It feels strange to start this way, but I honestly can’t think of a better introduction than this: “Anyone want to talk about how terrifying it is to give birth as a sexual abuse survivor?” It might not be the most polished opening, but it’s honest. And sometimes, the truth is the most powerful place to begin.

I don’t exactly know what I’m doing here—or maybe more accurately, how to do what I feel called to do. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not some dark, dramatic confession. It’s just...there’s a lot of self-sabotage swirling behind the scenes. Still, here I am, typing these words. Because I love what I do as The Lioness in the Darkness. I love the mission, the connection, and the purpose it gives me.

But let me tell you—stepping into this space is thrilling and, quite honestly, makes me want to barf. Not because I truly hate public speaking or sharing my voice but because of that nagging fear of how I’ll be perceived. It’s that fear of others—their thoughts, their judgments—that has kept me quiet for so long.

For years, I let others tell me to stay silent, to hold back, to fit into their narrative of who I should be. And I listened. That part is on me. But what was never my responsibility was bending myself into silence just to make them comfortable.

What you’re reading right now is me stepping through a door I’ve been staring at for years. I’ve been too scared to turn the handle, but I can’t ignore this pull anymore. I’ve learned so much—especially since publishing If I Was There. It showed me how powerful my voice can be and how deeply it can resonate with others. That book was just the beginning.

I’m still writing the sequel, If I Were You, and I’m so excited about what’s to come. But I also know my voice can’t live solely in the pages of a book. It’s meant to reach further. Fear has held me back for too long, and if I have to teach myself to overcome it in real time—right here, in front of you—then so be it.

There’s a part of me that I left behind, long ago. Not in the places you might think. I left her in a psych ward, and I’ve been fighting ever since to bring her home. This post? It’s my first step toward reclaiming her.

I’m writing this while sitting next to an open window, enjoying an apple and yogurt for breakfast, and sipping water that nourishes me. I feel good in my body, makeup-free, wearing a feminine romper that beautifully complements the home I’ve reclaimed within myself. That all might not seem like much, but for me, it’s everything. Feeling good in my body and mind didn’t happen overnight—it took hard, painful, soul-deep work. But here I am, sitting calmly, writing this for you. And maybe for the first time, I believe someone out there will read these words and feel seen. Like they’ve found a friend who understands.

That belief is what keeps me writing. I’ve spent three decades living in my own mind, but last year, when my book was released, I saw what could happen when others connected with my words. It healed me. It healed them. And now I wonder: if one book could do that, what could happen if I keep going?

Some of what I’ll share here will tie into the next book, but a lot of it is just me bringing you into my own internal conversations with all the pieces of my soul. Vulnerable, raw, and honest. I’m tired of staying quiet. Tired of feeling like I’m only valuable when I’m silent. Exhausted of being demanded I keep my eyes focused on the ground and my hands out of the way as they strike. I’ve worked too hard to get to this point, and I want to be transparent about what it took to get here.

I believe this: if I let myself be vulnerable and speak freely, someone out there might find the key they’ve been searching for. And they deserve that.

So here I am, standing at the door. I have my key. And by pressing post, I’m stepping through it.

With Love,
Brie