Sometimes, in the darkest corners of my mind, I wrote “the” letter. It was a letter of sadness, despair, and goodbye. In those moments, I truly believed my family and friends would be better off without me. Living with the scars left by Amniotic Band Syndrome, along with the constant pain, insecurities, and fears they caused, felt unbearable. I felt like a burden, without purpose or worth, a shadow in my own life.
No one knew the layers of pain I carried because I wore a mask of happiness. I smiled and laughed, hiding the emptiness and the heaviness inside. I pretended to be strong while the pain relentlessly knocked me down, pulling me deeper into the currents of depression. If I could speak to my younger self, I would whisper this: Your story is not over—it is only beginning. God has unique plans for you, but you must give Him time to bring them to life.
From a very young age, I prayed the same prayer every night before falling asleep: I asked God to heal my hands. Each morning, as I pulled them from under the covers, I felt the same crushing disappointment when nothing had changed. My hands were a daily reminder of what made me different, and for years, I struggled to reconcile the life I lived with the life I had hoped for.
School years were challenging. I wanted nothing more than to fit in and feel normal. While my elementary years were mostly joyful, everything shifted when I entered middle school. I didn’t know anyone in my classes and felt completely alone. Each day, clutching my lunch tray, I scanned the cafeteria for a friendly face. Sitting alone—or worse, with people who ignored me—was excruciating. My mind replayed every cruel word ever said to me, most painfully those I had directed at my reflection.
Bullying made me confront the reality I had already feared: the world would see my scars as flaws. Those words, echoing in the hallways and in my head, were a painful confirmation of the insecurities I had carried in silence for years. I lived in a constant cloud of fears and what-ifs: Would I ever have a partner who could look past my scars? Would my future children inherit them? Could I ever drive, work, or live a normal life? No matter how I looked at it, hopelessness and helplessness were constant companions.
Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to hurt my family. I stopped imagining death and instead began quietly planning for my future. When I got my first job, I promised myself I would never let my scars define my abilities. My mother had made it clear that my limitations were not excuses—I just needed to find my own way. So I learned, adapted, and figured things out. I waited tables, took cashier jobs, and worked tirelessly, proving to myself that I could succeed on my own terms.
Then came a moment that nearly broke me. A woman I respected and admired fired me for not being able to wring out a mop properly and said cruel, unkind words that cut straight to my soul: no one would ever hire me because of my disability. Her words haunted me. I quit college, doubted my dreams, and felt the weight of hopelessness more than ever.
But God never leaves us in the valley forever. He sent someone to love me unconditionally. My husband of 24 years never fixated on my scars; he married me for me, and through his love, I began to see myself as beautiful. When we faced the possibility that our first child might inherit my scars, I was terrified, but my husband reassured me: We will love him exactly as God gives him to us. Our first son was born with my eyes and my husband’s hands and feet, and in that moment, I learned the power of hope and faith.
By the time our second son arrived, much of my internal pain had healed. My family inspired me to dream again. Doors to my teaching career closed repeatedly, and one night I prayed for a gift that could allow me to help others. God answered with the gift of writing. Through writing, I could release the pain, heartaches, and disappointments that had weighed on me for so long. My first book, Underneath the Scars, shared my raw story. Though initially rejected, the urge to help others pushed me forward, especially after standing beside the coffin of a little girl who had died by suicide.
Physical pain from constantly modifying my hands and feet eventually made traditional work impossible, so I turned to blogging. Doctors offered only palliative care, but I pursued a natural path: changing my diet, exercising, and slowly rebuilding my strength. I imagined a life where I could run, hike, and play with my boys, and over time, my body responded. One day, a publisher discovered my blog, and the opportunity to write professionally arrived. That year, two of my books were published on the same day—an outpouring of blessings that far exceeded my past heartaches.
Since then, my life has blossomed beyond what I ever imagined. I have published multiple children’s books celebrating differences, won awards, spoken at over 150 events worldwide, and restored my physical abilities to the point where I can run, hike, and play with my family. Even more miraculously, I received a thumb on my left hand after decades of prayer, a tangible reminder that God sees, hears, and answers every prayer in His perfect timing.
Living with Amniotic Band Syndrome has given me more than it has taken. Every hardship has shaped me, every scar has a story, and every challenge has prepared me for the life I now cherish. Today, I am happy, healthy, and fully alive to love and be loved. Every struggle, every heartbreak, and every prayer has woven together to create a life filled with purpose, gratitude, and joy.
