The way I’m writing these posts is the way I would one day write my book. This is not just a blog. It’s a record. A reckoning. A testimony.
Each post represents a chapter. Told in chronological order. Raw, real, and rooted in truth. Some stories are heavy. Some are light. But all of them are part of the same thread—a journey of survival, motherhood, and faith.
There are parts of this story I’ll never write. There’s no need. The words I do share aren’t meant to glorify pain, or him, or even me. As a mother (or father), the instinct to protect your child from harm isn’t heroic—it’s human. I did what any parent would do.
It took me years to find not just the voice, but the purpose in it. For a long time, I stayed silent. Not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I didn’t know if it would matter.
I didn’t want my words to fall flat. I didn’t want to get it wrong. But eventually, the weight of not writing became heavier than the fear.
Some of these stories woke me up at night. Some came in pieces I had to write down in the dark just to breathe.
So before you go further, know this: this space isn’t about him. It’s not about villains or vengeance. It’s about the fight to protect my daughters, the whispers I couldn’t ignore, and the faith that never let go—even when I wanted to.
If you’re new here, I ask one thing: read this blog in order. From beginning to end. Because the timeline matters. The unfolding matters. The breaking matters—so the rebuilding can mean something. And yes, some chapters are heavy. I know some of them won’t be easy to read.
I also know there will be light. These posts aren’t just darkness.
Alongside every courtroom memory, there are real-life moments that still made us laugh. If you’ve followed us from the beginning, you’ll remember the chaos of my #SparrowsGonnaSparrow posts—usually starring Novi in all her ridiculous, hilarious glory.
Even in the storm, there were sparks of joy. That’s what this will be too: the contrast of grief and goodness. The pain and the rescue.
When I began digging through the vault of my daughters’ childhood—their pictures, their drawings, their schoolwork from those years—I braced myself for the sadness. But what I found instead what struck me most wasn’t the pain—it was the beauty. My daughters were still drawing rainbows. They still smiled like the world hadn’t fractured.
They still danced barefoot in rooms I could hardly breathe in.
They are living proof: That beauty really can rise from ashes.
Throughout those years, my dad picked me up for every single court date. We rarely said much on the drives. But he always played one song:
Rescue by Lauren Daigle.
It became an anthem. A lifeline. A promise. A song that carried more truth than anything I could’ve written on my own.
Because He didn’t just rescue us from something. He rescued us for something.
Growing up in the church, God was always my refuge. But in this season, He became more than that—He became the source of my strength. I stopped running to Him only when it fell apart. I started trusting Him even when I couldn’t see how it would hold together.
The hardest prayer I’ve ever prayed was: Not my will, but Yours.
When I had both girls in my arms again, I gave them back to God—fully, freely, with every trembling part of my soul. Trusting that even when the world was falling apart, He would hold them. He would carry us.
So as you read this—please know: God is the reason we made it through. And with my whole heart I will say to you, if you’re walking through hell…
Keep walking.
Becauseone day the light will tear through the fabric.
The Wilds Project. 
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