Remember so you never forget

March 11th. 9 years and it’s like I can still remember every detail so clearly, yet all at once it seems like a life time ago that took place in a fog. 

I was awake many hours last night, after having my—now yearly dream—two gun shots, detectives, babies crying, fear so intense I can’t breath, an affair, lies, a casket, a murder trial. Always surrounded by people but never feeling so alone. 

Every year during this week. Like clock work. I am guessing to remind me how not invincible I am, and to let it all go...all over again. 

So what does it feel like 9 years out? That’s what they always ask, does this get easier? When do you stop looking around every room you walk in for danger; when do you stop being scared to sit with your back to the entrance of a restaurant? When do you get back to “normal”? When do you stop feeling the fear? 

To that I answer...You don’t. Nothing can take you back to be the same person you were before a severe trauma. The fear still exhists because the pain that was...is still real. Memories are apart of you. Those fears are powerful. 

What changes is how you react to them. How you let them react in you. Time doesn’t take away pain...it just gives you tools to manage and work through it. Time doesn’t change what happened, but it gives you lots of moments to be able to see it differently. Time doesn’t make you forget, but it does let you remember. Remember the miracles that happened in the dark. Time lets you remember the light that still exists all around—and inside of—you. Time heals wounds if we let it...but it is a choice—not a right. 

We each have two choices. We can live in fear...or faith. Both take a belief in something we cannot see. Pain comes from living in the fear...and healing is found as you choose to live in faith. 

Thanks for all your sweet messages. I cherish them. And to those of you who only know me from watching me cry on tv...and still send me messages every year on this day, I hope it always reminds you to choose light. I hope you feel the power and love of your God, and every year on this day you are reminded to put your family first, to choose good over evil, to follow a path that will bring you joy...not excitement in the moment—but the eternal kind of joy that only families can bring. I hope every year on this day you choose to forgive someone who has hurt you...and make right any pain you have caused. I hope every year on March 11th, you remember that you are a child of God, and He sent you here to remember how great you are. Show up. Be kind. And live in all the faith you can find. Let your light shine. You were born for greatness...your story isn’t over. 

Too close to the fence

(Caution: graphic pictures are included in this post)

It all started two weeks ago. Our four girls were off at activities and the boys and their friends were jumping on the trampoline and playing in the grass with our dog Sadie. My friend and I were talking as we watched the kids run around in the back yard.

Sadie—as she usually does—began running along the fence line playing with the neighbor’s two German shepherds. An activity I had always encouraged in hopes to get her at least five minutes of exercise each day. She always got a rush of energy when they were running the fence with her. I have always just assumed they were her only friends—and I think she did too.

So for the millionth time—on her own side of the fence—Sadie got a jolt of energy and booked it down the fence line . . . playing their usual game. Prepared to run a race she would never win, be defeated, go back inside and fall asleep on the couch. It was the same every time . . . until that day.

Sadie was only half way down the fence line when all of the sudden she appeared to be stuck on something. At first I didn’t comprehend what was happening, but as I ran towards the commotion—of Teage’s panicked cry and dogs making noises—I could see that the two German shepherds had both stuck their noses between the slats in the fence and were clamped down with their jaws tight on our dog—their bodies still in their own yard. They began to try to pull her—in opposite directions—through the slits between the wrought iron posts.

I knew in that moment she was gone. She wasn’t making a noise—as one of the dogs was pretty much clamping down on her airway—and her eyes were rolled back in her head. But I also knew I wasn’t going to let them destroy her body—any more than it already was—in front of my babies. So I did what any mama bear would do . . . I decided to fight.

In complete shock, Teage and I began punching, kicking, yelling, and crying . . . begging these animals to set her free. To no avail Sadie was still being pulled through two separate openings—she would never fit through—by two different mouths.

I began to scream at the top of my lungs, hoping for anyone around to come and help me set her free so we could give her a proper burial. Soon, a few neighbors came running to the rescue. It took 3 adults and one ten year old punching and kicking for a few minutes to get the other dogs to let her go, and once they did . . . she took a breath.

She was still alive! Mangled, bleeding, and full of holes and shaking with fear—but alive.

The whole left side of her body was covered in blood and teeth marks—some so deep you could see her insides. Sadie got a lot of stitches that night. The doctor in the ER vet clinic said her extra fat saved her life (A lesson we might want to consider this holiday season. “I am eating for my safety!”.) Then—with the help of some miracle worker doctors—she was sent home to recover the very next morning.

For someone who has suffered with PTSD for the past six and half years, I can’t say I didn’t fall into a state of intense fear most of that night.  The “WHY US”—“why my son who already struggles with fear of the unknown” ate at me for the hours I sat waiting. I covered the gamete on victim pity parties in my mind. I quickly went through the grief cycle as I waited in a room for hours, to see if the dog—I bought for my kids as a therapy healing animal—was going to make it.  And I sobbed even harder the next morning when she came home with a heartbeat, but looked like she wished she was dead.

I cried for her pain, for the struggle—I feared—this moment of trauma was going to play in the lives of my already hurting children. I struggled with a belief racked in fear that has tried to haunt me many times before. I do not have the ability to protect them. The evidence had never felt so strong as this scene had played out in the safety of our own property . . . while I stood by.

I know now that those fears that came into my mind—as I thought I was failing yet again— . . . they aren’t true.

So two weeks later I want to share a few things I have learned from a moment of fear.

#1. We are not promised tomorrow. Literally the day before, I said—out loud and on Instagram—how grateful I am for such a perfect dog. I thought in that moment, those words left my lips, that maybe she was God’s way of blessing us for all the hell we have been through. Then—not even 24 hours later—I thought we had lost her forever. Not because of anything we did or did not do . . . but because life is full of bumps in the road and fences we must not walk too close to.

#2. There are going to be “German Shepherds” in our lives. Obviously I am not talking about the breed. There are many of these dogs that have saved lives and been life long companions for people. I am talking about traumatic moments—someone or something coming out of nowhere and tearing you down. Some—we might not ever see coming. Some are merely the voices we hear in our minds—threatening us to just give up. Some are going to be real life bad guys with guns—others might be threats to our marriages, or bullies at school. Whatever our “German Shepherds” have been or will be . . . they are unique to each of us individually. They can either cause us to give up . . . or they can give us a reason to fight—a reason to stand a little taller . . . or for me this week, stand a little more grateful.

#3. Sometimes we might not see the wolves in sheep clothing, and learn through a lot of pain that some don’t want to be the friend we hoped they were. Other times we might gain a friend in someone we thought was out to get us.

#4. Sometimes—just like Daniel in the Bible— we will be thrown into a lion’s den. Sometimes God will calm the lions, and other times He will send a miracle in a different way.  On this day in my backyard . . . I saw hundreds of them.

#5. We cannot walk too close to the fence. There are some things in this world that just make sense. We can clearly see the consequences of walking along the edge of a cliff . . . because we can easily see what can go wrong. But how many situations do we encounter each day that the outcomes are not as clear?

If there is something in your life that you keep taking a risk for—that maybe isn’t really going to be worth it in the end—take a few steps back, it just might save your life.

#6. No matter how hard we work, or how much money we spend to help someone heal—we don’t get to decide how they will receive it. We cannot force them to accept our “love” and our “knowledge” of what is best for them.

Sadie was stitched up from head to toe. She didn’t eat much for days. She hardly moved at all. But once she started healing and those stitches started itching, she decided, one day, to use her back leg to not only dig out her stitches but to reopen the biggest wound she had received from her attack. Blood everywhere again. More pain.

#7. If we want to heal, we can’t keep reopening our wounds. We have to let others do their jobs to help us. We have to let stitches heal before we try to take them out ourselves. Some things do take time. And others  . . . though in the moment seem to feel good to make it hurt again—maybe aren’t worth digging back up.

#8. Some fences are not built well enough to keep the darkness out. But some of the fences and walls—we create for ourselves—are the very things that are not letting the light in.

You guys know my story. There have been other “German Shepherds” . . . and fences that should have been avoided. So today I plead with you—those who have the ability to take a step back. Run. Find fences and company that are worth living for . . . and are not posing as a friend in a safe back yard.

Our relationships, our decisions, our integrity . . . they matter. Don’t walk too close to the fence. Decide now what side you want to be on, and don’t let anyone try to pull you through to the other side—first of all, you don’t fit. Second of all . . . the grass isn’t always greener over there.

And when those “German shepherds” come—and they will come—just don’t forget who you are. It isn’t what we go through, but what we become after the pain that makes all the difference. Yes we may carry scars, and have wounds we are tempted to open up again and again . . . but we can heal.

(Here she is snuggling me while I type)

If you feel like you have been attacked, belittled, humiliated, and the “German shepherds” around you seem to have forgotten your worth, don’t you dare give up. You aren’t broken. You have so much yet to live for. The world still needs you. And as you heal those fears of all the moments you were not shown the love you deserve . . . just remember—you are still enough . . . broken and all. 

Sometimes we trust, and get hurt any way. Doesn’t mean we didn’t do our best. Having faith in a plan, and having that plan fail us does not have to be evidence of our worthlessness, or a reason for us to loose faith in others. For every “dog” that has attacked, there is another that has brought love and companionship. For every plan that has changed and failed, there is a plan that has changed and brought so much success . . . even joy.

We have to be there for each other. God doesn’t send us one another by accident. An animal that was brought to our family to be a therapy dog . . . is now taking her turn teaching us how to be her “therapy people”.  The circle of life doesn’t always have to bring death.

Healing isn’t easy, but it is possible. So Sadie, though I know you will never read this post. Thanks for being strong—for fighting for another day. For reminding me—AGAIN—how I need to make the most of every moment and never take advantage of all I have been given. Also, thanks for showing these kids how to fight—and giving them a new hope that not every attack ends in death.

Today as you assess the fences you walk . . . just remember as wounds heal, the pain does too. If you are holding on to a pain of a wound that has long since healed physically, maybe today it is time to stop digging in a letting it hurt you emotionally or mentally. Ask for the help you need, there are people who can help you stitch it up once and for all. You will see miracles as you pray for grace.

Life is too hard to do it alone. We need each other. And we don’t just need each other’s presence . . . we need each other’s love. Perfectly imperfect love. Don’t walk too close to the fence, but don’t be afraid to make room—on your side—for the people who need you the most.

He never said it would be easy . . . just worth it.

Sometimes it still hurts

Truth? Life sucks. Hello. It’s Me. Mrs. Nasty. And today, this is my blog.

I have had—what you call—writers block. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but mainly because I have been afraid to say it. Stuck somewhere between a broken girl and a girl who wants more than anything in this world to help others overcome the obstacles in their life. But here is the truth—I have been hurting.

You see, even fighters have rough moments . . . and some days, life just sucks.

I want so badly to help others heal, that a part of me has been ignoring my own pain. I have been giving everything in me to hear other people’s stories and I have purposefully been avoiding my own. Because it is so much easier to help others change and heal from their struggles . . . than it is to go deep within and face what is broken inside. And I have been feeling it aching for a while, but have really been reverting back to what I do best. Hiding.

Let me just start a few months back. The kids and I decided to go—for our second year in a row—to celebrate Emmett’s birthday with his family. A tradition they have done every year of his life, and every year since his death. A place I have spent most of the latter years avoiding. Bear Lake. For those of you who have read my first book, you know that is where Emmett is buried, but what you might not know . . . is that place holds a lot of the good memories as well. And sometimes even the good memories are easier left unremembered.

I have shared so many of the moments of my journey, but there are parts to our story that you do not know. Some I have decided not to share—for now—because of the other people involved . . . but others I have purposefully avoided because . . . they still hurt. But I didn’t realize I had been avoiding them until yesterday.

So anyway. Bear Lake. This year, Jordyn decided to come with us. So the six kids and I set off on a trek to go and be with Emmett’s family. The weekend was amazing, and it was so wonderful to see the family rally around Jordyn as if she had always been apart of them. Each person held close all six of the kids, as though we had never spent years avoiding each other.  I felt a peace—for the first time in five years—in that place. We spent mornings on the beach, and had bonfires. We went to visit Emmett’s grave, and introduced Jordyn. We got to go to church with Emmett’s grandma—something I had done the first time I met her. I even felt prompted to get up and share a very spiritual experience Tytus had shared with me about Emmett. Overall the weekend was a success, and I felt so connected to some of the things that used to once be such a big part of my life, and had more recently become a reminder of so much heartache.

The weekend was full of so much good and light, and love. Not the same type of love I used to feel there, but the type of love that brings about healing from a broken place. So after a weekend like that, I felt so ready to take on the world.  I drove home feeling spiritually strong and full of overcoming and so much strength. I wanted to share it. I wanted to sit down and write and speak of hope and share my message with anyone who could hear it—that we can overcome, and we can heal, and we can change. Relationships can be repaired, and forgiveness is possible.

Then I got home, and this fog waved over me. I felt alone. For days I felt dark, and defeated. I felt insignificant. Not because of anything that did or did not happen there, but because I knew it was time to start writing again. And it scared the crap out of me—because this time I know I was being asked to get REAL real.  

So I have been in hiding ever since . . . until now.

This week was . . . well, not anything like I had planned. A sprained ankle last weekend kept Shawn home from our trip to St. George for my conference—an expectation I had set in my mind that just about took me out. A small melt down in my office, and a 9 hour road trip with six kids alone and I was ready for the conference.

The conference went great; the speakers were inspirational. I cried and laughed all morning with each story told and hope shared. Each person shared something I had needed to remember. Each hug at the door by new friends, and old, made me feel light and uplifted. I heard stories all day of pain I could relate to—and others of pain I knew nothing of. I felt part of a community, full of brave souls who were battling the world. I drove home ready to take that next step . . . to finish what I had started.

And then I got home . . . and this dark fog washed over me. This time in the form of broken dishes, dirty laundry, muddy shoes, lists to do, grocery shopping. A son on crutches two days before trick or treating, and a daughter full of anxiety about going back and forth from her two houses. 

But to top it all off as we were getting ready to put on Halloween costumes yesterday, Bostyn came running in with her baby bunny. Hysterically she screamed that something was wrong, a cry we have come to know well. You see, at our house we don’t just deal with sick dying bunnies and broken plates. We deal with triggers—triggers of a pain no little girl or boy should ever know.

As I held on to her on the way to take the bunny in, I could feel her hand trembling. Her whole body was shaking as she grieved what she knew would be another loss. A part of me wanted to say, “Bostyn . . . come on. Say a prayer, read your scriptures. Everything is going to be ok.”

But in that moment I thought over the years about times when people tried to do that with me. So instead, we just cried together. She held my hand with one hand, and the basket that held her bunny in the other, and we silently sobbed. After we dropped the bunny off we got back in the car. She stared out the window, “Mom . . . is He really there? Is He really going to answer my prayers? Because—I prayed that my bunny would be ok . . . and I don’t think he will be. Why is it that everything I have ever loved in my life just gets taken away. The bunny lady said she could get me a new bunny—one that even looks just like him—for what MOM? So I can love him too, and then he can just leave me? No thank you. Why do I even bother? I gave him my heart . . . and now he is just going to leave me here too?”

And there it was. That fear I knew all too well. That overpowering beckoning to just give up. That voice inside your head, that sounds like all the best ideas . . . that really just holds you back from everything you could and should be. That voice that paralyzes your very being . . . threatens your very existence. 

I have been spending so many months afraid to finish what I started out two years ago to do . . . to share my healing journey. But yesterday my daughter reminded me why I have to keep fighting. To fight through the nasty emails mean people send. To fight through the fog that tells me everything I do is for nothing. To fight through the dark—to find the light.

Because sometimes it still hurts. And that’s ok.

We can’t keep abandoning ourselves when we need ourselves the most. We have to love the one that is hurting . . . and sometimes that “one” . . . is us.

You didn’t chose this pain, and neither did I. But we are not alone. We have each other. So, please be nice. Be nice to yourself. Be nice to those you meet. Be nice to me and please spare me with the emails about how “it has been five years and you just need to get over it”. This is my safe place, and today I get to “air my dirty laundry” because that is the way I know best how to help others find a safe place to do the same. If you are reading this and are offended by anything I do or do not say on this blog, please do everyone a favor and find a different blog to read. For I will no longer be apologizing for being broken, because this is my fight . . . and some days the battles are hard. This is my victory . . . and some days the battles are won!

But if you want real . . . it is about to get real.

If you can relate, and need a safe place . . . I want you to know I am here. Not as an expert who knows a darn thing, but as a broken girl who is fighting too.

 Today we battle together. We know all that we “should” be doing and some days we feel so motivated . . . until we don’t. So when you get stuck, and feel like you are the only one off track to the life you always dreamed . . . this is going to be your safe place. A place to come to heal . . . but also a safe place to some days come to—be broken.

We can decide who we want to become—and then become her (or him). But it will take time.

There are no set calendars on grief, no timelines for pain. Just people trying their best to find their way. Those that are lashing out . . . are the ones in the most pain. Be patient. Be brave. Take a stand today. Against fear. Against victimhood—against not being enough. Against feeling alone. Help others to find their purpose—in their suffering, in their triumphs. Angels will be with you; the light of Christ will bring hope. Live life with intention, to help others feel God’s love for them. Help them to see that their life has been full of grace. Help them turn to the one and only Redeemer who has the power to save and change. Go with faith, hope and a perfect love to share. For that is what He asked of us when He begged us to feed His sheep. He was the only perfect Son, and because of Him we too can change and grow and find purpose to our pain.

He lived a perfect life, full of imperfect moments. And so do we.

Don’t give up. Every moment lived on earth matters. Make them count.

 (Jordyn's hands at Bear Lake)

Sending light

I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. She goes by the name of Mrs. Smith. Her story and her mission have helped many see light in a dark moment, to help others remember they are never alone. 

Sending Light

My name is Mrs. Smith. It's not my real name. It's my pen name. I am the woman behind the The Light Keepers @thelightkeepers Instagram account. Three years ago my life as I knew it drastically changed. In an extremely traumatic way, I learned that my husband had been living a double life of sexual addiction. 

Early on in our marriage I had discovered that my husband was struggling with pornography. I didn't know then that it was an addiction, and neither did he. Over the years there were times I found pornography he had been viewing. Each time it was very traumatic and I wondered what I was doing wrong. Why wasn't I enough sexually for him? 

We married young and I couldn't wrap my head around the idea that someone could be addicted to pornography or sex. Several years into our marriage we learned more about sexual addiction and were lead to therapy and 12-step groups. This felt like an answer to my prayers. I began to learn more about the addiction. I learned that I didn't cause the acting out and I couldn't stop it. My husband appeared to really want to change and heal. 

Many years went by and we had several more children. We had struggles like any other couple: job loss, struggling to make ends meet at times, and small arguments. On a whole our family and marriage were happy. We did have some really challenging struggles as well: discovering that my husband had other addictions (food and gambling) and the grief of a sudden death of a close family member. 

Through all this my husband was supportive and loving. We sought therapy. We sought spiritual guidance. In my mind we were healing and making progress. My husband and I enjoyed being with each other. Our daily interactions were happy and loving. We read marriage and parenting books together. We had fun date nights. We had family vacations. Our holidays were happy and meaningful. Life was good. We had a happy marriage. I felt content and blessed. Life was far from easy, but in my mind we were facing our battles, head on, together. 

In September of 2013 we moved to a new state. I was thrilled with this move, getting to live in my dream location. My husband had a great job opportunity and I thought we were going to be putting down roots to raise our children. Of course I didn't think life was going to be perfect or easy, but I felt like we had worked through some extremely hard things and after years of struggle I felt like l was seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Just a few short weeks after moving into our new home I made the horrific and traumatic discovery that my husband had not only never been free from his pornography addiction, but that the acting out had escalated. My husband was on a business trip when I made this discovery. I had children sleeping in my bed. I began crying and uncontrollably screaming. I could see the fear and confusion on my children's faces but I couldn't stop. 

I wanted to stop so badly but the trauma had hijacked my body. It was as if I had literally been hit by a bus. I remember trying to calm myself down but nothing would work. I finally was able to calm down enough to turn on a movie for my children and then I began to pace the house and sob and sob and sob. I didn't know anyone in this new place where we were living. I had no friends. I had never felt more alone. 

The next morning my dad flew into town to take care of me and my children. I don't even know how I made it to the airport to pick him up. I only remember falling apart in his arms. 

My husband and I immediately started therapy. Through an act of God I was led to a phenomenal therapist who I would come to learn would be an integral part of my healing journey. My husband sought recovery and help for himself through individual therapy and 12-step groups. 

I too began working a 12-step program. I began working with a sponsor and working the 12-steps. Each one of them was a life changing experience for me. As time went on, my husband eventually came forward with his full history of sexually acting out. This was horribly painful and caused me significant trauma. I really don't know how to describe the fire that was lit inside of me to fight for my healing and recovery. I had never wanted something more in my life--not to save my marriage but to personally heal from the damage his addiction had brought into my life.

Through therapy I began to learn more about family systems, and my fight and passion grew more as I learned ways I could be a "generation changer" in my family. I learned new ways of coping and responding. I learned tools for regulating my emotions, and for speaking my thoughts, feelings and needs. 

As I faced the pain of my husband's betrayals I was able to learn and grow in ways I never imagined possible. It was not easy. Most of the time it wasn't a pretty process. I cried buckets of tears. I took long drives so that I could scream at the top of my lungs. I turned to my Heavenly Father like never before in my life. 

I began to develop a closeness with him and the Savior that I didn't know I was missing. This process was a refiner's fire and it was brutally painful, but it propelled me into personal growth that was life changing. I still have many hard moments. I still struggle. I don't know what the future will hold, but I do know that no matter what happens I am going to be OK. 

A few months into my personal healing journey, I began to have the strangest overwhelming impression, "You need to start an Instagram account and share your story." I thought this was one of the most bizarre impressions of my life. I am not a writer or a blogger and I wondered who on earth would read something like this on Instagram, of all places. 

I began searching Instagram to see if I could find any accounts of women going through what I was going through. I didn't find any at that time. I decided to share this idea with a friend from recovery and I asked for her thoughts. One Sunday, while in church, the impression to start this Instagram account would not go away. I remember thinking to myself, "What would I even call it?" In that exact moment, a woman handed me a poem and asked me if I would read it as part of her lesson. I looked down at the slip of paper and read the title, Light Keepers. The spirit whispered to me, "This is what you will call the Instagram account." 

The poem perfectly described how I felt about the journey I was on and the "Light Keepers" my Father in Heaven had lovingly placed along my path to help light the way to healing. There have been so many Light Keepers along the way, so many beautiful people who have blessed my life--people who have been there for me in my darkest hours--people who have shown me that there is still LIGHT and HOPE, even in the darkest of circumstances. 

As I began sharing my story on Instagram I was astonished at the number of women who reached out to me with similar stories. Each woman that shared her story with me allowed me to partake in a scared trust. Strangers were sharing things with me that they had never shared with anyone before in their lives. Tears would roll down my face as I would read these emails and messages. 

I wasn't alone and I was blessed with the honor of having others share their pain and struggle with me. This was truly a life-changing experience for me. It also strengthened me and helped me to continue to seek my healing and to work my individual recovery. I began to pray for each of these women who reached out to me. They were my Light Keepers just as much as I was theirs. 

I would never have chosen this trial in my life since it has brought so much heartbreak and pain. But I also know I needed to go through it. Through this struggle I found myself. I have never been more certain of who I am and who I want to become. 

A few months ago I held a retreat for a group of women. We began to brainstorm ideas of ways we could reach out to others who were suffering in darkness, and ways we could be Light Keepers for others. For awhile I had felt the impression to make some kind of care packages for other women in trauma. We began exploring this idea and working as a team to have this idea become a reality. 

Not long after this, to my surprise, an amazing woman felt impressed to send me a large sum of money to help this project get started. I was humbled by her generosity. I knew I had an important work to do and that I was being trusted with it. In August several women and I gathered together and put together 107 boxes for women in trauma. We were able to get these boxes into the hands of other women in trauma.

I wasn't sure what was going to happen after that...

Enter Adam and Lindsay Moore

My name is Adam Moore. When I was first training to become a marriage and family therapist, I was astounded at how many people who, on the outside, seem to have life all figured out, can have such painful stories underneath the surface.

These are your friends and neighbors. They are there, doing their best to make it through each day, but they often have secret pain and trauma they're struggling with that very few people ever get to know about in most cases.

As a therapist, I sit in an incredibly sacred space with people--hearing the stories of trauma, and being present for very personal healing processes. Sometimes I am literally the only person on the earth who is invited into that space. It is humbling to say the least.

As heartbreaking as it can be to hear the painful stories, what allows me to do what I do is seeing the amazing resilience people display in the face of some of life's most challenging moments. 

About six years ago I began training to treat addictions--specifically sexual addictions. One of the very first lessons I learned was that connected to nearly every sex addict are family members, often spouses, in trauma. 

It's not just the out-of-control sexual behaviors that cause pain to family members of addicts. As with other addictions, sex addicts often get into a survival space where they lie, blame, and hide in order to keep people from finding out what is really going on. It's these behaviors that create much off the relationship trauma.

I learned that healing and recovery are necessary not only for the addict, but also for a traumatized partner. For married couples, healing the marriage requires that the betrayed spouse be given just as much care and concern as the addict typically receives.

As my wife and I have managed our counseling practice for the past few years, we've had a ongoing dialogue about what more we could do to offer support for the often-neglected people in trauma due to others' choices or because of life events that are out of their control.

I can't describe how our non-profit, Sending Light, was formed without talking about inspiration and superhuman timing. My wife and I watched (via social media) as the woman behind The Light Keepers Instagram account organized others around the concept of sending care packages to women in trauma.

When we saw that, we said, "Maybe that's where we can get involved in giving back." So we reached out to her and within weeks we were forming a non-profit organization to provide a process by which people who have experienced life's traumas can offer kindness to those who are still in the depths of their own pain. We offer a way to create Light Boxes (specialized care packages) and get them into the hands of people who need to know that they are not alone.

We started with the people we felt most connected to because of my therapy work--women whose husbands have sexual addictions. But pretty quickly we had people reaching out about many other types of traumas. These might be things like addiction, mental illness, suicide, divorce, pregnancy loss, eating disorders, and so many more. 

Sending Light's mission is to provide the structure and resources for ordinary people to do something extraordinary and to combine their efforts with people who have experienced traumas like their own--to reach out to people who may feel alone and isolated in their trauma.

Each Light Box contains thoughtful items that provide emotional support. education. opportunities for self-care, and a connection to others who have traveled the same road. When a person sends a Light Box, he or she becomes a Light Keeper and joins an ever-growing force of people committed to relieving human suffering.

The really neat thing about the way we deliver the Light Boxes is that in most cases, we are going to get the boxes into the hands of a gatekeeper--a community or church leader who has direct access to people who are suffering right now. Those leaders may not fully understand the gravity of the traumas people are experiencing. So the boxes are delivered with additional educational materials to teach those individuals about those traumas, so that they can provide better, more informed support, education.

Our organization is brand-new, but are already seeing incredible support from people all over the United States, asking how they can get involved. We are excited to watch as The Light Keepers spread into every community and stand with people in the most difficult moments of their lives.

sendinglight.org

A video about Sending Light: 

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