My Story

The idea of starting up a blog have always lingered in the back of my mind. Thankfully, I have gotten the nerve up to write my first post, yippee.

The paramount goal of this blog is to share stories (my story and other people’s stories) that will inspire and uplift the spirit. Stories that will hopefully transmute lives for the better.

Life has a way of taking a ghastly toll on the best of us – but, boy, you’ve got to stand firm in the face of casualties.

Let me tell you my story:

I was born early. My mother gave birth to me after 27 weeks of being pregnant. A normal pregnancy is supposed to last for at least 38 weeks. I was born 11 weeks too early. The doctors didn’t think I’d survive. My parents didn’t think I’d survive. Nobody thought I’d survive; but by the inapprehensible power of God, I beat the odds by surviving. I am a miracle.

Being born premature –  I was faced with several health and psychological issues. People made fun of me for the wispy, weird looking little girl that I was. But my mother never failed to cheer me on.

When I was ten years old, my mother died of Sudden Cardiac Arrest and it rubbed me the wrong way. My mother and I had been incredibly close, and so her sudden death broke my ten-year-old heart and left me with a big emotional wound. How was I supposed to go on without my mother? My mother had been my everything; she’d been the reason I stood up to bullies. I was full of rage; why would she leave me all by myself in a big, cruel world?

At thirteen, when I was just starting to heal from my mother’s tragic and untimely death, I lost my father, too. And the actual damage was done. I was devastated. Ravaged. Wrecked. And to make matters worse, I was continually sick. Always in and out of different hospitals.  For God’s sake, I was Thirteen. How could I deal with all of it? As young as I was – most days I felt suicidal.

I didn’t have siblings. I didn’t have stable relatives. I was forced to grow up in several foster homes. I saw firsthand how brutal life could be. I spent most of my days hugging a pillow and sobbing my heart out. I didn’t want to be alive.

But as I came of age, I grew sick of sitting around and feeling sorry for myself. I wanted to be more than a mere loner. I wanted to have a life. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my days wallowing in self-pity and desolation. My parents would’ve wanted me to amount to something. So, I had to put up a fight against chronic depressions and constant anxieties. It’d been a long and tiring fight.

I am twenty-five-years old now, and I am a seasoned fighter. It’d taken me years to be at peace with myself. Thankfully, I am at a very happy place now.

I am consistently striving to be a better person…I know that is what my parents would’ve wanted.

I hope my story makes someone – somewhere out there – hopeful.

I can’t wait to share more stories.

Monica Williams