The Day We Planned Murder:

My Childhood Escape from Domestic Violence

I was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota. When people ask what brought me to upstate New York, I usually give them the sanitized version: "family." The truth is much darker, and I've never shared it publicly until now.

When I was 12 years old, my mother had a boyfriend who beat her. Not just arguments that got physical—he beat her badly. She ended up in the hospital multiple times. The bruises would heal, but the terror in our home was constant.

Then came the moment of clarity that saved us all. My mother realized: "He's going to kill me or my kids."

We had a house in Minneapolis—not an apartment you could just walk away from, but a proper home with a mortgage. A nice house with a yard, a blackberry tree, and a lilac bush. We left it all behind.

One morning, I woke up getting ready for school when my mother told me: "Grab some clothes. Grab what you can." I filled a backpack with whatever I could carry on my back. That was it. Everything else—every possession, every memory, every comfort—was abandoned.

We had exactly one person to help us: Aunt Lizzie. She's not my biological aunt, but she became our savior that day. When my mother called and said we needed to escape, Lizzie drove us to the Greyhound station. We hid in the backseat of her car, terrified that someone who knew him would report back that we were fleeing.

Nine Months of Unsure

It took a couple of days by bus to reach upstate New York. At first, we stayed with my grandmother, but only for about two weeks—her one-bedroom apartment was too small for four people. I had two younger sisters, roughly 10 and 7 at the time. It was just the four of us against the world.

The thing you need to understand: my mother had literally NO ONE to depend on except Aunt Lizzie, who did everything she could for us. My mother was doing this completely alone.

She found a job surprisingly quickly—she was determined. Then we moved into a motel. Not one of those nice extended-stay places—the kind where hookers work. That's the best we could do. We ended up staying there for NINE MONTHS.

That was never the plan, but when you're paying a weekly rate and everything you earn goes right back into basic survival, it's nearly impossible to break the cycle. Finally, after those nine grueling months, my mother secured an apartment.

But we had no furniture. We slept on the floor. We stuffed clothes into pillowcases so we could have something resembling pillows. That's how poor we were.

The Trauma That Never Leaves

What I need you to understand is the trauma that comes from being a child in a home with domestic violence. He never hit me—but being a child of a mother who's constantly beaten messes you up in ways I'm still unpacking.

For years—YEARS—I would relive the trauma from hearing her getting beaten. The screams. The banging on walls. I would wake up hearing these sounds when nothing was happening. It's similar to what rape victims experience—I would see or hear something innocuous, and suddenly I'd be transported back to those moments of terror.

From age 12 until well into my twenties, I could barely speak about what happened. The words wouldn't come out. The trauma ran that deep.

We Were Planning His Murder

Now I need to tell you something I've never shared publicly before. Before we escaped Minneapolis, at 12 years old, with my sisters around 10 and 7, we were planning his murder.

You read that correctly. I was the ringleader because I was the oldest. My sisters and I have always been a tight unit. When we decide something's happening, it happens with precision. It's well-planned, thoroughly analyzed, and executed flawlessly. That's just who we are.

So at 12 years old, we were planning his murder. And looking back as a grown woman, I can tell you with absolute certainty: we would have done it. That little bitch would have been dead. Absolutely dead.

My mother didn't know this until last year when I finally told her. She was protecting us in more ways than she realized when she got us out. Had we stayed even a few more weeks, we would have crossed that line. We were tired of being scared. We were going to kill him.

Your Children Are Not Immune

Sometimes we think children aren't affected by what happens around them. That is NEVER true. We are affected by EVERYTHING around us. Everything you allow in your household affects us.

We might not say something. We might not understand how it's affecting us until we're older and more mature. But it affects us. It affected me.

I had cripplingly low self-esteem for most of my life. This wasn't the only reason, but it was definitely part of it. I had a different experience than my younger sisters because I was older—I understood more, I remember more.

A Warning to Teenage Girls and Mothers

The tears I shed preparing for this weren't for me. They were for you—the teenage girl who's in an abusive relationship right now.

This is your future if you don't get out NOW. You're going to have kids who are drawn to murder because you kept them in an abusive relationship. Don't turn your child into a murderer by staying with that little bitch. (And when I say "little bitch," I'm never talking about women—I'm talking about these little boys in men's bodies who beat women. They're not men.)

If you're a teenage girl in an abusive relationship—you know I'm talking to you right now—your future looks like visiting your kids in jail because they murdered the piece of shit you stayed with. Get out now.

And mothers—I know you may not love yourself enough to leave. Maybe you're too scared. I understand that. My mother wasn't staying because she wanted to—she stayed because he was dangerous. But I promise you, you CAN get out. There are people who will help you.

If you don't love yourself enough to leave, love your children enough. Because we are victims too. The memories and trauma from watching or listening to you get beaten affects us profoundly.

Don't turn your child into the next six o'clock news murderer. That would have been me. Imagine the additional trauma I would have inflicted on myself and my sisters by committing that murder.

Now replace my story with your kids. Imagine visiting your son or daughter in jail because they killed that motherfucker. Even the kids you think are too scared to act will be the ones who pick up a knife and stab him 45 times until you can't even see him through all the blood.

It's much better to envision that horror in your head than to live the real trauma of having your children's lives ruined because they tried to protect you.

There Is Hope

I know what I'm telling you seems hopeless, but there's somebody who wants to help you. So many people want to help. I'm one of them.

Here's your hope: My mother is now married to a phenomenal man full of integrity, and we all love him. We consider him our second father. When he introduces us, he doesn't call me his stepdaughter—just his daughter. Father's Day is all about him.

My point is that when you finally get out, you free yourself for a real man instead of a little bitch who can't do anything but beat a woman. There's hope for you. My mother wasn't special—she doesn't have superpowers. She's no better than you. If she could do it, so can you. You just have to get out first.

This is why I'm so passionate about domestic violence, and why my first thought is always the children. I know what it's like to grow up unsafe, to never feel safe in your own home. When you don't feel safe, it's nearly impossible to feel like you're worth anything.

For years afterward, if I saw someone on the street hitting his girlfriend, it took every ounce of restraint not to murder him. I remember telling my stepfather (who was a police officer) something to the effect of: "You put your hands on her and I will kill you." I was determined that would never happen to my mother again.

I soon calmed down because I realized he was a good man who adored my mother. She has so much respect for him, and he for her. Their relationship is beautiful—if I ever get married, I hope for a connection like theirs. But she wouldn't have been available for that love if she had stayed with her abuser.

Ladies, you need to take the garbage out. You're worth it, but just as importantly, your children are worth it. We matter. You're destroying our mental health when you stay.

I share this story because I want to see you win. I want to see women get out. This is why so much of my work focuses on young women—this is a massive issue not just in America, but worldwide.

Your children are planning murders you know nothing about. I was.