I came into the world in Pensacola, Florida, the sixteenth child in a house with nineteen of us. We did not have much. My father was strict and often cruel, and home was not always a safe place. When I graduated from high school, I was told to leave. I walked out with a diploma and not much else.
Life after that was not a straight line. I married five times. I had two husbands who died of cancer. I was left penniless and could not even afford to bury my last husband. I have been broke, and I have been homeless. Each time, I had two choices: quit, or get up. I have gotten up every single time. Not because I am tougher than anyone else, but because someone encouraged me, or because I decided to encourage somebody else, and that kept me moving.
Your past is the soil. It is not the sentence.
Today I love simple, beautiful things: the salt water, the sound of the Gulf, hunting for seashells in the sand, a quiet pHlexercise session that settles my mind, fresh herbs, and more avocados than is probably reasonable. I am working toward owning my own condo with an ocean view and a balcony where I can watch the Mama Dolphins play games with their baby dolphins, and hear the pitter patter of the rain as it showers the plants and quenches their thirst. This would be a blessing to me because it would be the first home that I would ever have owned.
I am telling you this for one reason: if I can rebuild from the bottom more than once, so can you.