By Lifes a Journey
My journey has never been ordinary. In fact, it’s the opposite. It’s one of those winding, unpredictable roads full of detours, broken signs, and breathtaking views — the kind that forces you to think, reflect, and grow. I used to think that what you see is what you get, but over time, I’ve come to understand that appearances lie. Some of the people I judged the hardest ended up being the ones I needed to learn the most from. Life, I’ve learned, is an adventure not something you coast through, but something that requires deep thought, faith, and courage.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to understand the true value of wisdom and guidance. I now know why elders matter — why we lean on them even when we don’t realize who we are. But I didn’t always know that. I had to learn it the hard way.
My story starts when I was adopted as a baby. I was brought to Prince George, where my adoptive father worked as the only RCMP officer in town. He lived with my mom and their two biological sons Richard and Randy. Richard was two years older than me, and Randy was four years older. From the very beginning, I could feel the undercurrent of something unwelcome. I wasn’t like them. And I don’t know if they ever really wanted me there.
But even from the time I could walk, I knew I had a purpose. My mom used to tell people stories of how I’d wander off, collecting dogs and setting off on little missions. I’d open doors on my own — even when the snow piled high above my head. No matter how many times they raised the lock on that door, I found a way out. The dogs were always with me. They were my tribe. I’ve always felt a deep, spiritual connection to animals — maybe because I believe they see things we can’t. Maybe because I believe they see God.
Around the age of three, my dad got transferred to Victoria, British Columbia. We moved into a large house — a big, fancy, two-story home with a formal living room upstairs and a “rumpus room” downstairs, where we spent most of our time. That’s also where a lot of things began to fall apart for me.
My brothers were abusive in every sense of the word mentally, physically, and sexually. It was relentless. And when I finally told my parents, they did nothing. I believe they turned a blind eye because I wasn’t biologically theirs. I wasn’t worth the cost of confronting their sons. I think, over time, they may have even regretted adopting me. I once asked my mom why they did, and she said simply, “We had two boys, and I just wanted a girl.”
Ironically, the timing of my adoption was strange. My mom told me that shortly after they decided to adopt, my biological mother discovered she was pregnant and gave me up. As if the whole thing had been orchestrated by fate.
As I grew older, I began to understand just how different I was from the family that raised me. I believe we all come into this world with a soul tribe — people we are meant to connect with deeply, without needing words. That family was not my tribe. Everything about them clashed with my spirit. The way they spoke, lived, believed it all rubbed me the wrong way. And I knew, even as a child, that the sooner I could get out, the better.
When I was about seven or eight, my mom sat me down in that formal living room — the one we never used — and told me I was adopted. My dad wasn’t there. She told me I was chosen, not just born — and that made me special. But in my head, it all finally made sense. I thought, I’m not yours. I don’t belong here. That’s when the real questions began. Who was my mother? Why did she give me up? Where was she?
My mom believed that my birth mother had been having an affair with a married man and gave me up to hide the scandal. There was no proof of that — just a story she told herself. It took years to discover the truth. But what I do know is that I survived.
Despite everything, I love and forgive my adoptive parents. Some people might wonder why. The truth is, I believe they did what they could. They didn’t know how to handle someone like me someone different, someone with a calling. They failed me, yes. They turned away when I needed them most. But maybe if they had been different, I wouldn’t have become who I am. The neglect, the pain — it built something in me. The strength of a lion.
When it comes to my brothers, the story is different. I give them grace not because they deserve it, but because I refuse to carry their poison. They know what they did. Even as adults, they treated me like I didn’t exist. When they walked into a room, they would ignore me as if I were invisible. And still, my parents said nothing. Only now, as a grown woman, do I realize that perhaps their silence — and even their distance — came from shame. They know what they allowed. They know what they did. And I know it too.
But those are stories I’ll share with you — chapter by chapter — because this journey is far from over. And it’s anything but ordinary