Darkness quietly hangs in the corners of our minds—whispers of pain that travel through communities like a hidden tunnel, sneaking its way out of a secret place.

Pain is a strange kind of bond that pulls us apart in our hurt, yet also brings together the broken pieces of our shared story. We look around and we see it, often: even in a group of people sitting together, surrounded by a thick air of things left unsaid, each person holding a piece of a puzzle that completes the picture of sadness.

I understand this more than most. Growing up with eight siblings in a home with an abusive mother created an environment where pain became our daily companion. It wasn’t just the physical weight of being a child under constant turmoil—it was the emotional burden of navigating a household where love was overshadowed by fear. Yet, through it all, we walked through the fire together, each sibling carrying a piece of the struggle. We may have been torn apart by the abuse, but there was something deeply unspoken yet powerful in how we supported each other, how we found comfort in shared sorrow.

But here’s a bright thought: those scars can become pathways, not walls. When we admit that we’ve all been hurt, we find ourselves in the same story—a messy, sometimes beautiful patchwork of life lived through dark times and loss. In my book The Silent Abuse, I share how, despite the chaos, our bond as siblings became a lifeline. We didn’t have much, but we had each other, and that connection helped us survive. We learned to lean on one another, our shared trauma becoming the quiet strength that held us up.

But here’s the important part: forgiveness doesn’t erase the past; it lets us hold the pain close enough to understand it, but far enough to let healing begin. It’s like a river flowing gently through a field of sharp rocks—the water doesn’t remove the stones, but it smooths their edges over time.

Even as we travel this river of shared pain, the most stubborn thoughts—those “Why me?” or “Will this ever end?”—can push us toward change. These thoughts are hard to ignore; they nudge us to look for connection, to reach out to each other in our most vulnerable moments.

So, let’s raise our glass of hope and celebrate all the stories—maybe not perfect, but real. With those imperfections, we make a beautiful mosaic of hope, a bright reminder of our will to survive. And as we walk the road to healing, let’s remember this simple truth: We share the wounds to share the healing. Shadows can’t last if there’s light around.