I know the cold, unrelenting grip of fear that doesn’t leave you, long after the abuse has ended. It settles into your muscles, coils around your chest, and tightens your breath, teaching you that vigilance is survival. I know the silent anger that has nowhere to go, curling inward until it becomes a quiet, burning storm that consumes from within. I know the disorientation that makes the world feel unreal, unsafe, and impossibly treacherous. I know the heartbreak that comes when love becomes betrayal, when safety is only an illusion. And I know the crushing weight of hopelessness, the sadness that sits heavy in your bones, and the shame that whispers, “This was your fault,” as if a child could ever be responsible for harm that was never theirs to bear.

But the deepest wound is not only the abuse itself.
It is what comes after.
The moment a child reaches for help and finds only silence.
When family turns away.
When the community protects itself instead of protecting the child.
When culture demands quiet in the name of comfort, reputation, or tradition.
When a child is told through words, gestures, or neglect that their pain is too inconvenient, too unbelievable, too dangerous to speak.

When a child is not believed, they lose more than their voice.
They lose their sense of reality. Their sense of safety. Their sense of self.
Fear becomes their constant companion. Shame becomes their secret language. Hopelessness becomes a shadow that follows every step. Every heartbeat echoes the emptiness. Every breath carries the weight of being unseen, unheard, unprotected.

I know that pain intimately; I have carried it. I have lived it. I have sometimes felt it would swallow me whole.

My healing taught me something vital: healing is possible. But it is never meant to happen alone. True healing requires safety, compassion, and witnesses who will not turn away when the story is unbearable, when the grief is raw, when the pain refuses to be neat or contained. It demands people who will stand with you in the trembling, who will walk beside you when the weight feels crushing, who will remind you that even in the darkest shadows, you are not broken.

My story is not unique. It mirrors the experience of countless children across every culture, every class. For more than two decades, I have walked alongside survivors across generations and around the world. I have seen the terror that lives in their bodies, the grief that haunts their hearts, the shame that follows them like a shadow. And I have witnessed something extraordinary: the profound transformation that is possible when a child is met with care, dignity, and unwavering protection.

The Foundation for Hope and Healing was born from that survival and that witness. It exists to break cycles of abuse, to restore dignity, and to stand with children whose voices have been silenced by fear and shame. It is committed not only to healing but to education and prevention because ending child abuse requires more than treating wounds. It requires stopping harm before it begins. It requires challenging silence. It requires building systems that truly protect children.

This foundation is more than an organization.
It is a cry from the heart.
It is a moral reckoning.
It is a promise to the children who are waiting.

I ask parents, professionals, leaders, and global citizens to choose courage over comfort, truth over silence, and protection over denial. Children do not need us to be perfect they need us to be present. They need adults who will stay when it is uncomfortable, who will listen when the story is painful, and who will act when fear has stolen a child’s words.

Healing begins when we refuse to look away.
Justice begins when we stand together.
Hope is born when we protect our children.

Your support today is not just a gift. It is the difference between a childhood stolen and a life reclaimed. It is the moment a child realizes they matter.

Please join us.
Be the voice that breaks the silence.
Be the safety a child has been waiting for.
Be the hope that restores a future.