In my last post, we reflected on The Scroll of Guidance to the Person You Are Becoming — a timeless reminder that amidst life’s trials, we can still be who we’re meant to be. And just when I thought I had given all my strength to endure simply, life handed me another message, wrapped inside a book that had been quietly waiting for me in my cabinet: Brandy Luna’s Like a Palm Tree.
This chapter of my life has stretched me beyond what I thought I could carry. Every day, I’m confronted with the consequences of wrong turns, regrets that seem to echo louder than my victories. Living here in Japan as a foreigner and a mother, I often feel like I’m standing at the edge of survival — torn between enduring the storms of my marriage and trying to keep the light alive for my daughters. I often feel weighed down by regrets of choices I made in the past — choices that brought me into storms I never imagined I’d face. It’s not easy to wake up each day with wounds that still sting. It’s not easy to endure words meant to break me, or to carry the heaviness of a love that was never steady.
And yet, I keep going
What keeps me standing is the quiet voices inside that whisper, “This will pass. Hold on. A new chapter is coming… You are closer to the end of this storm than you think…” The warmth of my daughters’ love is my anchor — their hugs and kisses fuel my soul. And though oceans divide us, my family back in the Philippines, especially my sister and nieces, are my constant shelter. Each call with them feels like a healing balm, reminding me that I am not fighting this alone.
And then there are the unexpected gifts from God and the universe — synchronicities that arrive exactly when my spirit feels most crushed. The right words on a signboard while driving. The right person crosses my path just when I need help. A quiet reassurance during prayer that says, “I am with you, and you are never alone.”
Then one ordinary day, while cleaning my cabinet, my hands touched a forgotten book, Like a Palm Tree. The timing was uncanny. It felt almost divine — as if my higher self had gently handed it to me at the exact moment I needed it most.
As I opened its first pages, my tears flowed uncontrollably. In the acknowledgments, Brandy thanked her husband for his unwavering love and support — words that cut deep into my soul. Because in my story, love has not always been a shield. I never felt that steady support Brandy described. Instead, I’ve often been met with rage, accusations, and words that broke me. Yet, it was in this contrast — my longing and my pain — that the message of the book pierced even deeper.
Brandy writes about standing like a palm tree — rooted, flexible, and resilient in the face of life’s fiercest storms. Palm trees may bend, but they don’t break. They withstand hurricanes, their roots digging deeper into the earth with every gust. Reading her words, I felt God whisper into my heart: “This is you. You may feel bent, but you will not break.”
Chapter One: The Run That Changed Everything
When I first opened Brandy Luna’s Like a Palm Tree, I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to read.
The first chapter begins with Brandy whispering to her fourteen-year-old friend in a dingy movie theater: “I’m about to do it, Aubri. I’m going to run.”
The way she described her trembling body, the sweat in her palms, the dry mouth, the pounding heart — I could feel every detail. My own chest tightened as I imagined that little girl fighting fear, daring to take a step into the unknown, desperate for freedom.
Brandy wasn’t just walking out of a theater. She was walking out of captivity. She was walking out of pain. She was running toward the possibility of hope.
And that hit me so deeply, because I know what it’s like to want to run.
My Own Silent “Runs”
I may not have been in Brandy’s exact shoes, but as I sat with her story, my own memories surfaced.
Here in Japan, far away from the familiarity of home, there have been many days when I’ve wanted to run too. Not literally out of a theater, but out of situations that left me broken and exhausted. Times when the weight of my husband’s harsh words pressed down on me so heavily that I felt I couldn’t breathe. Times when I longed to run away from debt, from shame, from regrets of decisions that chained me to a life that didn’t reflect my dreams.
I’ve had nights where, after tucking my daughters into bed, I would sit in the silence and whisper to myself: “I can’t do this anymore.” And yet, somehow, the next morning, I’d rise again. Not because the storm was over, but because of the quiet voice inside me that said: “Keep going. Don’t give up. Your freedom will come.”
Brandy’s escape reminded me that sometimes “running” isn’t about physically leaving. Sometimes it’s about choosing to run from despair toward hope. It’s choosing to walk out of a mental prison, one step at a time, even when fear tells you to stay.
The Courage of Small Steps
What touched me most in Brandy’s story was Aubri — that young girl who handed her fifty cents, hoping she would make it somewhere safe. It made me think about the people who have been my “Aubri” here in Japan.
My daughters, who, with their laughter, remind me that life is still beautiful. My family in the Philippines, who, through phone calls, pour courage into my weary soul. Even strangers — people who didn’t even know the weight I was carrying but showed kindness right when I needed it most.
Sometimes courage isn’t about giant leaps. Sometimes it’s about the smallest steps, the sweaty palms, the pounding heart, the whispered prayer. Sometimes courage is in a child’s hug, a sister’s reassurance, or even the forgotten book you “accidentally” find in your cabinet at just the right moment.
Standing Tall After the Run
When Brandy described walking past the security guard, forcing a smile to hide her fear, and stepping toward the busy street, I couldn’t help but see myself in that moment. Not in the same setting, but in spirit. Because so many times in my life, I’ve had to “smile” through fear. I’ve had to look like I was okay while my heart raced with uncertainty.
But what her story reminded me of is this: even if our steps are shaky, they are still steps forward. And every step we take toward freedom, healing, and hope strengthens our roots — just like the palm tree that learns to withstand storms by bending without breaking.
What Chapter One Taught Me About My Own Life
- Freedom is never easy. It often begins in fear, in trembling, in whispers of “I’m about to do it.” But even in fear, we can still move forward.
- We all need an Aubri. Someone who believes in us, even if it’s just with fifty cents of faith. For me, my daughters and my family have been my Aubri — reminding me that I can make it through.
- Running isn’t always physical. Sometimes the bravest run is in our spirit — running away from hopelessness, running toward faith, running toward a future we cannot see yet but believe in anyway.
- Every step counts. Even shaky steps, even steps taken with tears streaming down our face, even steps that feel invisible to others — they count. And they matter.
To You, My Reader
Maybe you’re in your own theater right now — trapped in a chapter of life that feels suffocating. Maybe your heart pounds with fear, your palms sweat with uncertainty, and you’re whispering to yourself, “I can’t stay here any longer.”
If that’s you, I want to tell you this: take the step. Even if it’s small. Even if it feels terrifying. Even if it’s just a whisper. You don’t have to run fast. You just have to move.
Like Brandy, like me, you will find that courage grows with every step you take. And though the storm may rage around you, your roots — your faith, your loved ones, your inner strength — will keep you standing tall.
You were never meant to break. You were meant to bend, to rise, and to stand like a palm tree.
Chapter Two: When Love Hurts and Still Feels Like Love
In Chapter Two of Like a Palm Tree, Brandy paints a scene that pierces the heart: a little girl watching her parents fight. Her mother, with tears and rage, pushes her intoxicated father out the door. Her father, stumbling and slurring apologies, promises he will come back with a Happy Meal and a scary story.
And there is Brandy — only four years old — running barefoot into the night, crying out, “Daddy, please don’t go!”
Reading this, my heart broke for her. But at the same time, I felt as though I was looking at my own reflection in her pain.
The Innocence of a Child’s Love
When you’re a child, love is simple. Even when it’s messy, even when it’s painful, you don’t see the cracks — you only see the moments of warmth. Brandy remembered her father as the man who made her giggle by driving fast, the one who tickled her until her belly ached with laughter, the one who made her feel safe.
That hit me so deeply because I remember feeling the same as a little girl. Growing up, I saw my sister and brothers suffer, I saw how life wasn’t fair, but I also remember clinging to any moments of joy — as if those fragments could erase all the hurt.
And now, as a mother myself here in Japan, I realize my daughters are also watching. They see me laugh with them. They see me cry. They hear the arguments. They feel the silence. And even when life gets messy, their love for me remains so pure, so forgiving. Children have a way of loving us beyond our flaws, and that’s both beautiful and heartbreaking.
When Promises Break
I couldn’t stop crying when I read the part about Brandy’s father pointing at the McDonald’s sign and promising to come back. Because as adults, we know how fragile those promises can be. But to a child? A promise is everything.
I’ve been there, too — not chasing after my father, but sitting in the silence of broken promises. I know what it feels like to wait for something that never arrives, to believe with all your heart that someone will keep their word, only to be left with emptiness.
And it hurts even more when I think of my daughters. They, too, have faced moments when their father’s words didn’t match his actions. And every time their eyes looked up at me with questions I couldn’t answer, my heart ached. I wanted to shield them from that pain, but I couldn’t stop them from feeling it.
It made me realize: as mothers, we cannot always control the storm, but we can be the anchor. We may not be able to keep every promise on behalf of others, but we can show our children what love that stays looks like.
Cycles We Choose to Break
Brandy’s memory is more than just a story of a drunken night. It’s a reminder of cycles — cycles of hurt, of addiction, of disappointment. As I read her words, I thought about my own life and the cycle I am determined to break.
In my marriage, I have faced storms that have crushed my spirit. I’ve been spoken to in ways that tore me down. I’ve seen my children exposed to words and energy that no child should carry in their heart. And just like Brandy’s mom, there were moments I raised my voice louder than I wanted to, moments I acted out of pain, not peace.
But here’s the thing: cycles can end. And they can end with us.
I may not have received the love and support that Brandy thanked her husband for in her acknowledgments, but that doesn’t mean my daughters will grow up without knowing steady, safe love. I may have endured broken promises, but I can give them consistency, care, and the kind of motherhood that says, “Even if the world falls apart, I am here always with you, I will not leave.”
What Chapter Two Taught Me About My Life
Children remember the joy more than the chaos. Even in dysfunction, kids cling to the laughter, the tickles, the little stories. That’s why I try to fill my daughters’ days with moments of warmth — cooking together, silly songs, bedtime hugs — because those are the memories that anchor them.
Promises are sacred. Reading Brandy’s story reminded me to be extra careful with my words to my children. Because to them, “I promise” means everything. Even small promises, like “I’ll read you a story tonight,” can shape their sense of trust.
Cycles don’t have to continue. Just because I grew up with pain, and just because my marriage has been marked with storms, doesn’t mean my daughters will inherit the same. I can choose to bend, like the palm tree, but not break. I can root myself in faith, love, and resilience — and from those roots, grow something new for them.
To You, My Reader
Maybe you, too, grew up with memories like Brandy’s — memories of watching someone you loved stumble out the door, leaving you with promises that were never kept. Or maybe you’re standing in the role of the parent now, carrying the weight of wanting to do better for your children.
If that’s you, let this truth wash over you: you are not bound to repeat the past. You can break the cycle. You can choose to bend without breaking, to anchor yourself deeply in faith and love, and to give your children something steadier than what you received.
And if you’ve ever been that little child, running into the night begging someone to stay — let this be your reminder: you were never unworthy of love. Their leaving was never your fault. And even now, God is showing you what real, lasting love looks like — through the people who stand by you, through your own children’s pure affection, and through the strength that rises within you each time you refuse to give up.
You are not the broken promises of your past. You are the promise of something new.
Chapter Three: The Courage to Begin Again
Brandy was seven when her world shifted once more. She and her mother returned to her grandma’s house — not the old one, but a new faded yellow trailer with chipped brown trim. It wasn’t much, but it was home. One block away from the softball park, surrounded by familiar streets and the laughter of children, it was a place where Brandy’s young heart could breathe again.
That year, she began second grade at Oakgrove Elementary. And as she stood at the bus stop — tiny curls bouncing in a high ponytail, dressed in her Rugrats overalls and glittery jelly shoes — she was nervous, but also excited. The bus doors swung open with a hiss, and with courage bigger than her little body, she climbed aboard.
For her, it wasn’t just a bus ride. It was freedom. It was a declaration that even though life had been unstable, even though she had seen too much too young, she was stepping into something new. And that day, sitting quietly near the back of the olive-green seats, she began to discover that beginnings don’t always wait for perfect circumstances. Sometimes, they begin with chipped paint, borrowed courage, and a bus ride into the unknown.
How I Saw My Own Story in Hers
When I read this, I couldn’t help but see my own reflection in Brandy’s seven-year-old courage.
Moving to Japan as an immigrant mother felt very much like stepping onto that school bus for the first time. I didn’t know where to sit, I didn’t know how people would look at me, and I didn’t know if I would fit in. The bus was full of strangers speaking a language that wasn’t my own. And yet, like that little girl, I had no choice but to take a deep breath, step forward, and trust that the ride would take me where I needed to go.
And now, as I watch my daughters in Japan, I see the same spark in them. I’ve seen them put on their school uniforms, adjust their bags, and step into classrooms where they sometimes feel different, sometimes feel small, but always rise with resilience. I’ve watched them form friendships, enjoy school, and then come home glowing with stories of playground games and laughter.
In their courage, I see my younger self. In Brandy’s courage, I see my own.
The Beauty of Small Beginnings
What struck me most about this chapter is how something so ordinary — a yellow trailer, a pair of jelly shoes, a second-grade classroom — became extraordinary in Brandy’s memory.
It reminded me that beginnings don’t have to be grand to be meaningful. My own blogging journey began in the quiet hours after my children fell asleep, typing on my laptop, pouring my heart out in the stillness of my room. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t perfect. But it was mine. And just like that school bus ride, it carried me with so many possibilities I never thought possible.
I think about the times I’ve felt embarrassed by “small starts.” Living far from family, starting over in a new country, struggling with finances, juggling motherhood with dreams that seemed too big for my hands to hold. And yet, those small beginnings are where God’s miracles take root. They are where resilience is born.
Lessons I Hold Onto
Every season has a new beginning. Just like Brandy moving into her grandma’s trailer and starting second grade, I’ve learned that even after the hardest winters, there’s always a spring waiting for us.
Courage doesn’t look loud. Sometimes courage is just showing up — boarding the bus, entering the classroom, sitting down in the back row, even when your heart is racing. For me, courage looked like showing up in Japan with my children, even when I didn’t know what tomorrow would hold.
Children find joy wherever they are. Brandy’s joy wasn’t dimmed by chipped brown trim or a faded yellow trailer. My daughters remind me of the same — they find magic in little things: a trip to the park, a homemade snack, a bedtime story. Their joy keeps me going.
To My Reader
Maybe you’re standing at your own “bus stop” today. Maybe you’ve just moved to a new place, started a new job, or taken on a dream that feels too big and too scary. Let me tell you this: you don’t have to know exactly where to sit. You don’t have to be fully ready. You only need to take the first step.
Like Brandy, like me, like my daughters — you’ll find your place along the ride. You’ll discover friends, opportunities, and joy along the way. And one day, you’ll look back at your “small beginning” and realize it was never small at all. It was the foundation of everything you were becoming.
Because that’s the beauty of life: new beginnings often wear simple clothes — but they carry extraordinary promise.
Chapter Four: When Innocence Meets the Unexpected
The year was 1999. Brandy was eight years old, her baby sister Alexis barely a year old. Their small family had moved again — this time into a one-bedroom house off Tahoka Highway, shared with one of her mom’s friends and her three boys. To Brandy, it felt like a full house, buzzing with laughter and play. The cramped space didn’t matter; what mattered was the feeling of belonging, the illusion of being part of a bigger family.
Days often ended at the playground near the old intermediate school. Swinging, sliding, running barefoot across the concrete until the sun began to sink. That evening was no different, except for one detail — as the boys sprinted home, teasing her for struggling with her shoelaces, Brandy was left behind. Alone, frustrated, and still learning the patience of tangled strings.
Shoes finally tied, she decided to take a shortcut through the senior citizen’s apartment complex. A faster way home, she thought. But shortcuts, as life often teaches us, don’t always take us where we hope to go.
There, on a porch in the dimming light, sat a man rocking in an old metal chair. His voice cut through the quiet.
“Hey, sh sh, tu!”
Brandy turned, curious and unguarded. His cowboy hat shaded his eyes, but his smile beckoned. He offered her a “toy,” his broken English weaving a false sense of kindness. And though her gut whispered otherwise, though something inside her tiny chest warned her to run, she followed. Because at eight years old, no one had told her that strangers with smiles could carry danger.
That was the moment innocence brushed against the edges of the unknown.
Where This Meets My Life
When I read this part of Brandy’s story, my chest tightened. It took me back to my own moments of walking into places that didn’t feel safe — not because of physical danger, but because of emotional traps and circumstances that left me vulnerable.
As an immigrant mother in Japan, I often think about how fragile innocence really is. My daughters are still little, and like Brandy at eight, they trust so openly. They smile at strangers, they see the world as kind. And while I never want to dim their light, I carry the weight of teaching them caution — that not every smile means safety, not every promise means truth.
I also see myself in Brandy’s story. In my marriage, I too followed “a promise” I wanted to believe in — the promise of love, partnership, and support. But like that little girl’s gut instinct telling her something was wrong, my soul whispered to me, too. And for years, I ignored it. I let fear of being alone silence the inner warning signs. I stepped into rooms I shouldn’t have, situations that crushed my spirit, simply because I was scared to say no or run.
But motherhood changed me. My daughters are my daily reminder that intuition is not just a whisper — it is a compass. And when I don’t listen to it, when I ignore that sacred voice, the cost is too high.
Lessons I Carry From This
Innocence needs guidance. Brandy wasn’t warned about strangers, and I wasn’t taught how to spot emotional manipulation. Both left us vulnerable. Today, I’ve made it my mission to teach my daughters that their feelings matter. If something feels wrong, they don’t owe anyone politeness. They owe themselves protection.
Intuition is God’s quiet gift. That gut feeling Brandy felt — the one telling her to run — was Divine guidance. How many times in my own life did I hear that same voice? The nudge to walk away. The whisper that said, “This isn’t love.” I see now that ignoring intuition is like walking into a stranger’s apartment when your soul is begging you not to.
Not every shortcut is safe. Sometimes in life, we’re tempted to take the “fast way home.” The quick decision, the easy path, the promise that feels good in the moment. But shortcuts can carry hidden dangers. I’ve learned that slow, steady steps — even when the road feels longer — lead to safety and peace.
Speaking to You, My Reader
I share Brandy’s memory and my own truth not to instill fear, but to awaken awareness.
If you’ve ever ignored your gut, only to regret it later, know that you’re not alone. We’ve all trusted people or paths we shouldn’t have. But here’s the beauty: every experience, even the painful ones, teaches us how to listen more closely next time.
So if you feel that tug inside you — that unease, that whisper, that pull to say no or walk away — honor it. That is not a weakness. That is your strength, speaking. That is God, the universe, your higher self, protecting you.
And if you are raising little ones, remember this: their innocence is precious, but their intuition is powerful. Teach them early to listen to it, to trust it, to never be afraid of saying, “No, I don’t feel safe.” Because that voice inside them might one day save their life.
Because at the heart of it all, Brandy’s story — and mine — tells us this: intuition is not just a feeling. It is protection, direction, and Divine love wrapped into a whisper.
Chapter Five: Between Laughter and Loneliness
Brandy’s fifth-grade years were painted in shades of contrast.
Some mornings, she woke to the smell of breakfast and the sound of laughter echoing through the house. Her stepdad’s jokes filled the air, her mom smiled more, and for a moment, everything felt whole. Christmases were sometimes bright — thanks to church donations, presents under the tree made the season sparkle, and movie nights carried the joy of togetherness. On those days, Brandy could believe that life was shifting toward better.
But other days told a different story.
At school, she carried the weight of faded clothes and a smell she couldn’t control. The popular girls were merciless — whispers, giggles, pointed fingers. “Something smells… ew, look at her clothes.” Each comment pierced her young heart. She longed for new clothes, for a chance to blend in, for the luxury of invisibility. Yet she endured, sometimes with quiet anger, sometimes with secret dreams, and always with gratitude for the friends who saw her for who she really was.
At home, her stepdad eventually faded out of the picture. Illness, unemployment, and constant disagreements with her mom cracked their fragile stability. Her mother worked long hours — sometimes two jobs — just to keep the lights on, food stamps filling the gaps when money wasn’t enough. Dinner was often McChickens or Allsups burritos, until the stamps came and meals shifted to something different, something special.
Life was a cycle of hope and hardship, laughter and loneliness, comfort and hunger. And through it all, Brandy learned resilience.
Where I See Myself in Brandy
When I read this chapter, I was taken back to my own life here in Japan. To the moments when, on the outside, everything seemed fine — but on the inside, I was juggling exhaustion, fear, and longing for something better.
There were days when I, too, felt like Brandy at school — out of place, quietly judged, carrying invisible burdens others couldn’t see. Living as a foreigner in Japan, I often felt the sting of being different. The unspoken glances, the whispered words I didn’t always understand, the sense of being “other.” And like Brandy with her faded clothes, there were seasons in my marriage where I felt stripped of dignity — trying to hide the weight of debt, betrayal, and loneliness behind a straight face.
But then there were the good days. The days my daughters’ laughter filled our home, where hugs and bedtime stories carried me through. Days when I found myself cooking something warm, remembering my family back in the Philippines, and realizing I wasn’t truly alone. Those small joys, like Brandy’s Christmas gifts or family movie nights, reminded me that even in instability, love creates islands of peace.
Lessons That Still Carry Me
Pain doesn’t erase joy; the two often coexist. Brandy’s childhood wasn’t all hardship — there were pockets of laughter and warmth. My life in Japan has been the same. Even through financial strain and emotional storms, the joy of my daughters has been the constant light.
Bullying and judgment say more about others than about you. Just as Brandy wondered what pain those “mean girls” carried at home, I’ve realized that people who wound with words often speak from their own brokenness. Their cruelty is not my truth.
Survival creates gratitude. Eating the same cheap meals again and again wasn’t ideal for Brandy, but it made her grateful for change when it came. In my life, being forced to stretch finances, to make do with little, has made me cherish the smallest blessings. A paid bill. A kind word. A moment of peace. Mothers carry impossible loads — and still give love. Brandy’s mom worked tirelessly, even when her own struggles consumed her. I see my sister in her, and I see myself. We may not always get it perfect, but we fight for our children, even when we are tired, even when the world seems too heavy.
Speaking to You, My Reader
Life is not always one thing. It is laughter and loneliness. There is abundance and lack. It is the sting of rejection and the comfort of unconditional love.
If you are in a season where the “bad days” seem to overshadow the good, let me remind you: the good moments matter. They are not accidents. They are seeds planted in your soul, reminders that light still exists even in dark rooms.
And if you are carrying the wounds of ridicule or judgment, remember this: your worth is not determined by other people’s whispers. You are not defined by faded clothes, by broken relationships, or by mistakes of the past. You are defined by your resilience, your love, and the courage that keeps you moving forward.
Like Brandy. Like me. Like you.
Because in the end, even if life gives us McChickens and cheap burritos some days, the feast of love and resilience always comes when we hold on.
Chapter Six: The Summer Sun and an Interrupted Dream
Summer had always been the great escape.
After enduring the biting cold of winter and the restless rain of spring, the warmth of the sun felt like a promise — a reminder that life wasn’t only made of hardship. For Brandy, summer meant freedom, joy, and a temporary doorway into another world: the home of her cousin Amber in Brownfield.
Amber wasn’t just family; she was a mirror, a partner-in-crime, a safe harbor. Her house was like a playground of wonders: a trampoline bouncing dreams into the sky, a swimming pool that swallowed the heat of the day, and shelves of Disney VHS tapes that carried them into magical worlds where everything ended happily ever after.
Together, the two girls created entire universes. They invented songs, wrote plays, and performed for an audience of stuffed animals. They even staged their own garage sale, arranging toys neatly in hopes of raising money to visit the city pool. Not a single customer came, but the triumph was in the attempt — they had worked together, dreamed together, and believed in the magic of possibility.
At Amber’s house, Brandy wasn’t “the girl with faded clothes” or “the one kids whispered about.” She was just a child. Free, loved, and allowed to dream.
One hot summer day, after a flurry of begging and promises to clean up, Amber’s mom relented and let them go to the city pool. Excitement bubbled up as they splashed, played, and stood in line to leap off the diving board. Brandy felt alive. The sun warmed her face, her feet dangled into the cool water, and for a moment, the world was perfect.
And then — everything shifted.
“Brandy!”
The voice came from outside the pool fence. Brandy turned, squinting against the sunlight, and saw Alexis’s aunt calling to her. The tone was insistent, almost urgent. That single moment, one sentence, broke through the idyllic bubble. What felt like freedom suddenly turned into something else — the reminder that childhood joy could be interrupted in an instant, that her story was never free from complication.
How I See Myself in Brandy’s Summer
Reading this part of Brandy’s story, I couldn’t help but think about the summers of my own life — and how even in Japan, I’ve carried that same longing for “a place to be free.”
For Brandy, Amber’s home was the sanctuary. For me, it has often been in the little things I create with my daughters: spontaneous laughter in our living room, singing songs before bedtime, or making something simple — like pancakes — feel like a special celebration. Like Amber and Brandy performing for stuffed animals, my girls and I create plays with their toys, give silly voices to their unicorns, and turn our house into a theater of imagination.
But just like Brandy, our moments of joy have been interrupted by reality. I’ve had days where laughter was suddenly silenced by a bill I wasn’t sure I could pay. Times when a phone call or a sudden argument with my husband cuts short the sweetness of a family moment. Times when I thought: Can’t joy just stay a little longer?
And yet — I see now that even those interruptions couldn’t erase the joy. Just like Brandy still remembers her summer days with Amber in vivid color, I know my daughters will hold on to the warmth of the moments we create, no matter how imperfect life feels around us.
What Summer Taught Me
Joy, even when fleeting, is powerful. Brandy’s summers weren’t permanent, but they were transformative. In my own life, I’ve realized that even short-lived moments of laughter or peace leave a lasting mark. They become the memories that carry us through darker seasons.
Safe places heal us. For Brandy, Amber’s house was a haven. For me, it has often been my family back in the Philippines, or the simple sanctuary I create with my daughters here in Japan. Every one of us needs a place where we can breathe, laugh, and just be ourselves.
Life will interrupt — but it doesn’t erase. That voice calling Brandy from outside the pool fence reminds me of how often life interrupts joy. Yet interruptions don’t erase the memory of joy; they simply remind us of how precious it is.
Speaking to You, My Reader
Maybe you’ve had summers like Brandy’s — seasons where the sun seemed to shine brighter, only to be interrupted by a shadow. Maybe you’ve known what it feels like to finally be free, only to have reality tug you back.
If so, let this truth sink in: The interruptions don’t cancel the joy. The laughter, the splashes, the trampoline jumps, the late-night movie marathons — they still matter. They shape your heart. They remind you what’s possible.
Life is not always consistent. It ebbs and flows, it gives and it takes away. But the sweetness of even a single summer day can remind us to keep hoping, to keep dreaming, and to keep creating safe places for ourselves and the ones we love.
Because sometimes, even when the call comes to pull us away, the memory of sunlight on our face and laughter in our chest is enough to keep us going.
Chapter Seven: The Surprise in the Office
Living at Aunt Cynthia and Uncle Lonnie’s house in Andrews was like stepping into another world. Brandy finally had something she had longed for all her young life — stability. Dinner was always on the table. The house stayed clean. There was laughter in the living room when movies played, and simple joys like playing outside with her cousins were a normal part of life. For the first time in years, she wasn’t just surviving — she was living.
But even in that safe place, the ache never left. At night, when the lights went out and the house grew quiet, Brandy pulled the covers over her face and cried. She missed her sisters — little Alexis and Jasmine. She worried about them constantly, wondering if they thought she had abandoned them, if they were scared, or if they’d ever see each other again. Her heart was breaking, but she carried that pain alone.
And then came the new challenge: middle school.
No longer the comfort of elementary classrooms — this was the “big kid” school, with all the fears of being twelve. What if no one likes me? What if I wear the wrong clothes? What if I’m invisible?
But for the first time in her life, Brandy was given something that shifted her world — her aunt and uncle took her school shopping. Not just the usual one pair of jeans and a shirt from Family Dollar, but real shopping. Shoes from Payless, clothes from the mall, notebooks, and pens from Walmart. For once, she felt like she could walk into school not marked by her lack, but shining with a little pride.
On that first day, nerves churned inside her, but the new clothes gave her courage. And that’s when she met Lizzie and Makayla — two girls who didn’t care about popularity or appearances. They became her people. With them, she could laugh again. With them, she didn’t have to pretend.
Still, life had a way of reminding her of the struggles she carried. Her eyesight had been failing for some time, but she never told anyone. She didn’t want to be a burden. Her aunt and uncle were already doing so much, and the last thing she wanted was to add to their load. So she squinted, guessed, and endured.
Until one day, a miracle came disguised as a call over the intercom.
“Can we have Brandy Tijerina come to the office, please?”
Her heart raced as she walked down the hall. Had she done something wrong? Was she in trouble?
But when she opened the office door, she wasn’t met with scolding. Instead, she was met with kindness. Someone had seen her need — the need she tried so hard to hide — and they had stepped in. A pair of glasses was waiting for her.
That moment was more than just about seeing clearly on the chalkboard. It was about being seen. About someone noticing her, caring for her, and saying with their actions: You matter. You are not invisible. You are not a burden.
How Her Story Speaks Into Mine
When I reflect on Brandy’s story, I see my own reflection in it.
I, too, know the ache of separation — being far from my family in the Philippines, raising my children in Japan while carrying the weight of broken promises and financial struggles. Like Brandy, I have cried silent tears at night, wishing things were different for my children, wishing I could give them more.
I, too, have felt that fear of being “too much” or a burden. In my marriage, in my struggles, I’ve often wondered if my voice even mattered, if my needs were worth being seen. And yet, just as Brandy received a surprise in that school office, I’ve experienced moments where God, through people, showed me: You are not forgotten. You are not invisible.
For me, it’s in the little things:
- A message from my family back home reminding me of my strength.
- The way my daughters look at me, as if I am their safe place, their whole world.
- Even the words of mentors and books — Joe Dispenza and Joel Osteen whispering, “You have a destiny to fulfill.”
Like Brandy, I’ve learned that sometimes the greatest gifts don’t come wrapped in perfection. They come in moments of grace — when someone notices your silent need and meets it.
What It Taught Us Both
Stability doesn’t have to be grand to be life-changing. Brandy found healing in her aunt’s clean, steady home. I’ve found healing in creating stability for my daughters, even in the midst of chaos.
The right people change everything. Brandy had Lizzie and Makayla. I have my children, a few friends, and mentors who remind me to keep going.
Being seen is a miracle in itself. For Brandy, it was a pair of glasses. For me, it’s the moments when God reminds me that I am not alone — through a word, a hug, or even a dream.
To Anyone Reading
If you’ve ever felt invisible, or like you had to carry your pain in silence, Brandy’s story — and mine — are proof that you are not unseen. You are not forgotten. Someone notices. And one day, grace will arrive, even if it’s disguised as something ordinary — a pair of glasses, a kind word, a little reminder that you matter.
We both carry scars from our childhoods, but we also carry a truth: those scars became our teachers. They taught us resilience, empathy, and the unshakable courage to rise again.
And now, as I write these words, I see how both Brandy and I — though our paths are different — carry the same hope: to give our children a different story, to break the cycle, and to prove that brokenness is not the end.
It is the beginning of becoming whole.
Chapter 8: Carrying Hope Into the Unknown
It was only a day after sixth grade had ended when life shifted yet again. My aunt, with sadness heavy in her voice, told me that we were going to a foster home in Brownfield, Texas. She looked at me as if she had failed, but I didn’t see it that way. She and my uncle had carried me as long as they could, giving me meals, laughter, and something close to family when my own home had broken down. Love doesn’t always mean forever—it means doing the best you can, even when your strength runs out.
Still, the word foster home pressed down on my chest like a heavy stone. It meant more change, more uncertainty, more goodbyes.
But this time was different. At least I had my sisters with me. We were together, and that meant I could breathe. Even as memories of Brownfield clawed at me—memories of a childhood filled with shadows—I forced them back. This will not be the same. This time, we will be safe. This time, I will protect them.
That promise I made to myself at twelve is the same one I make to myself today, here in Japan. I’m going to make it even without mom; I must just believe it. After a failed marriage that left me carrying scars, debts, and a heart so heavy it sometimes threatened to stop beating, I’ve learned that life doesn’t stop pushing you forward just because you’re afraid. Sometimes it drags you into places you never chose, demanding that you build a home out of pieces.
The day we were moved, my caseworker, Nicole, arrived at my aunt’s door. She had a warm smile, her kindness a small comfort against the ache of leaving. My sisters and I gathered our little bags—clothes, a few belongings, nothing much. My aunt carried Jasmine’s bag for the last time, her hands trembling as she let go. That goodbye cut deep, not because of words, but because I could feel the weight of her tears.
“Alright, are we ready?” Nicole asked, as if being ready was even possible.
We weren’t. But sometimes survival doesn’t wait for readiness—it demands movement.
We climbed into Nicole’s white Ford truck, and as the road stretched ahead, the younger girls fell asleep in the back seat. I watched them, my heart aching, because even in their dreams I could see the innocence they deserved but never fully got. Nicole turned on soft country music, and I drifted into my thoughts.
What kind of home will it be? Will I have my own bed? Will these people see me as more than just another burden?
And I realize, I ask the same questions now as a grown woman, an immigrant mother trying to raise children in a foreign land. Each time I packed our things into boxes after another storm in my marriage, each time I unlocked the door to a new apartment in Japan with trembling hands, I whispered the same prayer: Will this be the home where my children feel safe? Will this be the place where we finally belong?
When the Brownfield city limit sign appeared, my chest tightened. That place carried so much pain, but I told myself, Don’t look back. Don’t drown in old wounds. This time, it will be different.
And I think of how many times I’ve had to whisper that same prayer to myself here—after arguments that left me broken, after bills piled up under my name, after nights of tears where my children’s laughter was the only light that kept me breathing. Each time, I had to hold on to them, smile through the fear, and say: This time, I’ll make it different. This time, we will not break.
Nicole glanced at me in the front seat, as if she knew my mind was racing.
“How do you feel? Are you ready?” she asked.
The truth was, I wasn’t ready at all. I was terrified—just a girl holding her sisters in her heart, stepping into the unknown. And I am still that girl today—holding my daughters close, walking into a future I can’t fully see. But I nodded anyway. Because sometimes bravery isn’t about being fearless. It’s about walking forward with trembling hands, carrying others with you, and refusing to give up even when the road looks dark.
How Her Story Speaks to Mine
When I read Brandy’s story, I don’t just see her. I see myself. I see a little girl who learned too early that home can be fragile, that love can feel temporary, that safety sometimes exists only in whispers and prayers. I see the same resilience that I had to learn—the kind that says, Even if the ground keeps shifting, I will find a way to stand.
Her journey through foster care mirrors the invisible foster homes of my own life—the broken marriage, the unstable seasons, the nights I had to build a new kind of family for my children in a country where I often felt like a stranger. Brandy’s story is a mirror to mine: both of us girls-turned-mothers, fighting to give our children the kind of belonging we once only dreamed of.
To Anyone Reading
If you are reading this, maybe you, too, know what it’s like to face change you didn’t choose. Maybe you’ve carried your children through storms, maybe you’ve held your own heart together when no one else seemed to care, maybe you’ve asked yourself in the quiet, Will it ever get better?
This chapter, both Brandy’s and mine, is proof that even when life throws you into places you don’t want to go, you can still carve out hope. You can still turn survival into strength, and strength into a new story.
No, we are never “ready.” We are never fully prepared for the unknown. But we go anyway. We walk forward anyway. And in doing so, we discover that home isn’t just a place—it’s something we carry within us, something we pass on through love, through courage, and through the refusal to quit.
So if you’re standing at the edge of the unknown, afraid and unsure, take heart. You are not alone. And just like Brandy, just like me, you can carry hope into the unknown—and find that it carries you back.
Chapter Nine: Running Toward Healing
Brandy’s story in this chapter is one of both struggle and small glimpses of hope. In the summer of 2006, she was adjusting to life in a foster home with Kimberly and Tod. For the first time, her sisters seemed safe enough to let go of her constant watch, which gave her some relief. Yet Brandy herself wasn’t ready to trust her new environment. She withdrew to her room, drowning out her thoughts with Mariah Carey, Ashanti, and R&B beats while clinging to long phone calls with her friends Lizzie and Makayla.
But beneath the music and the laughter, Brandy was carrying a heavy secret. She battled with body image and shame, punishing herself through purging and long runs to keep from gaining weight. The fear of being called “fat” again haunted her, pushing her into cycles of pain that no young girl should have to endure.
Still, God brought her light in the middle of that darkness. She met a new friend, Tanika, on the basketball court. Together, they found comfort, sharing escapes from their homes and their struggles. Knowing that Tanika would be at her new middle school gave Brandy hope that she wouldn’t have to face everything alone. And when she recognized a boy from her past among the kids at the park, it reminded her that life had ways of bringing familiar faces and unexpected connections just when she needed them most.
How Brandy’s Story Speaks to Mine
When I reflect on Brandy’s story, I see my own reflection staring back at me. Like her, I know what it means to carry burdens in silence—to smile while my heart was breaking inside. She punished herself through running and purging; I punished myself by staying silent in a marriage that drained me, by carrying the weight of someone else’s mistakes, by hiding my pain so my children wouldn’t see the cracks in their mother.
Brandy’s need to control her body to avoid shame mirrors my years of trying to control my life just to survive. Living in Japan, with no safety net but my children, I ran a different kind of race. I wasn’t running laps at a park, but I was running through cycles of financial stress, emotional betrayal, and the loneliness of being an immigrant mother far from home. Every day felt like another lap around the track of survival—trying to stay one step ahead of despair.
And yet, just like Brandy found her Tanika, I found my own “Tanikas” in life. Sometimes it was a friend who was always there for me. Sometimes it was a kind stranger at the grocery store who reminded me I wasn’t invisible. Most of the time, it was the video calls from the Philippines, my family reminding me that I was still loved, still seen, still worth fighting for.
Brandy’s story of finding connection in the middle of pain reminds me that God always places people, no matter how small the role, to help guide us through our storms.
To Anyone Reading
If you’ve ever run from shame, from fear, or from pain—you are not alone. Whether your “running” looks like Brandy’s desperate battle with body image or my own silent endurance through a broken marriage, we all know what it means to carry hidden wounds.
But here’s the beauty: even in the middle of our running, life has a way of sending us little anchors—friends, moments, and reminders that we are not forgotten. Healing doesn’t always come in one grand miracle; sometimes it comes in the form of a friend who shows up when you need help the most, or a stranger who offers kindness you don’t expect.
Brandy’s story reminds me—and maybe it reminds you—that we can stop running from our pain and start running toward ourselves. Toward healing. Toward the woman we were always meant to be.
Chapter Ten: First Loves, First Heartbreaks, and Finding My Voice
For Brandy, seventh grade was a year of discovery, friendship, and painful lessons. She found herself thriving socially—making friends, getting attention from boys, playing sports, and even making the cheer team for the following year. On the surface, she looked like she was flourishing.
But beneath the smiles and busy schedule, Brandy was navigating storms of self-doubt. She discovered she loved writing, and her English teacher, Mrs. Downs, saw a spark in her. “You’re a writer,” she told her, planting a seed of hope in Brandy’s heart. That affirmation gave Brandy a glimpse of who she could be—someone with a voice worth listening to.
At the same time, Brandy experienced her first heartbreak. She gave her heart and trust to a boy who made her feel safe, understood, and wanted. For a while, she believed it could last forever. But when he left her for another girl, Brandy’s fragile self-esteem shattered. She compared herself relentlessly—her body, her hair, her looks—to the girl he chose instead. No matter how much she starved herself, no matter how much she tried to control her body, she felt like she wasn’t enough.
This was Brandy’s first real lesson in heartbreak—the kind that cuts deep because it convinces you that your worth depends on being chosen.
How Brandy’s Story Speaks to Mine
When I think of Brandy’s story, I can’t help but feel the sting of familiarity. I, too, know what it’s like to give my all to someone and still not be enough in their eyes. Brandy’s first heartbreak was at thirteen; mine came later, in the form of a marriage that promised love but gave me betrayal, disappointment, and wounds so deep I questioned my own worth.
Like her, I compared myself to others. To the women who seemed prettier, thinner, more “together.” To the idea of the kind of wife my husband might have wanted me to be. I would look in the mirror and wonder if I was lacking something—if my imperfections were the reason he strayed, the reason he left me carrying burdens that should never have been mine alone.
And yet, Brandy’s story also shines a light on something bigger—the quiet discovery of her gift. In the middle of heartbreak, rejection, and self-doubt, she found her voice through writing. That same discovery resonates so deeply with me. Writing has become my lifeline, my way of giving meaning to pain and turning wounds into words that can heal not just me, but maybe someone else, too.
Her English teacher told her, “You’re a writer.” In many ways, life told me the same. Through the struggles of being a foreigner in Japan, through the silence of an unsupportive marriage, through the exhaustion of motherhood and survival, I’ve found that my story matters. Writing is not just a hobby—it’s my bridge to freedom, my way of reclaiming power, and my gift to my children and the world.
To Anyone Reading
Brandy’s story reminds us of a truth we all need to hear: your worth is not defined by who stays or who leaves. It’s not defined by how you look, how much you weigh, or how “perfect” you appear. Worth is something you carry within you—it’s in your voice, your dreams, your resilience, and your heart.
Maybe you, like Brandy, gave your everything to someone who didn’t value it. Maybe, like me, you stayed too long in a place where love was broken, and you felt like you were the one who wasn’t enough. If so, let me remind you: you are enough. You always were.
Sometimes it takes heartbreak to reveal the deeper truth of who we are. For Brandy, it was discovering her love for writing. For me, it was realizing that even in my lowest moments, I had a story worth telling. And for you, dear reader, maybe this chapter in your life—no matter how painful—holds the key to unlocking the gifts you’ve carried all along.
Chapter Eleven: Silenced but Not Defeated
For Brandy, the summer after seventh grade turned into a painful lesson in control and silencing. She had written a simple letter—poured her heart into words meant for her mother in prison. That letter represented hope, longing, and the need to feel connected to the woman who gave her life.
But instead of reaching her mother, the letter fell into the hands of her investigator. Brandy was summoned to the office, blindsided and unprepared. There, she wasn’t treated as a young girl missing her mom—she was treated like a criminal, scolded and threatened.
“You want to keep writing to your mother? Then I’ll send you so far away you won’t even be able to think about her.”
In that moment, Brandy’s small act of love became twisted into something dangerous in the eyes of those who had power over her. She was silenced, shamed, and stripped of her right to express her heart. She left the office that day with her spirit bruised, but not broken.
How Brandy’s Story Speaks to Mine
When I think of Brandy clutching her letter, hoping to feel close to her mom but being shut down, I can’t help but see myself in her. I, too, know what it feels like to be silenced when all I wanted was to express my truth.
In my marriage, I was often told—sometimes with words, sometimes with silence—that my voice didn’t matter. That my feelings were inconvenient. That my dreams were too big, my needs too much, or my pain something to be dismissed. Just like Brandy, I learned to hide the knot in my throat, to keep quiet even when my soul was screaming.
Brandy’s investigator told her she’d be sent away if she dared to keep reaching for love. In my own life, I felt a similar threat: that if I kept standing up for myself, I’d be abandoned, cut off, or left to carry the weight alone. And in many ways, that’s exactly what happened.
But here’s the thing: neither Brandy nor I let the silencing destroy us. For Brandy, it fueled a deeper resilience, teaching her how to carry pain with strength. For me, it birthed a fire to finally use my voice—through writing, through sharing my story, through refusing to stay quiet anymore.
To Anyone Reading
Maybe you’ve been silenced, too. Maybe there were times when you wanted to reach out for love, only to be told you didn’t have the right. Maybe your words, your feelings, your truth—were shoved aside by people who thought they had the power to control your voice.
If so, hear this: you are not powerless. Your story deserves to be told. Your voice is not meant to stay hidden.
Brandy’s letter never reached her mom, but it reached us. Her story echoes in mine, and maybe in yours, too. What others tried to bury has become the very soil where our strength grows.
And that’s the beautiful, unshakable truth: even when the world tries to silence us, our voices find a way.
Chapter Twelve: The Run We All Dream Of
Brandy’s courage in this chapter begins in the most ordinary of places—a movie theater. Sitting in the dark, surrounded by the noise of previews and the smell of popcorn, she wasn’t really watching the screen. She was plotting her escape. Part of her told her to stay, behave, and maybe things would get better. But another part of her—the louder, more honest part—knew the truth. She couldn’t go back to Tod’s house. Too many lies, too much rejection, too little love.
So, she ran.
She slipped out, her heart racing, and ended up by a dingy brown dumpster. Her plan was shaky, but her determination was fierce. She searched for a payphone, clutching her only possessions—a fake Coach purse and a hair straightener—hoping she could call the one person she believed might come for her. But even the phone betrayed her. No dial tone. No returned coins. Just silence and a lump in her throat.
Desperation pushed her forward. She scanned the city—sweaty, tear-streaked, exhausted—and ducked into a Long John Silver’s, hoping to catch her breath, to be unseen, to be safe. It wasn’t just a run from a foster home. It was a run toward dignity, toward survival, toward a life that felt like her own.
How Brandy’s Story Speaks to Mine
Reading Brandy’s story, I felt as though I was right there with her—running through the dark, not just from people, but from pain, from betrayal, from the unbearable weight of being unseen.
In my own life, my “run” didn’t happen in one night. It happened slowly, quietly, behind closed doors. I was trapped in a marriage that felt like a prison—financial burdens piled high under my name, love twisted into control, and dreams pushed down so deep I could barely hear them anymore. I wanted to run so many times. Not necessarily with a suitcase or through the streets, but in my heart. I longed to break free from the suffocating cycle of being silenced and blamed, of holding everything together while my own soul unraveled.
Just like Brandy, I had to make a choice: stay in a situation that was crushing me, or gather whatever strength I had left and run—not physically, but emotionally and spiritually. For me, “running” looked like clinging to my faith, turning to my children, and slowly building a new life through writing and dreaming again. My escape wasn’t as dramatic as hers, but it was just as risky—because stepping out of a broken marriage, stepping into the unknown, meant I had to face fear, uncertainty, and the possibility of falling flat.
To Anyone Reading
Maybe you’ve never stood outside a payphone with sweaty hands and tear-streaked cheeks, but maybe you’ve felt that same desperation—the urge to run from a life that no longer felt like yours. Maybe you’ve sat in the dark, like Brandy in that theater, whispering to yourself, “I can’t stay here anymore.”
Brandy’s story isn’t just about a teenage girl running from foster care. It’s about all of us who’ve ever had to escape something that was breaking us—whether it was a toxic home, a failed relationship, or the invisible chains of fear and doubt.
Her run reminds me, and maybe it reminds you, that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is walk away from what hurts us—even if we don’t yet know where the road will lead.
Because in that moment of running, we aren’t just leaving something behind. We’re running toward ourselves.
Chapter Thirteen: The White Flag
After nearly a year of running, Brandy reached her breaking point. She had hopped from town to town, slept wherever she could, and lived every day in survival mode. Her life on the run had stolen pieces of her: she battled depression, numbed herself with drugs, lied to survive, and gave away her dignity just to have a place to stay. Every choice was about her next meal, her next roof, her next escape. And yet, the weight of fear never left—fear of being caught, fear of never finding home, fear of losing herself completely.
On April 18, 2009, she finally admitted to herself: she was tired. Tired of hiding, tired of pretending, tired of running. She longed for the simple things she once had—her sisters, her school, even the peace of walking into a store without paranoia. What she carried all along was a phone number in her purse, one she almost threw away countless times—her caseworker’s number. That number became her lifeline.
After one last day of “freedom,” she picked up the phone and made the call: “I’m done. I’m turning myself in.” It wasn’t just surrender. It was a strength. It was hope. It was the first step back toward healing.
How Brandy’s Story Speaks to Mine
Reading Brandy’s surrender, I felt my heart ache because I knew exactly what it meant to finally whisper, “I’m done.”
For me, it wasn’t running from city to city across Texas, but it was hiding behind smiles, living in denial, and trying to survive in a marriage that left me empty and broken. I was stuck in Japan, far from the home I once knew, trapped by financial burdens I didn’t create, and weighed down by loneliness that words can’t fully describe. Like Brandy, I had my “coping mechanisms”—not drugs or running, but silence, self-neglect, and the constant cycle of giving too much of myself until there was nothing left.
And just like her, there came a point when I couldn’t do it anymore. I had reached the edge of exhaustion, emotionally and spiritually. I had to raise my own white flag—not to my husband, not to the world, but to God. I had to surrender my pain, my anger, my brokenness, and admit, “I can’t carry this anymore.”
Her story reminded me of the moment I chose to stop fighting battles that weren’t mine to win. Instead, I turned inward—to my children, to my faith, to the dream of rebuilding a life through writing and helping others. That was my version of calling the caseworker. That was my step back toward hope.
To Anyone Reading
Brandy’s story of running and surrender may sound extreme, but at its heart, it’s about something deeply human: the moment you realize you can’t keep living the way you’ve been living.
Maybe you’ve never been homeless or on the run, but maybe you’ve been running inside—hiding your pain, numbing your wounds, or pretending everything’s fine while inside you’re screaming for relief. Maybe you’ve carried shame, regret, or burdens so heavy you wondered if you’d ever feel light again.
Brandy’s white flag was her lifeline. Mine was choosing faith over fear. Yours might be something different. But one thing is the same: surrender isn’t weakness. It’s the beginning of freedom.
When you stop running, you finally give yourself a chance to be found—by love, by healing, by God, by the person you were always meant to be.
Like a Palm Tree
Brandy’s story shows us the power of surrender. After years of running, after all the fear, the heartbreak, the mistakes, and the nights of feeling completely alone, she finally whispered, “I’m done.” She stopped running. She allowed herself to be found, to be held, to be healed. And in that moment, she planted the seed for a life that could finally grow, flourish, and bear fruit.
Her journey speaks to me in ways I can’t fully capture with words, because while I never ran across Texas like she did, I, too, have carried the weight of survival. My battle wasn’t only with the instability of childhood; it extended into my adult life in Japan—alone, raising my daughters, facing financial strain from a marriage that faltered under its own weight, and trying to build a life when it felt like the world kept knocking me down. I have had days where hope seemed impossibly far away, nights where I questioned whether I could go on, and moments when fear whispered that I was powerless.
Yet here I am. Still standing. Still fighting. Still believing. Just like Brandy, I had to reach a point of surrender. Not surrender to circumstances, but surrender to the One who has always held me, even when I didn’t know it. That moment of surrender—the quiet decision to trust God, to let His Spirit guide me, to believe in the promises of His Word—became the turning point. It’s the reason I could rebuild: keep educating myself, be a more loving mother to my daughters, pursue my dreams, and continue growing despite life’s storms.
That Bible, worn and held close to my heart, became a compass. Hebrews 4:12 reminded me that God’s Word cuts through despair and doubt. Through it, I learned resilience, forgiveness, and strength. I forgave the ones who hurt me, surrendered my struggles and fear, and learned to walk with joy, even in the midst of imperfection. I discovered that life isn’t about avoiding the storm—it’s about learning to bend without breaking, rooted firmly in the One who gives life.
Like a palm tree, I’ve bent in storms—through heartbreak, betrayal, financial struggles, single motherhood, and the long, lonely nights—but I have not broken. My roots run deep in faith. My branches reach upward toward hope, toward purpose, toward God’s promises. And just like the palm tree, I continue to flourish even where the ground feels dry or uncertain.
Brandy’s story and mine are a testament: life will test you. People will fail you. Circumstances may crush your spirit. But when you surrender, when you allow God to guide you, you will rise. You will bend, but you will not break. You will stand tall. You will bear fruit.
To anyone reading this: if you feel broken, lost, or defeated—know that your story isn’t over. Take that step of faith. Cry out, surrender, and allow God’s Spirit to take root in your heart. You too can be like a palm tree: bending under life’s storms yet standing strong, resilient, and full of life. Your testimony will inspire others. Your perseverance will show the world the power of hope. And your life, just like mine and Brandy’s, will shine as a living example that no matter how hard the past, the future is filled with possibilities.
“The righteous shall flourish like a palm tree; he shall grow like a cedar in Lebanon. Those who are planted in the house of the Lord shall flourish in the courts of our God.” —Psalm 92:12-13.
And now, as I stand here today in Japan, looking out over the city lights with my daughters by my side, I see the full picture of God’s faithfulness. Every tear, every sleepless night, every battle—both mine and Brandy’s—was never wasted. We are living proof that storms do not define us; they refine us. I see myself in Brandy’s courage, her surrender, her eventual rise—and I see a reflection of my own resilience. The same God who carried her through the deserts of her youth has carried me across oceans, across cultures, through failed marriages, through moments of doubt and fear. Yet here we are—rooted, thriving, and unshakable.
Life may bend us, but it cannot break us. Our scars are maps of survival, our struggles are testimonies of strength, and our stories—though hard and heavy at times—shine with hope for anyone still wandering in the dark. To anyone reading this, know that no matter where you are, no matter what storms have battered your soul, you, too, can rise. You too can stand like a palm tree: unbowed, flourishing, and reaching toward the sky with unwavering faith. And when you do, you will realize that every battle, every heartbreak, and every challenge was part of the journey that brought you to this moment—alive, victorious, and embraced by the unending grace of God.
So stand tall, beloved. Bend when the wind blows hard, but never break. Your roots are deep, your branches are strong, and your life has purpose far beyond the trials you face today. Just like Brandy, just like me, just like the palm tree—you are destined to flourish.
