“What is wrong with you?”

Lots of folks asked me that question early in life. People stared, criticized, and judged, but no one was willing to look past my behavior to see the real me. I had to go through hell on earth before someone finally thought to ask what had happened to me.

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be a drug addict and a prostitute. It doesn’t work that way. Now, I’m not making excuses for my many mistakes, but the hard truth is that life dealt me childhood circumstances that were too heavy for me to carry and too confusing to process.

With no voice or sense of self-worth, I lived as a victim of those circumstances. That is, until I learned there was a better way to live.

Growing up, my siblings and I shared one bed in my mother’s hot, dirty apartment in the projects. I was the oldest of eight, and by age nine, I was given the job of providing for and protecting my siblings. I’m not complaining; I loved my siblings. They were my only source of joy. But being their caretaker robbed me of my own childhood.

We were poor and neglected. We went to school hungry, dirty, and bruised. Our teachers never asked why or cared to intervene. Kids, however, took great notice of my condition—mocking me because I was unkempt and smelled like urine from wetting the bed. No one wanted to be my friend. But that didn’t matter—I loved attending school because it was better than being home.

My mother did nothing to stop the abuse I suffered at the hands of the men she brought home. Night after night, they did horrible things to me after she passed out from drinking. I never fought back or cried for fear they might harm my younger siblings next.

I had no idea how to handle the pain I felt and the shame I carried, until one day, I drank from the half-empty cups left in our home. Suddenly, I could temporarily forget I was being raped and abused. I drank up every drop, every chance I got.

Mom would disappear for days, leaving us kids to fend for ourselves without even the most basic of necessities. I would scrounge around for food scraps, but there were never enough.

I was 11 years old when social services arrived at our door for a welfare check. I remember screaming for my mother to save us as the police loaded my siblings and me into separate squad cars and took us away—but she was nowhere to be found.

I didn’t see my siblings again until we were all brought to the courtroom. My mother cried as the judge scolded her. I remember feeling angry at the judge for being mean to her and making her cry. Mom was forbidden by court order to have custody of us. That was the last time we were together as a family.

One of my aunts took me in and allowed me to experience a better, more normal life. She taught me many things I should have already known, like proper hygiene. We ate meals together as a family and celebrated holidays. The stability in her home helped me heal a little. I stopped wetting the bed and attended school regularly.

Aunt Ann took me to First Baptist Church every Sunday. I loved learning about God and Jesus, especially in Sunday school. I memorized Bible verses and learned to say the Lord’s Prayer.

At 12, I was baptized. I didn’t understand much, but I knew that the Bible said God loved the whole world (including me!) so much that He gave His Son, Jesus, to die for me so that I could have eternal life (John 3:16). I wanted God to love me, so in my childlike faith, I asked Him to forgive me for my sins and trusted that He would always be with me.

Being separated from my brothers and sisters left a massive hole in my heart. I also missed my mother. I loved her very much, even though she hadn’t protected me. I was sure that someday, she would love me back.

That’s why I was excited when, three years later, she came to take me home. “Where’s my girl? C’mon, Neen, I love you. You’re comin’ with me.” Neen was her nickname for me.

I was 14, and finally, I’d heard those three longed-for words—I love you.

Suddenly all those bad memories from my childhood disappeared. Thrilled, I packed up my things and left with Mom that day without a second thought.

But by nightfall, I’d realized her true motive for coming to get me.

“Neen, I’ll be back,” she said as she walked out the door, leaving me alone with the three small children she had brought into the world since our separation. Mom needed a babysitter; she hadn’t loved or missed me.

With that realization, I became one angry, defiant 14-year-old. I felt trapped and immediately started drinking more leftover alcohol to deal with life. “No one cares about you,” I told myself as I numbed my feelings. I dropped out of school and tried to work, but drinking was my main priority.

A year later, one of my mother’s drinking buddies took a liking to me. I didn’t care that he was seven years older, nor did I want to listen to what anyone said about him. I thought my Prince Charming had come to rescue me. We got married when I was 17 and had a son soon after.

I loved being a wife and mother. For the first time, I had dreams and felt like I had a purpose in life. But all that was short-lived when the beatings started. My happy life had again turned dark and ugly.

A friend introduced me to crack cocaine. Talk about a numbing agent! I took right to it. Not long after, my husband walked out on me, leaving me with a one-year-old toddler and a fast-growing addiction. I loved my son fiercely, but I wasn’t ready emotionally or financially to be a single mother.

My ex-husband dealt me a devastating blow when he took my son and left town with another woman. I crumbled in grief. Not knowing where my child was or when I would ever see him again hurt worse than anything. And by then, I had been through a lot.

I knew I needed to stop getting high, but the voice of my addiction drowned out the voice of reason. I convinced myself I could stop whenever I wanted, but I couldn’t.

My troubles multiplied, and I sank deeper into darkness. I no longer got high to feel better; I needed drugs to function. What had started as a monkey on my back grew into a gorilla that tried to take my life.

I got pregnant five more times over the next several years. One pregnancy ended in abortion, another a stillbirth. Three of my babies were snatched from my hands by social services as soon as I gave birth. I was deemed an unfit mother.

The loss of each child ripped away another piece of my heart, and shame overwhelmed me.

There I was, repeating the same cycle of abandonment and pain that had hurt younger me so badly. But as an addict, I felt powerless to help myself, much less my children. I despaired, knowing that they would grow up feeling as unloved and unwanted as I had.

The days blurred together. I couldn’t have told you the day of the week or when I last ate or showered. I snorted, smoked, and shot up drugs. I lied, cheated, and stole for my next hit. I sold my body to random tricks for money to get high. I used dirty needles and took other crazy risks with my life daily. I was utterly out of control.

During my 19-year run on those streets, I racked up 83 arrests and 66 convictions. Each time I was released to my old stomping grounds, the cycle of insanity started all over. I’d live wherever I could—abandoned houses, crack houses, and under bridges. I felt safest under the bridge.

But somehow, no matter where I went or how many drugs I did, the memories of what had been done and said to me as a child still haunted me. I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t. I wanted to die, but my body kept breathing.

But because I was still breathing, there was still hope for me!

It’s one thing to be down, but it’s another when you see no way of getting up. That was me when I finally reached my rock bottom.

I used to lie on the ground under that bridge and listen to the people passing by overhead. I wondered if they knew about the world beneath them. Did anyone know I existed? Would anyone ever be willing to help me find my way to a better life?

I remember the day I learned that Someone did know I existed. And He cared about me.

The day didn’t start well—out of nowhere, a guy I had ripped off earlier grabbed me and took me to a secluded area, where he proceeded to beat and rape me. I opened my eyes just in time to see him holding a giant boulder over his head.

Right before he could smash my head in, I screamed, “Jesus!”

Incredibly, the guy stopped his swing midair, threw the rock down, helped me up, and drove me back to the neighborhood without saying another word.

This unbelievable encounter shook me to my core. I knew Jesus was the only reason that man hadn’t killed me.

But why?

After that, I started wondering about new things. Did Jesus, the One who had loved me as a child, still love me after all I’d done and been through? Had He seen me under that bridge? Was He willing to help me? It was too incredible to imagine.

Yet even with that supernatural encounter and revelation, I didn’t stop doing drugs or running the streets. By the spring of 2004, I was pregnant again and running from the law on a parole violation. A bounty hunter found and arrested me, and soon, I was back in a prison cell.

A familiar feeling of defeat and hopelessness greeted me in that prison, as the memories of all my lost babies flooded my mind. I thought of the child I was carrying within. I’d already given her a name—Orlandra. I was sick with worry that I would lose her too.

Someone told me about a program called T.A.M.A.R.’s Children, which offers individual trauma treatment to incarcerated women. T.A.M.A.R. is an acronym for Trauma, Addiction, Mental Health, and Recovery. The name comes from the biblical story of King David’s daughter, Tamar, who was raped by her half brother.

This program was unique because it addressed the trauma participants had experienced. If accepted into the program, I would be allowed to keep Orlandra. That made the decision easy. I was determined to make up for my mistakes that had caused my other children to be taken away, and to care for and protect this baby. All I needed was for someone to teach me how.

I was a perfect candidate for the program, but the warden would not let me attend since I was in prison on a parole violation, an automatic disqualifier. Without this program, I would surely lose Orlandra to the foster care system just as soon as she was born.

Someone had once told me, “If all else fails, look up and ask God.” Now, I know that we should look to God at all times, not just in hard times, but God used that quote to remind me to look to Him.

On March 15, 2004, I went boldly before His throne of grace (Hebrews 4:16) and poured out my heart to the Lord. From a fetal position on the floor of my cell at Maryland Institution for Women in Jessup, I got honest with God and myself for the first time, knowing I needed more than help—I needed a Savior.

“God, if You’re listening, this is Tonier. I don’t know if You listen to people like me, but I want to change my life. Please help me. You are the only One who can. If You let me keep my baby, God, I will give her back to You.” With those words, I put all my cares, my life, and the life of my unborn child into His hands.

A new Tonier Cain was born that day. Before I got up off that floor, I knew something was different. I suddenly believed that Jesus Christ indeed loved me and that His love had washed away all the old stains of my former life.

I didn’t know how God would answer my prayer, but I believed He would. And that gave me enough strength to stand, put one foot in front of the other, and begin walking with the Lord.

Not long after, a therapist from T.A.M.A.R. went to the warden and pleaded my case. Whatever she said softened the warden’s heart, and the next thing I knew, she agreed to let me in the program, but I’d have to wait for a bed to open at T.A.M.A.R.

I was willing to do whatever it took to keep my baby.

I was released from prison and went straight to the program, where a woman greeted me with a smile. She took me to my room—a room that was filled with all I needed to provide a safe home for my child: a crib, bassinet, refrigerator, and more. God had undoubtedly prepared the way for me.

Once settled, I met with my trauma therapist, who helped me begin to sort through my past. In all my life, no one had ever asked what had happened to me as a child or why I had chosen drugs. But God, through this therapist, gave me a safe place to purge all the dark secrets I carried—secrets that had poisoned me from the inside out.

The therapist was kind and patient and listened for hours. Sometimes, I could only cry and not speak, but the tears were cleansing and God’s way of helping me heal. His Word reminded me that He was catching my tears and putting them in His bottle (Psalm 56:8). God was aware of my pain and loving me through it.

As I disclosed the shame I carried, my therapist set me straight. For years I had blamed myself for being raped and abused. She taught me that these things weren’t my fault. I was an innocent little girl, unable to defend herself. I had never known that, so I’d walked through life believing I was a bad person.

Session after session, I confronted my fears, learned to recognize my triggers, and began to trust people. I realized I have a valid voice and learned healthy ways to stand up for myself.

Being well enough to hold my baby and be a mother brought great healing, too. I was so used to social services taking my children away that when I held Orlandra in my arms, it took a minute for it to sink in. She was mine to keep.

God truly gave me beauty for ashes (Isaiah 61:3). The women at T.A.M.A.R.’s Children taught me how to care for and nurture my child. Through this journey, I learned that people can’t give away something they have not experienced. Unexpectedly,

I began to see my mother through the lens of compassion rather than rejection, as I realized she couldn’t have been who I needed or wanted her to be.

Day by day, I grew stronger in courage and faith, and my relationship with God flourished. As a child, I’d been told that God loved me, but now through experience, I knew it was true. God had given His only Son for a former drug-addicted, prostituting thief like me.

Through all those years when I was on the street, He was watching over and protecting me, despite my increasingly reckless actions.

After graduation, I was offered a job with the program and became an advocate for women who have been through trauma. I’ve had the opportunity to travel the US and abroad, telling my story in jails, prisons, rehabs, and charitable organizations and educating people on the importance of trauma-informed care. I encourage every woman I meet to fight for her healing.

It has been two decades since I cried out to the Lord from the floor of that prison cell. Since then, I have been free from addiction, mental illness, and shame.

This past year, Orlandra and I celebrated milestones together; she turned 20, and I celebrated 20 years of being set free by the Son of God (John 8:32, 36). Praise God!

I want you to know that God doesn’t play favorites. What He did for me, He wants to do for you. You do not have to be a victim of trauma anymore. God can help you rise from the ashes of your past and experience a life you never dared to dream of.

Don’t give up. Where there’s breath, there’s hope.

Tonier Cain is a trauma survivor and internationally known expert in trauma-informed care. She works tirelessly as an advocate and educator, speaking all over the world on trauma, addiction, incarceration, homelessness, and mental health. Tonier gives all the glory to Jesus Christ as she uses her experiences to make a difference in the lives of those who are often forgotten. For more information, visit toniercain.com.