IOLY STORYKOWING™

I was shaped in a language older than words—the unspoken secrets carried by children of domestic abuse. In that tenuous existence, I learned to listen past sound, to the breath between sentences, to sense the tremors behind the tears, to bear witness to the weight that the abused carry and cannot name.

Long before I should have been assigned such tasks, I sat with my mother in locked small rooms, keeping vigil—a listener, a bridge, an unknowing quiet anchor. At age eight, I could not pronounce the work; I simply completed it. Through harmonizing our souls, I too rose—but I rose through brokenness. Mother found rest in my presence and did not know why. I simply knew, with childlike understanding, that she needed me and entrusted me to bear witness to her scars.

From the soft urgency of my childlike heart, I built emotional scaffolding to keep my mother from falling. I did not understand that the ground beneath my rising was unsafe—fragmented. That scaffolding would later stagnate my sense of self in devastating, life-altering ways. Why? Because my glow became a source of light my mother could not find in her own reflection.

I cherish the line I come from. It is a line of brilliance, endurance, and imperfect love. I was given strength in the tongue of another era, and taught tenderness in the only dialect available. What was missing in words, I learned to translate in my heart.

IOLY StoryKnowing™ now steps forward—not invented, but remembered, as a way of tending to narrative the way we tend to flame: cupping the fragile, fanning the strong, turning inner harm into light.

Telling this story is more than a release.

It is medicine.

It is where reflection becomes the last phase of transformation.

It is how healing becomes heritage.

This is how I must stop the inner breaking, how I lift myself without shaming those whom I pray are resting in peace, how I honor the past while rising within the steady mindset that continues to shape my future.

To see my story.
To tell my story.
To share my story—not as confession, but as consecration.

This is The Rising.
And as I rise, I leave a light on for those who are ready to follow in my footsteps and acknowledge their non-sugarcoated truth.

I was shaped once more in the quiet—not the silence of fear this time, but the stillness that follows understanding. The storm had passed, yet its memory remained like salt on the skin. 

My body remembered terror, but my spirit refused to return to it. There comes a day when survival grows restless. It no longer satisfies the soul that has tasted awakening. It demands something greater: a return, a gathering, a naming. That day arrived like dawn through half-drawn curtains—gentle, insistent, unavoidable.

I began to see the pieces of myself scattered across years of caretaking and compliance. I saw the girl who built scaffolding for others, the woman who hid her brilliance behind usefulness, the leader who carried light for everyone but herself. And I knew it was time to call them home.

Reclamation is not rage; it is remembering. It is standing before the mirror and saying, “I recognize you. You survived beautifully, but now we live.” So I reached backward and forward at once—gathering what history left behind, receiving what faith promised ahead. Education became language for my rebirth;
work became practice for my purpose; writing became altar and offering. Each act of learning, each page of truth, was a small act of returning to myself.

The women of my birth line walked with me. No longer weeping from the margins, they stood shoulder to shoulder, their stories no longer warnings but witnesses. They did not ask me to repeat them. They asked me to rise differently. And I did.

Reclamation taught me that power is not possession— it is presence. To reclaim is to inhabit fully what was always mine: my name, my mind, my mercy, my mission.

StoryKnowing™ grew again. No longer only a flame or compass, it became inheritance—a living system of remembering. It whispered that every person must become the author of their own narrative, and that teaching others to write their truth was the highest form of healing.

Telling this story is no longer a confession. It is confirmation.

It is medicine.

It is where awareness matures into authority. It is how understanding becomes service. It is how forgiveness becomes freedom.

To remember what was lost.
To rebuild what was broken.
To reclaim what was always sacred.

This is The Reclamation.

And as I reclaim, I extend both hands to those still searching in the ruins—to remind them that even in fragments, wholeness waits to be named.