When I finally walked out of that house, I had a black eye and $25 in my pocket. I didn’t know where I would go, only that I couldn’t stay. I also didn’t yet know that it would take decades to stop looking over my shoulder, or that healing from invisible wounds can sometimes be harder than surviving the physical violence itself.
What I’ve come to understand since is that domestic violence doesn’t end when the door slams behind you. It lingers in the body—in the nervous system, in sleepless nights, in sudden panic when you hear footsteps behind you. For many years after I left that relationship, I was trapped in cycles of anxiety and fear that no one around me could see. I looked “put together.” I worked hard, raised my kids, built a career. But inside, my body never stopped bracing for impact.
Most recently, my healing journey brought me to The Hoffman Institute UK, an intensive program where I worked alongside 23 other brave souls and a life-changing coach, Mairi Russell, who helped me immensely. That experience was transformative, and I owe so much to Mairi and the courage of everyone in that group.
But before my recent breakthrough at Hoffman, I found a tool that helped me begin to breathe again: cannabis.
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I wasn’t a teenage smoker. I was the student-council kid—the rule-follower. My mother struggled with alcoholism, and I stayed as far away from substances as I could. But in my 20s, while I was rebuilding my life, I suffered from panic attacks, insomnia, and an ever-present sense of dread. I was prescribed antidepressants, and then anti-anxiety medications, but they dulled me in ways that made it hard to work, to parent, to feel fully alive.
When I tried cannabis for the first time alongside my traditional medications, something inside me quieted. My heart still raced sometimes, but my mind finally stopped spinning. It was the first step toward peace.
Later, when my father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, he used cannabis too—not to get high, but to manage pain without opioids. I watched this plant relieve his tremors, decrease his pain, and return to him a measure of dignity.
For my family, cannabis was compassion made visible.
That realization changed the trajectory of my career. After years in the alcohol industry—ironically, even though I don’t drink and hypocritically, I’ll admit, based on my mother’s struggles—I made the leap to the cannabis industry.
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I joined a Colorado-based brand at a time when this industry was still defining itself. I wanted to be part of something that was healing people, not numbing them. Almost a decade later, I’m still here: a woman in leadership, a survivor, and someone determined to use her platform for good.
My work in cannabis is not separate from my experience with trauma; it’s an extension of it. This plant became my bridge from fear to functionality. It helped me sleep, focus, and steady my nervous system so that I could show up for my children, my employees, and myself. That’s why I’ve devoted my career to helping others experience cannabis safely and mindfully, whether that’s through low-dose beverages that replace a glass of wine, or products designed to calm without impairment.
I want to be clear: cannabis worked for me in combination with traditional treatments—therapy and antidepressants. Everyone needs to find their own journey and the help that’s right for them. I can only speak to how much cannabis has helped me, but it was never a standalone solution.
But this story isn’t just about cannabis. It’s about survival, and what happens next. I’ve come to see that trauma, untreated, becomes generational. If we don’t teach our children what healthy love looks like, they grow up repeating our pain. That’s why I always say: Teach them young, so we’re not fixing them later.
For anyone reading this who’s living in fear right now: You are not alone. I once sat in a courtroom 28 times in a single year, facing the man who hurt me because I had no choice. I know the exhaustion of reliving the same nightmare while the world moves on. I also know the liberation of taking your life back, inch by inch.
Healing is not linear, but it’s possible.
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When I volunteered with an organization near and dear to my heart that supports domestic violence survivors through not just emergency shelter but court advocacy, individual counseling, support groups for adults and youth, hospital accompaniment, a 24-hour helpline and more, I met people from every walk of life—teachers, executives, mothers, fathers, daughters and sons—people who looked nothing like the stereotype of “a victim.” Every time I told my story, someone said, “I never would have guessed.”
That’s part of why I’m writing this now. Abuse hides in plain sight. It doesn’t always leave visible bruises. Sometimes it looks like the successful woman at the head of the table, still flinching inside when someone raises their voice.
As we near the end of Domestic Violence Awareness Month, I must say that awareness shouldn’t be confined to October. The truth is, survivors need support all year long, access to counseling, community, and the freedom to speak their truths without shame. If you know someone who might be suffering, check in. If you’re a survivor, know that your strength and resilience are celebrated by those who understand the journey.
Cannabis didn’t erase my trauma. It didn’t fix everything. But it helped me reclaim my body and spirit from fear. It gave me a tool to manage the realization I am still susceptible to emotional and psychological abuse, along with the echoes of violence that once defined me. And in a world where so many women are still silenced, it gave me a voice. Calm, steady, and unafraid.
That’s why I’ve devoted my career to helping others experience cannabis safely and mindfully. If my story helps even one person feel seen, then sharing it is worth it. Healing takes many forms. For me, one of them just happens to grow from the earth.
*This article was submitted by a guest contributor. The author is solely responsible for the content.