Mom says I was a joyful baby with a playful spirit. As a child, I smiled, sang, laughed, and kept myself and everyone else entertained.

From the outside, we looked like the perfect family, but we were living a nightmare. My father was a raging alcoholic and terrorized my mom and older brother. But since he showered me with attention, my childhood joy remained intact. I was Daddy’s “special” little girl.

He had ulterior motives, though. Dad, a predator, was grooming me to take advantage of my innocence. He started molesting me when I was seven. I hid my shame and confusion behind big smiles. How could Daddy love me and hurt me at the same time?

The damage of his betrayal and abuse far outlived him. It was like a thief sent by Satan to rob me of my joy, hijack my dreams, and destroy my innocence (John 10:10).

When Mom finally grew tired of the abuse, she packed up my brother and me and ran away to a shelter. Dad threatened to hunt us down and kill us. I was anxious and afraid, yet despite the abuse, I felt terrible about leaving him. I was nine.

Instead of getting better, our lives fell apart. Mom was dealing with fear and heartbreak. Plus, she had her hands full with two unruly kids. I was hurting, too, and before I finished the fifth grade, I was skipping school and getting high.

By junior high, I felt nothing but fear and anger. I was obsessed with death and had constant thoughts of suicide. What a perfect way to control my destiny, I decided.

So, at thirteen, hopeless and with no vision for my future, I wrote suicide notes for my friends and family and attempted to end my life. I was unconscious for three days, and when I opened my eyes, I was enraged. “Why didn’t you just let me die?” I screamed.

Mom had tried to instill good things about Jesus and faith in me, but I wasn’t interested in someone I couldn’t see. People told me that God had intervened in my life, but I didn’t view my failed suicide attempt that way. To me, it was a disruption to my plan.

I ran away, bouncing from one friend’s house to the next. It wasn’t long before I was arrested for underage drinking, possession of weed, and other minor crimes.

Halfway through the ninth grade, I was sent to juvenile prison for a year. While there, I was molested by a counselor. I was sixteen when I got out, angrier and in worse shape than before.

The rest of my teens are a blur. I dropped out of school and worked as a waitress, using my tips to fund my party life. I slept with many guys, as I sought love and attention.

Life spun out of control at 19 when I took my first hit of crack. From that moment on, all I could think about was my next high. I lost my job as I couldn’t work and chase the high. I sold my car for dope and resorted to stealing and turning tricks for money.

Crack addiction is like driving a car at high speed toward a cliff and suddenly realizing you have no brakes. Ironically, it was a real-life car accident that put the brakes on my crack smoking—and introduced me to heroin.

I injured my back in the crash and started taking painkillers. I loved how those pills made me feel numb and comfortable in my skin. I’d never felt that way. It was an expensive habit, though, and I felt deathly sick if I didn’t have the pills.

And that’s when I found heroin. I had no idea how trapped I was until I decided to get clean. After many failed attempts, I began attending Narcotics Anonymous (NA), got a sponsor, and worked diligently to gain and maintain my sobriety. It’s a miracle I stayed clean during that time because, emotionally, I was a mess.

In 2009, I married a man I had met in NA, and we had two beautiful children. I loved being a mom, but I was still an angry, miserable person. I thought we were living a great life until, after four years of marriage, my husband told me he was in love with someone else, packed his things, and left.

I was ill-prepared for the nasty divorce and custody battle that followed. I could barely function as familiar childhood feelings of betrayal and abandonment resurfaced.

I wanted to be a good mom and tried to stay clean, but I failed miserably. Soon, I relapsed and lost everything, including custody of my kids. I wasn’t even allowed to talk to them, and I didn’t know where they were for years. It was the biggest failure of my life.

As I grieved for my children, I found myself back at a dope house. That’s when I got tangled up with a ruthless pimp. The abuse and manipulation I endured at his hands destroyed every last trace of self-worth I had.

One minute, this man said he loved me, and the next, he threatened to kill me. He beat me into submission and demanded every penny I made, completely unbothered that the money came from having sex with other men.

For three years, I remained strung out on drugs, living among dysfunction and violence. If there was a better life out there, it was out of my reach. I had gone too far, done too much, and didn’t deserve it anyway.

I know now that those thoughts were lies from the enemy, but back then, I believed them.

I woke up one day in 2020 and couldn’t feel my legs. I couldn’t walk, and I had no control over any bodily function from the waist down. My pimp put me in his truck and dumped me off at the entrance of a local hospital.

Turns out, I had a staph infection (MRSA) on my spinal cord. Had it not been discovered, the disease could have killed me. I underwent three back surgeries and spent two months recovering in the hospital.

One day, a hospital chaplain visited my room. As he prayed, I wondered about God. Maybe He was trying to tell me something? It was a short-lived thought, and I quickly returned to my mess of a life.

There were warrants out for my arrest, so I called my public defender and told her where I was. She arranged for me to stay out of jail because of my condition and to recuperate at my mother’s home. Mom kindly welcomed me, even though we hadn’t spoken in years.

I went to her home in a wheelchair, unable to walk or care for myself. I did okay for about six weeks, but about the time I started hobbling around on a walker, my addiction came calling.

I got a ride to my pimp’s house, who was visibly annoyed. My being on a walker was terrible for business. He threatened to kick me out if I didn’t earn my keep. In desperation, I used Mom’s debit card to give him money to buy dope. When the money ran out, he made me hustle right out of my wheelchair. That’s when I hit rock bottom.

Stealing from Mom was a bad move. She pressed charges, and I went to prison. I was one broken woman when I entered the Florida Women’s Reception Center (FWRC) in 2020.

The first couple months were hell. I had lost everything. I could hardly walk, Mom and I were barely talking, and I had no idea of my kids’ whereabouts. I cried constantly and isolated myself as I fell deeper into depression.

A girl in my unit kept bugging me to go to chapel. She wanted me to meet Ms. Nicole, who ministered at the FWRC through her ministry, The Jesus Infusion. I had no interest in meeting this lady, but I finally gave in.

I knew the minute I met her that Ms. Nicole was special. She glowed when she talked about Jesus. She spoke about Him with authority and obviously believed every word she said. I could feel her love and care and see that her only motivation was for us girls to know Jesus, the Savior who died, so that we could live. The more she talked about Him, the more I leaned in.

I attended her classes often, and one day, during an altar call, I raised my hand and surrendered my life to Jesus. I didn’t understand everything I signed up for, but I knew I didn’t want to stay the same. I was tired of my life.

Besides, I had tried everything else. What did I have to lose? If Jesus really did love so much that He’d die for a drug addict and hooker like me, then I had everything to gain by choosing Him.

I determined to chase after God with the same tenacity I had chased after dope. I sealed the deal by getting baptized.

Something supernatural happened when I came out of those baptismal waters. All the anger, guilt, and shame I had carried since my childhood was gone. God had given me a new life, and I was determined to make the most of it.

I immediately noticed the oddest sense of joy bubbling up inside me. And that joy—God’s joy—soon became my strength (Nehemiah 8:10). It helped me endure the difficulties of prison life and continues to help me in every circumstance since my release in 2023 (Psalm 28:7).

God has restored much of what I destroyed in my addiction. My mother and I have reconciled and are best friends, and I recently saw my beautiful kids for the first time in seven years. Only God!

My life is still a construction zone, but I’ve already come so far. I even hold weekly classes at FWRC and baptize ladies in the waters where I was baptized.

I was waiting for the officer to let my incarcerated sisters into my classroom one night when I suddenly realized that God hadn’t wasted one ounce of my pain. From the moment I surrendered my life to Him, He has been creating a beautiful mosaic out of the shattered pieces of my life. And He’s just getting started.

How about you? Have your hopes and dreams been shattered to pieces by abuse, addiction, sickness, or incarceration? Give those pieces to God. He can do amazing things with them if you let Him. And in the meantime, you can rest in the joy of His presence as He leads you toward a better life (Psalm 16:11).

Jessica Weaver shares the hope and joy she has found in Jesus Christ on both sides of prison walls. She serves at her local church, and the people there show her and the women at FWRC great love. She also volunteers with The Jesus Infusion.