Meaning Maker

A testimonial analysis of my survival, typos included

This year marks 11 years since my kidnapping and attempted murder. Perhaps you read a sensationalized article, saw it on the news, or sat stuck in LA traffic on Sepulveda Boulevard that Thursday morning. The police had closed the road before sunrise, while SWAT hunted for my kidnapper in the wake of my escape. I vividly remember scrolling a few days later through the comments under a news article (despite my sister’s well-meaning warning not to) and seeing people complain about the traffic caused by the chaos. So sorry about that, I know being late to work sucks, hopefully your boss was understanding.

Eleven years later, I can finally wash my face in the shower with both of my eyes closed at the same time. I also no longer start crying and shaking uncontrollably if someone comes around a corner too fast. My heart rate still spikes, my eyes widen, and my chest tightens, but I am getting pretty good at quickly convincing myself that I am probably not being attacked in that moment. I did have a panic attack the last time I stayed in a hotel over the summer, the layout of the room triggered the worst type of deja vu from when I was held hostage in that dimly lit motel room. That really sucked, but Xanax and my therapy tools helped me acknowledge that I wasn’t being held hostage with a gun to my head all over again. But 1-3 panic attacks per year is much preferred over the 3-6 per day I was having for the months following the attack. I can go outside in the evening now without thinking I am going to be murdered, that is really cool- 10/10, would recommend. I no longer feel consumed by grief every single time I hear emergency sirens, instead I imagine women aren’t being beaten, raped, and murdered every single day. It helps.

Most days I can navigate pretending to feel “normal” pretty well, if I do say so myself. Most of the people around me have no clue what I survived, which is also nice. When people know, they tend to become hyper aware of my trauma when complaining about their own day. The thing is though, I don’t mind. Having experienced a shattered femur doesn’t make a paper-cut hurt any less, it just adds perspective. I complain about mundane shit all the time, because people suck. Murderers suck, people who lack basic self-awareness suck, paying taxes sucks, and slow drivers are the absolute worst (next to murderers of course.) And mostly, I prefer being private- which is ironic writing this with the intention of sharing of course.

The world looks different though. The little things seem sharper, the bigger things less so. My alone time is my favorite time. My daily energy allotment to engage with the outside world is finite and precious. I politely join discourse on gossip and pop culture to aid in raising my disassociation levels to those that are required to be met daily in order to continue to exist in this society. Which sounds more depressing than it is, fear not for I still derive immense pleasure from watching The Real Housewives Franchises.

But perhaps something I have never been able to put into words, my senses feel heightened. I feel like I am constantly observing the world around me in a way that feels unfamiliar to the younger less-traumatized version of myself. A new dimension of sorts, like seeing a color that no one else can see. This specific major traumatic event is just one of many significant life moments. Some good, some bad. But it happened. And as a result, it has completely reshaped how I see systems, safety, responsibility, and people. I am not sharing this now to be consumed or rescued, I am sharing because meaning matters, and I have been meaning-making ever since. Trying to make sense, or at least dabble in the futile attempt at seeking deeper understanding in such a chaotic world, has become a hobby of sorts.

I have written consistently inconsistently for 11 years. Originally it was to remember details of my kidnapping that I scribbled into the pages of a glittery pink journal I found in an old drawer, and then I stopped writing with the intention of forgetting. (I went through a period immediately following surviving the attack where the severe PTSD diagnosis felt so impossible to survive, that I had many short stretches of hours where I would intentionally meditate on convincing myself that absolutely nothing happened to me, I made it all up, the police are crazy, I am crazy, and that manifesting delusion in my own mind would provide a better future than the one I wasn’t sure I would survive otherwise. For how incredibly malleable the human brain is, I couldn’t quite hack the denial of reality.) And then I wrote to vent. And then I wrote because I didn’t want to carry this alone, but then I stopped because I did. Then I wrote wanting to be witnessed, and then stopped, wanting to stay hidden. I wrote when I wanted to rage, to disrupt the systems that allowed this to happen, but then stopped when I wanted to give up. But eventually I found that just writing as a practice, helped me process the meaning I was making and creating as I continued through the variety of therapies and jungle drugs I eagerly explored over the last 11 years.

Regardless, I always knew I would share. My anonymity and safety has always been my priority for the last decade, which has kept me and my weird little thoughts private for the time being. But I knew I would share when it was right. I didn’t know “how” or “when”, and I couldn’t ever quite verbalize the “why”, but I’m here to attempt that.

So why now? Well, I wrote a caption on my private instagram 5 years ago. I felt like I was hiding this big part of my life I was still navigating, and after moving to a new city- I didn’t want to begin my new chapter hiding. That was my soft launch into vulnerability and authenticity. But I wasn’t implored to word vomit much else until recently. I wrote something that felt “big” about 6 months ago. I eagerly wanted to put it out in the world, dreaming of maybe writing a book. But for some reason, I sat on it. I sent it to three friends. I received varying responses in return. And then I tucked it away into the corner of some imaginary internet cloud, to just… wait. And when I pulled it out to read it again a few weeks ago, with the intent to publish- I was embarrassed about how angry some of my words were. Those words came from a part of me, but they weren’t me. It felt like I wasn’t ready, there was more work to do. And then I did this again, until I realized that at some point I have to be okay with sharing my imperfect ever-evolving thoughts on my life while being perfectly okay that one day I may look back on these essays unable to relate to the tone or ideas they were written in. And that is okay, and really- that is ideal. If in 5 or 10 years I feel exactly the same as I do now, then I am not doing something right. I want to look back and think “ah, yes - I remember her.” As I reminisce fondly on the chapter of growth I was in. Just like I did when I found my old travel blog from my flight attendant days -ah yes, I remember her. Or when I found my old journal from when I lived in Greece at 18 years old - oh how I remember her fondly, too.

So, what do I want? To be witnessed? Understood? Consumed?

I think I just want to share a story of power and survival, but most importantly - insight in the aftermath on how absolutely transformative our lives can be if we let them. In short, you’re never responsible for what someone did to you, but you are responsible for what you do after. How do you choose to see yourself? As a victim? Perhaps in this very short chapter of my life, I was a victim. Legally, medically, morally, I checked all the boxes. But being a victim isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Part of my own survival has been recognizing that while I was undeniably a victim of violence, remaining identified with that role would have kept me tethered to the same dynamics I needed to outgrow. When victimhood becomes an identity rather than a description of harm, it often keeps people anchored in relational dynamics that prioritize blame and powerlessness over agency and transformation. In a world where so many people are suffering, I’ve watched this pattern repeat itself many many times, and it’s not a narrative I’m willing to adopt. (Or more accurately, a prison I would ever choose to stay in.)

So, before the role of “victim” is assigned to me in your mind, I ask you to pause and reconsider. It is dehumanizing, and I refuse it. Labels that trap us in predictable roles (rescuer/persecutor/victim) can distort how we see ourselves and others. But more on that another day. I am more than any single word,

I am Dynamic

I am Funny

I am Particular

I am Curious

I am Impatient

I am Creative

I am Sleepy,

(as I type this out, perhaps these are just my seven dwarves)

but the point is- I live a full and vibrant life beyond this particular story.

So here I am, writing not from a wound, but from the scar tissue. Sharing not to define myself, but to offer evolving insight on life in between decaf iced mochas and episodes of The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City.