Beautiful old trees line this street, where I sit at a coffee shop and write this blog. Since the late 1800s, many have called this town home. My family is among this place’s biggest fans. We've lived in many locales over the years, but to us, this is the only place we could ever call "home."

The streets boast centuries-old houses that once saw horse-and-buggy transportation. The original wrought-iron fences are well-preserved, and the rocking chairs on the quaint porches look so inviting. While the facades of many of the homes boast re-mortared bricks and freshly painted clapboard, they evoke that "olden days” feeling.

Apparently nothing newsworthy ever happened here; our town has a history but no past. Some of us wish we could say the same thing. We have a past saturated with pain and a present stamped "Still Grieving." Somehow mercy abandoned us as children.

We’re the houses hidden behind Main Street that are stained with time, barely standing, crumbling from disrepair. A coat of paint and some new shutters are but a disguise for the decay within. We never got over our past. We hammer on, nailing the loose porch boards and planting flowers along the sidewalks. On better days, we even hang our patriotic American Flag; it gives us a feeling of belonging. Heck, maybe it even reflects some sense of pride.

We survivors excel at pretending to be proud. But inside, we cry.

So many questions begging for answers. Where do we go when time only brings us regret and embarrassment at our abuser's hands? Where do we put the pain? How do we repair and then renovate our “houses”?

We start at the basement. We go back to when the foundation was laid, and we unearth the lines, cracks, and crevices where our secrets hide. We revisit all of it—as the adult souls we are now. We are strong, and our toolboxes contain all the gadgets we've gained since then. We become general contractors, seeking out the help we need from others to make our basements strong enough to support our houses. Armed with the knowledge and understanding we find in repairing our foundations, we move up, floor by floor.

With each story, we tear down more walls. If these walls could speak, they would tell our abusers that while they were building themselves up, they were breaking us down. Though they remain silent, the walls were listening, as were we. Despite the painful memories, we can rebuild and start anew. These new walls will bring solid boundaries and hear us rejoice in our stories of SURVIVAL!

When we get to the roof, we’re well on our way to healing and happiness. Behold, our roof will keep out sleet, snow, even rain. Oh, the tears—they fell like a pouring rain for years and years. Now we have found such contentment and even joy, from all the little things. Our well-built roofs will keep us safe and warm.

Let me tell you about my family’s house. It was built in 1831, and these walls have heard only giggling, cackling, and howling from five children who had the childhood you and I never had. They knew a sturdy, inviting, and cozy house. They learned boundaries and unconditional love. They now live in strong houses of their own.

These days, it’s just my sweet Will and me living in this place that has served us so well. This house holds so much joy!

This house is where I healed. This house is all I ever wanted.

This house...is my heart.