To the 15 Year Old Child from Abilene, TX. The one in the video. The one being hurt. 
I saw you. I heard you. I couldn’t look away.
I needed to watch, not for shock or curiosity, but because I knew what it felt like to be the one no one protected. I was 15 too when the people who were supposed to love me instead let their hands say otherwise. Maybe I wasn’t the easiest teenager. Maybe I had an attitude, questions, dreams too big for the walls I lived in. I didn’t deserve the bruises. Neither do you.
Those screams you let out, they weren’t just yours. They were mine once. They’ve been the screams of countless kids like us. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry that you had to be one of us.
But now, you stand at a fork in the road, the lines lead two ways. I know that sounds cliché but I promise it’s real. This moment, as unfair and incredibly painful as it is, can become the beginning of something powerful. Something full of purpose.
I don’t know what’s ahead for you, but I do know this: people will open their homes. They’ll try to help. Some will love you deeply. Some will mean well but not fully understand. Some will be temporary. Some will stay. While they each may play a role in your story, you get to choose who you become.
You are not what they did to you. You are not the video. You are not shame. You are not a lost cause.
You are a beginning.
❤️🙏🏼My encouragement to you, please, let your healing be your rebellion. Go to therapy. Find a hobby that makes you feel alive, I draw now but I have painted, written music, ran 5K’s, and even published books. Use EDUCATION like a flashlight in the dark. Build a future you’re proud of, even if no one taught you how. I am here if you need someone to mentor you! Stand at that line and make the choice to create a better future!
Please, don’t get lost in the noise of social media or the ignorance of people who only see the surface. Their opinions don’t matter. Their cruelty says more about their lack of education and empathy than it does about you.
What happened to you is not okay. But you? You are going to be more than okay, you are going to be unstoppable. One day, if you want, you’ll be the one who writes a letter like this to another kid, because you’ll know what it’s like to overcome.
You are not alone. I love you. I promise I do. If we can hate in this world for no reason at all, I assure you, we can also love without reason. You are not alone.
Love, Stephanie Ellison Someone who made it out, and knows you can too.
I can hardly put into words what this little book, Always Forever, has become in the hands of God.
Last week, I received a message from an incredible human being who asked to purchase one of my books. She wondered if I would mail it directly and if I’d sign it before I sent it. I said of course, and then asked what the occasion was.
That’s when my heart broke 💔.
She explained it was for a mother currently in hospice care… and her small child. I paused, and in that moment, I felt the weight of what I was being asked to do.
Just a week ago, I shared about another parent who purchased this book after losing their child and how it now holds a completely different meaning for me. I am seeing it through new eyes.
It amazes me how God takes something that was simply a healing labor of love for me and turns it into something far bigger than I ever dreamed. He is using it as a bridge between earth and eternity.
I don’t personally know the family I mailed this book to, but I am humbled and honored to be invited into their sacred space. I’ve always told my students, “I love you, and I don’t have to know you to love you.” Today, I feel that same way about the parents and children holding this book.
Please pray for this precious child who is sitting beside their mother, ushering her into the arms of Jesus. I was told she is still alert enough to write a letter to her child in the back of my book. That thought both breaks me and fills me with gratitude.
Thank You, Lord, for using my small offering in such a beautiful and deeply meaningful way.
There’s something deeply unsettling about people who use their position, influence, or authority, not to serve, but to control.
I’ve lived through this as a child suffering from abuse and as an adult in various situations. I’ve felt that ache in my chest when someone tried to make me question my worth because I wouldn’t bend to their pressure. I’ve set healthy, needed, soul-protecting boundaries, and watched as someone who once smiled when they interacted with me but turned cold because I didn’t give in.
That’s not love. That’s not leadership. That’s not okay.
If someone only values you when you’re easy to control, their acceptance was never real. If honoring peace in your own life turns you into their enemy, they were never rooting for you they were using you.
Let me say this clearly: you are not wrong for saying no. You are not wrong for needing space. You are not wrong for choosing your mental health, your family, your faith, or your peace.
Power and control can be used like poison, quiet, subtle, and destructive. When someone tries to manipulate you with guilt, fear, or influence, they’re not protecting the relationship… they’re protecting their ability to control it.
But you don’t have to stay.
It’s okay to walk away from situations where you’re being emotionally cornered. It’s okay to take a break from people who don’t respect your boundaries. It’s okay to love someone or the work their company does and still say, “This is not safe for me anymore.”
Yes, it may benefit them if you stay. But that doesn’t mean it’s what’s best for you.
You matter. Your peace matters. Your boundaries matter.
If standing your ground costs you their approval, it’s still worth it. Because peace that comes at the cost of your dignity isn’t peace at all.
Let them be uncomfortable with your boundaries. That’s their work to do. You? You just keep healing. Keep growing. Keep walking in truth.
You are not too much. You are not selfish. You are not the villain for protecting yourself.
You’re just someone who finally decided to stop shrinking for the comfort of others.
That’s not weakness. That’s strength. That’s the kind of power that sets people free, not controls them.
Before giving birth to my girls, I became a very proud bonus momma. I jumped in fully and thought love would earn me a place in the little family my husband had. I naively believed if I was playful enough, kind enough, consistent enough, and healed enough, I would eventually be welcomed in with open arms.
I thought if I tucked them in, packed their lunch with notes and favorite snacks, remembered their favorite songs, I’d be seen as a “real” parent. Not to take their birth mother’s place but to create my own place in their lives. I thought love was the bridge that would close the gap of not being a “real mom”.
Before foster parenting and eventually adoption, I thought love would help rewrite the story. I thought safety would be enough to erase fear.
But here’s what I know now, Love doesn’t always get a warm welcome. Love doesn’t fix what broken homes and survival taught. Love doesn’t always feel good. Structure doesn’t always feel safe. Stepping in as a parent isn’t always welcomed without hesitation and reservations.
I’ve sat in the spaces where a child’s loyalty to someone who abandoned them broke my heart in ways I never thought possible. I also reflected on many moments where my own brokenness, insecurity, and unrealistic expectations failed them.
I’ve wiped tears that weren’t mine, yet somehow were and I understood my assignment was to stay. Staying is not clean and peaceful. Staying is a war. I’ve been asked, “why do you still love me?” I’ve been abandoned and rejected and wondered “if they will ever forgive me for struggling in my humanity?” I tried not to feel pain or let them see my wounds but I failed many times.
I’ve taken the silence personally. The outbursts. The distance. The resistance. I thought if I hurt, it meant I failed. But that wasn’t true, it was just human.
It’s taken me years to understand: their pain wasn’t always about me. Their grief didn’t begin with me. Their survival instincts weren’t a rejection of my love. But still, I took it personally far too often. That’s on me, not them.
Learning emotional intelligence as an adult, while parenting, is like trying to read a map during a terrible storm. It’s slow, confusing, humbling work. But it matters.
Before this parenting journey, I thought I was supposed to be some kind of healer (that is embarrassing to confess). Now I know, I was still healing. Still learning that love without control is the hardest kind.
Still choosing to stay when the doors slam, the eyes roll, and the silence screams louder than words.
This love? It doesn’t guarantee thank you’s. It doesn’t come with picture perfect endings. But it does come with transformation.
This love stretches you. Exposes you. Softens you. It humbles you to your knees and raises you to a deeper kind of faith.
Because this isn’t performative parenting. It’s sacrificial. It’s holy.
Though it breaks me some days, it’s the kind of breaking that lets the light in.
To every bonus mom, foster parent, or heart-weary parent walking this road, you are not alone. Your love may not always feel like “enough,” but it still matters more than you know. Don’t let bitterness take root from the storms. Heal and grow. Stay. Keep loving.
❤️ Stephanie Ellison (Proud Momma through broken love)
It’s interesting when something happens continuously over the span of 20 years. When people compare you to the same historical figure, it’s time to listen and do your homework. People have called me “the female Barnabas,” yesterday my friend Casey randomly said it in a conversation and I finally looked it up and, I’m honored and humbled.
Barnabas, whose name means “son of encouragement,” was given that nickname by the early church because encouragement wasn’t just what he did, it was who he was as a human. He stood beside the ones others walked away from. He believed in Paul when everyone still feared his past (Saul). He gave John Mark another chance after failure. He welcomed outsiders, bridged cultures, and lived generously.
Scripture doesn’t tell us much about his childhood, but the way he loved? The way he showed up for people with tenderness, patience, and relentless belief in their worth? That kind of encouragement often comes from someone who has known struggle themselves. Someone who had to be resilient. Someone who’s walked through some hard things and came out with a softer heart, not a heart of stone.
Maybe that’s why I feel so deeply connected to his legacy.
I, too, know what it’s like to need someone to believe in you. To long for a hand up after you have fallen or a voice whispering, “You’re not done yet, keep it up friend. You still matter. Get back up.” I know what it’s like to fight through the fog of trauma and use the pain to become a light for others. I recently got these bracelets from a womens conference through Beltway Women. I tell myself “remember where you came from, you are an overcomer so shine sister!” I also tell my clients this because I want them to keep fighting to overcome adversity.
So yes I receive the message…call me Barnabas. The sisterhood version.😉
If I can live in a way that brings courage to the weary, hope to the broken, and love to the forgotten, then I’m living the life I was meant to.
To those who’ve seen that in me: thank you🥹. I pray I never stop being a voice of compassion, a safe place to land, and a friend who always believes there’s more ahead.
Let’s be encouragers. Girl, Barnabases (daughter of encouragement). The world needs us.
We are all a little like clay. Soft enough to be shaped by love, but fragile enough to crack or even shatter under pressure. Molded by joy, loss, failure, and grace.
I’m no exception. Some days I hold form, other days I crumble. But that doesn’t make me less worthy, it makes me real.
So please, don’t put your faith in people, not even in me. I am being shaped daily, still in the hands of the Potter. I can bend, I can break, and I can grow. Your anchor was never meant to be a human heart.
Place your faith in something greater, and let’s keep walking alongside each other, not because we’ve arrived, but because we’re still becoming.
Take a closer look at this photo. Each button is unique, different colors, sizes, and styles. Some are designed to hold heavy coats together, while others are meant for delicate fabric. Some have popped under pressure, others, the ones not pictured, are still holding strong.
Just like these buttons, our children and youth carry different loads. Some bear the weight of trauma, expectations, and survival. Others are holding things together in smaller, but still significant, ways.
As a behavioral specialist and a mom, I’ve seen what Dr. Ross Greene describes as the difference between “lucky” and “unlucky” kids, those whose struggles are visible and often misunderstood. Teens especially can have a hard time making logical decisions when their emotional load outweighs their ability to regulate.
When a young person “pops” under pressure, it doesn’t mean they’re broken. It means they’ve held it together for as long as they could.
Let’s stop expecting kids to always act right when they’re struggling. Let’s be the steady hand that sews them back in, reinforces the fabric, and reminds them they matter, no matter how small or large their role may seem.
Every button has a purpose. So does every child.
💔Also, from my dual perspective as a behavioral‑science educator and a mom, my heart breaks for both Austin Metcalf and the young man whose momentary lapse of judgment and reaction ended in tragedy. At 17, their prefrontal cortices, the brain’s “brakes” on impulse, are still developing, which makes that crucial pause between stimulus and response so fragile. I bet all who were present at the track meet that day wish they could go back and be part of helping create a pause after emotions began to escalate.
As mentioned above, over the years, I’ve studied Dr. Ross Greene’s concept of “lucky” versus “unlucky” behaviors. I have seen them play out in my classrooms, my nonprofits, and on my own kitchen floor. The “lucky” kids, those who pout, cry, or withdraw, tend to receive empathy and soft responses from adults when they’re upset. The “unlucky” kids, those who scream, hit, hurt, or destroy things, too often face punishment or isolation instead of understanding and forgiveness. Yet both are simply signals that a child is stuck, unable to meet expectations without support. The victims need support and so do the juveniles charged with criminal behavior.
I think of my students, whose angry outbursts masked a plea for connection, and whose emotional meltdowns in the cafeteria was the only way to say, “I need help.” With patience, we taught them to name their feelings and practice a simple “count to five, while breathing”, small skills that rewrote their stories. We as adults help create an understanding of the pause for children. Now is the time to TEACH THE PAUSE after an emotional stimulus.
Neither Austin nor Karmelo or their families deserve to be cast as the villain. When we insist on making heroes and villains out of children and two grieving families, we lose sight of their shared humanity, and create confusion, not clarity. God forbid your child ever makes a dangerous mistake or forgets to pause. Instead of looking for someone to blame, let’s ask ourselves:
How can we extend grace to both families, each mourning in ways we can scarcely imagine?
What if we invest in mental‑health and conflict‑resolution supports so every teen learns that vital pause between emotion and action?
How might we model compassion in our homes and schools, showing young people that being “lucky” or “unlucky” in how they express themselves doesn’t determine their worth?
This is, above all, a terrible tragedy. But if we choose empathy over division, if we see every teen as a work in progress who simply needs someone to hear and love them, then perhaps we can prevent the next heartbreak.
To all people involved in the tragedy, I am so sorry. Let the world say what they want, grieve and grow from this. My prayer is that you can look at one another with grace and forgiveness as you grieve the unimaginable.
April is Child Abuse Prevention Month, a time to raise awareness (yes), but also a time to raise hearts and minds. A time to pause and reflect on a truth we often overlook. It may not be popular to share this but I believe I need to say it:
I will never forget the day I attended a community wide domestic violence awareness seminar that changed the way I saw both pain and healing. The panel was powerful, made up of a police officer, an attorney, a judge, a caseworker, a nonprofit leader, and faith-based organizations. They spoke with great insight about how to help victims of child abuse. But it wasn’t until the very end of the conference that something truly unforgettable happened. A man stood up from the back of the room, visibly angry, the weight of his message still sits with me today. He asked, “What about us? How do we get help? We didn’t just wake up and become abusers, I don’t want to be like this.” His pain came out through his anger, and while some in the room were uncomfortable or dismissive, I wish now that I had stayed connected, or offered more than a moment of compassion. At the time, I couldn’t. I wasn’t in a place to hold space for someone like him, and honestly, I felt anger too. I felt shame for some of my own inadequacies and unhealthy coping skills. Over time, his words began to shape my understanding of forgiveness and restoration. I had always imagined most of my attention would be towards helping children and youth, but that moment opened my eyes to the importance of also helping the wounded adults, those who were once victims themselves but never received healing. If we can break the cycle in adults, we can prevent future harm to children. Justice is necessary and noble, but compassion must exist for those who fell through the cracks, carrying their brokenness into the next generation. Now, I try to see them with eyes of grace, believing that healing them helps heal the future.
We were all children once.
Before the bills. Before the heartbreaks. Before the exhaustion and the pressure. Before the embarrassing realizations that our circumstances were’t normal. We were all small, learning the world through the love, or lack, of others. For some, those early years were safe, secure and nurturing. For others, they were soaked in survival.
As someone who knows the pain of childhood neglect and abuse, I’ve learned that the wounds we carry into adulthood don’t always show up the same way. Sometimes, they look like overachievement and striving for perfection. Sometimes, like isolation. Sometimes, like rage we don’t understand. Often, those nasty wounds resurface as self-abuse, through shame, toxic thoughts, and choices that sometimes hurt us more than anyones hands or words ever did. These toxic thoughts cause some of us to spiral into addiction to help escape the anguish for just a moment.
We long to be healed, but healing takes honesty and the type of honesty can be terrifying to face.
We talk a lot about protecting children, and we must. But part of that protection starts with the adults. The grown-up children. The ones still haunted by memories they’ve tried to forget. Some of us became parents, spouses, leaders, still bleeding inside from what we endured.
Some have repeated the cycle. One thing is for sure, none of us just woke up and said, I think I’m going to hurt people today.
If that’s you, if you find yourself hurting your own family, emotionally, verbally, physically, it doesn’t mean you’re beyond help. It means you are in desperate need of healing and there is help. There is therapy, counseling, trauma work, faith, recovery mountain biking, rage rooms, art, music, photography, and there is grace for the one who is brave enough to say, “I need help before I hurt someone again.”
HEAR ME. There is no shame in getting help. But there is danger in waiting too long 💔.
Self-care isn’t just bubble baths and rest. Sometimes, it’s finally addressing the part of us that’s still screaming from a childhood that didn’t feel safe. Go outside, throw yourself onto the earth and dig your hands in the dirt and scream the injustice out! Ask that your rage be traded for compassion as you look into the eyes of those you desire to love.
Sometimes, it’s unlearning the lies we believed: that we’re unlovable, unfixable, or doomed to repeat the past.
We were all children once. Speaking from experience, healing that inner child may be the greatest gift we can give our own families today. It’s never too late.
The entire month of April, I invite you to:
Tend to the parts of you that still ache.
Get help if you are hurting those you love.
Offer compassion to yourself, even if no one else did.
Break the cycle, not just for your kids, but for you and your inner child.
If you don’t know where to start, start by being honest with yourself through the lens of love and grace and then by reaching out to local agencies in your area. If you don’t know who to talk to, Simply Encourage is here to share encouragement and grace through our blog stories. I am here, healing with you. You are not alone.
Ending the cycle of abuse is possible. Healing is possible. Grace is real and love, even after all you’ve seen, experienced, or caused, is still something you need and even deserve as a human.
There are moments I watch my youngest daughter struggle. I see the frustration in her eyes. I see the weight of feeling like she isn’t measuring up, the discouragement that whispers through tears. Why even try? She has a dyslexia, and academic learning is not a straight, easy path for her. It twists and turns, demands patience, and often asks her to climb mountains that others seem to glide over effortlessly. And yet, my beautiful girl climbs and remains steadfast.
I won’t let her give up, but I will hold her hand while she figures out her own way just as I have done. Because her way, the slow rise of understanding and steady climb of perseverance is just as beautiful as any brilliant sunrise.
We live in a world that loves success, the quicker the better. Our communities compare milestones, grades, achievements, and abilities as if life is a race and falling behind is not an option. But my daughter is not in competition with anyone else. Her steady growth does not equate to falling behind. She is a slow rising sunrise, gradually unfolding in her own time. She is breathtaking in the first light of discovery, radiant in the golden glow of perseverance, and equally beautiful in the quiet moments of rest gathering strength for her next ascent.
Success is not one size fits all. It is not measured by how quickly we get there, but by the heart we put into the journey. Her success is not defined by how she compares to another child, but by her own growth, her own victories, her own determination to try again and again.
To the parents walking this road with their children: Let’s not measure them against the world’s timeline. Let’s remind them, and ourselves, that progress, no matter how slow, is still progress. Let’s celebrate every effort, every small win, every step up the mountain.
Because a slow rising sunrise is still a sunrise. And it is breathtaking. Don’t you think?
After hearing my husband’s words, I have come to a decision: I cannot be willing to die for someone who would treat me with such hatred.
Recently, I watched my husband stand in the gap for me. At the time, I was angry with him, blinded by denial, unwilling to see the truth that he saw so clearly. He looked at someone we love deeply, someone I still choose to love, and as he pointed at me he firmly told them: “she’s the kind of person who would die trying to help you, and you’re the kind of person who would let her.” Our trust had been shattered, yet I clung to hope. I could not imagine this person not being in our life. I refused to give up.
But when they were no longer around us, the deception slowly unraveled before me. I saw its ugliness for what it was. And though I have known trauma as if it were my last name, even that could not prepare me for this kind of heartbreak. I realize boundaries and giving up can look the same to outsiders but they are not the same. I don’t give up. It’s not how God created me.
I don’t wish pain on anyone I just wish some people would focus their attention on being a better human themselves than attacking us. We aren’t perfect but I have never met a perfect person so I know I am in good company. Defending the truth is not my responsibility.
Still, I love. Even in my anger, I love. Even in my confusion, I love. Even in my grief and sadness, I love. And though my emotions are justified, I have realized that my love must also include myself.
I have looked at our girls here in front of me, their bright eyes, their hopeful futures, and I have decided: I will be present for them. I will no longer pour myself out for someone who would so willingly let me suffer. My love is not meant to be wasted in spaces where it is trampled. Instead, I choose to invest it where it will grow, where it will heal.
I choose to let go of what is completely out of my control and to enjoy the presence of those in front of me. I choose my children. I choose my husband. I choose myself. I choose love, but not at the cost of my own destruction.
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