THE COURT OF HEAVEN

Before You Enter the Courtroom

This is not a book about grief.

This is the official record of one woman refusing to disappear.

After years of caregiving, unimaginable loss, and living almost exclusively in survival mode, I reached a place where I no longer recognized the woman staring back at me. I wanted to admit myself into an inpatient wellness program, but life wouldn't allow me to leave. So instead of accepting what wasn't possible, I built the rehabilitation I needed inside my own home—with the support of my therapist, my life coach, my faith, and a decision to finally save the one person I had spent years placing last: myself.

What follows is not written from the safety of hindsight. These pages were recorded while I was still living them. Every hearing captures real-time thoughts, discoveries, setbacks, accountability, anger, hope, and healing. There are no polished endings. No perfect lessons. Just the honest testimony of a woman learning, one day at a time, that healing is not about becoming someone new—it's about finding the woman who survived underneath everything she carried.

This is Week One.

The Court is now in session.

The evidence has been entered.

The witness is ready to testify.

THE COURT OF HEAVEN

The Official Record

Week One

"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts." — Psalm 139:23

NOTICE TO THE COURT

This is not a memoir.

This is not a blog.

This is not a woman looking back after she survived.

This is the official record of the first week I admitted myself into an in-home intensive rehabilitation program that I created with the support of my therapist, my life coach, and God because I wasn't in a position to leave my family and check myself into the wellness center I desperately needed.

This testimony was written while I was still inside the work.

Nothing has been cleaned up.

Nothing has been rewritten to make me sound stronger than I was.

Some days I contradicted myself.

Some days I had no conclusion.

Some days I had nothing except another honest sentence.

Every word belongs in the record because every word was part of my rehabilitation.

THE SUMMONS

Bailiff:

All rise.

The Court of Heaven is now in session.

The Honorable God Almighty presiding.

The witness will take the stand.

God:

State your name for the record.

Me:

My name is Shantrael.

I'm a wife.

I'm a mommy.

I'm a caregiver.

I'm a daughter.

I'm a friend.

I'm a woman who has buried two sons.

I'm also a woman who almost disappeared while everybody was telling her how strong she was.

I didn't come before this Court because someone ordered me to.

I came because I finally realized I needed help.

Real help.

Not another distraction.

Not another trip.

Not another project.

Help.

I wanted to check myself into an inpatient wellness recovery center.

I needed one.

But life wasn't built in a way that allowed me to leave.

I'm a full-time mommy.

I'm a wife.

My family still needed me.

So I stopped asking myself what I couldn't do.

And I started asking myself...

"What do I actually need?"

That question changed my life.

I got creative.

I thought outside the box.

I created my own inpatient rehabilitation program inside my home.

Not because somebody taught me how.

Because I noticed something that scared me.

I became someone I didn't recognize.

That sentence still hurts.

Because I know who I am.

At my core...

I'm gentle.

I'm generous.

I love people.

I celebrate people.

I create experiences.

I show up.

But grief...

Grief introduced me to someone else.

Someone who was angry.

Someone who was exhausted.

Someone who didn't even like herself anymore.

Then something happened that I still don't know how to fully explain.

I saw myself...

outside of myself.

Seeing yourself outside of yourself is a higher awareness.

It's one thing to be grieving.

It's another thing to watch grief changing you while you're still living inside it.

That's what happened to me.

I watched myself becoming somebody I didn't want to become.

I was mad at the world.

Then I realized something.

The world didn't care.

Not because people were cruel.

Because life keeps moving.

That realization almost took me out.

Then it saved me.

Because I realized I only had two choices.

Only two.

I could keep going exactly the way I was going.

Or I could fight for my life.

Only one of those choices was right.

So I chose life.

Not because I felt strong.

I'm actually tired of people calling me strong.

I didn't ask for this.

Strength wasn't a personality trait.

It was survival.

It was either fight...

or die.

And I refused that.

For myself.

For my family.

For my children.

So I built what I needed.

My therapist stepped into it with me.

Three days a week.

My life coach kept asking questions that shocked me back to life.

My husband kept standing even while carrying his own grief.

And God...

God never left.

There were days I couldn't hear Him.

There were days I questioned everything.

There were days I questioned myself.

But I cannot testify that He abandoned me.

The evidence says He stayed.

So this week...

I closed the door.

Not because I stopped loving people.

Because I finally started protecting the woman inside the house.

The only people with unrestricted access to me are the people who live here.

Me.

My husband.

My son.

The memories of my boys.

Everybody else...

can wait.

Some relationships won't survive that.

That's another grief.

Because love...

and access...

are not the same thing.

I didn't know that before.

I do now.

This week wasn't about fixing my grief.

It was about admitting that I deserved treatment too.

For fourteen years...

I took care of everybody else.

This week...

I admitted myself.

God:

Let the record reflect...

The witness appeared voluntarily.

She did not come asking to be rescued.

She came telling the truth.

The testimony is admitted into evidence.

The Court will now proceed to Hearing One.

HEARING ONE

Admission

God:

Why are you here?

Me:

I'm here because I didn't like who I was becoming.

That sentence is hard to say out loud.

Not because I didn't love myself.

Because I couldn't find myself.

People talk about the stages of grief like you go through them one time.

That wasn't my experience.

I went through all the stages.

I felt all the things.

Then I went through them again.

And again.

I was existing.

I was functioning.

But I wasn't living.

One day I noticed I was getting out of control.

Not out of control where people would have noticed.

Out of control because I noticed.

I became someone I didn't even recognize.

I didn't like the life I was living.

I was being so incredibly hard on myself that I couldn't have loved me.

That's when I knew something had to change.

Not tomorrow.

Not next month.

Now.

If life had been different, I would have checked myself into an inpatient wellness recovery center.

I wanted that.

I needed that.

But I'm a full-time mommy.

I couldn't just leave.

Life wasn't lining up in a way that allowed me to disappear so somebody else could put me back together.

So I got creative.

I thought outside the box.

I built the very thing I needed.

I created my own inpatient rehabilitation program inside my home.

When people hear that, they probably think that's crazy.

Maybe it is.

But it was either that...

or keep becoming someone I didn't recognize.

I had two choices.

Only two.

Keep going exactly the way I was going...

or fight for my life.

Only one of those choices was right.

So I chose to fight.

Not because I felt strong.

I'm actually tired of people calling me strong.

I didn't ask for this.

It was either fight...

or die.

And I refused that.

For myself.

For my family.

For my children.

Seeing yourself outside of yourself is a higher awareness.

That's what happened to me.

I wasn't just living anymore.

I was watching myself.

Watching grief change me.

Watching anger introduce itself.

Watching joy disappear.

Watching survival become my personality.

I was mad at the world.

Then one day I realized...

the world didn't care.

Not because people are mean.

Because life keeps moving.

That realization almost took my life away.

Then it gave me my life back.

Because if the world wasn't coming to save me...

I had to participate in my own rescue.

My therapist didn't just support this idea.

She stepped into it with me.

Three days a week.

My life coach...

I laugh when I say it...

but she's literally shocking me back to life.

Every conversation pulls me back toward myself.

And God...

God never left.

I questioned Him.

I cried.

I got angry.

I doubted.

But I cannot honestly testify that He left me.

The evidence says He stayed.

My husband...

He's doing amazing considering everything he's lost.

People forget he's grieving too.

They see me.

They don't always see the man who's burying children...

serving his country...

and watching his best friend go through hell.

This week I realized something else.

I had started substituting my husband for things that belonged to God.

I expected him to fix things he couldn't fix.

To carry things no husband was ever designed to carry.

That wasn't fair.

I had to own that.

Grace comes with accountability.

Grace also comes with apology.

So I apologized.

That mattered.

Then I started removing access.

Not because I stopped loving people.

Because I finally started loving myself enough to heal.

The only people with unrestricted access to me right now...

live inside this house.

Me.

My husband.

My son.

The memories of my boys.

Everybody else can wait.

Some relationships won't survive this.

That's another grief.

Because there was love.

Real love.

But love...

and access...

are not the same thing.

Some doors I'll open again.

Some I won't.

And I'm okay with that.

Actually...

I'm proud of myself.

I'm proud that I didn't wait until I completely fell apart.

I'm proud that I built something nobody handed me.

I'm proud that I chose life before grief chose death for me.

I believe God is going to give me the life He showed me.

I believe He'll provide every need.

I believe I deserve to live that life.

And I'm finally choosing to believe that too.

Even when I don't feel worthy...

I'm learning to love me.

HEARING TWO

The Body Takes the Stand

Bailiff:

The Court calls its next witness.

God:

Who would you like to testify next?

Me:

My body.

Because she's been trying to testify for years.

I just wasn't listening.

Or maybe...

I couldn't.

For fourteen years there wasn't time.

There were children to take care of.

Hospitals.

Nurses.

Doctors.

Surgeries.

Medications.

Therapy appointments.

Insurance companies.

Emergency room visits.

Life-or-death decisions.

Every single day somebody needed something from me.

My body never got to be first.

It couldn't.

There wasn't room.

So it stayed quiet.

Or maybe it wasn't quiet.

Maybe I was just too busy surviving to hear it.

Now everything is different.

The emergencies aren't the same.

The assignments are different.

The pace is different.

And my body is finally saying,

"My turn."

People keep asking me what's wrong with me.

Honestly...

I don't know that anything is wrong.

Maybe my body is finally telling the truth.

Maybe it's finally safe enough to stop surviving.

Maybe it's finally letting me feel everything it protected me from for fourteen years.

That changes how I look at it.

Instead of asking,

"Why is my body failing me?"

I started asking,

"What has my body been carrying that I never thanked it for?"

That's a different conversation.

...

My body is literally saying no.

No more.

No more pretending.

No more pushing through.

No more making decisions just because everybody else needs one.

People don't understand what decision fatigue looks like after years of caregiving.

I made life-or-death decisions every day.

Which doctor?

Which surgery?

Which medication?

Do we wait?

Do we go now?

Does he need the emergency room?

Does he need the ICU?

Those weren't hypothetical questions.

That was my life.

Now somebody asks me,

"What do you want for dinner?"

And I don't know.

Not because I'm difficult.

Because my mind is tired.

My body is tired.

My nervous system is tired.

I'm tired.

...

One day this week...

I sat outside.

That's it.

I just sat in the sun.

No phone.

No agenda.

No fixing.

No solving.

No performing.

Just me.

The sun was on my face.

Then eventually...

it wasn't.

The sun had moved.

And I realized I'd been sitting there long enough to actually hear myself.

I wasn't hearing everybody else's opinions.

I wasn't hearing another podcast.

I wasn't hearing another expert.

I wasn't hearing grief screaming.

I was hearing me.

I didn't even realize how long it had been since I'd heard my own voice.

...

Healing doesn't only happen in therapy.

It happens in the quiet.

It happens when nobody is watching.

It happens when you stop trying to earn your rest.

It happens when you stop explaining every boundary.

It happens when you sit in the sun long enough to notice it has moved.

...

This week something else hit me.

The nurse mommy...

is mommy.

The caregiver...

is mommy.

The advocate...

is mommy.

The fixer...

is mommy.

But now...

the patient...

is mommy.

That sentence broke something open inside me.

Because I've spent so many years believing my value came from what I could carry.

Who I could save.

How much I could endure.

Now...

God is asking me to let somebody take care of me.

That feels foreign.

It even feels uncomfortable.

But I think that's part of the rehabilitation.

Learning that receiving isn't weakness.

Rest isn't quitting.

Healing isn't selfish.

...

I also realized something this week.

Broken people don't heal people.

Broken people don't heal themselves.

That's why I had to admit myself.

Because I don't want to spend the rest of my life giving people pieces of a woman who's never been allowed to become whole again.

I want to heal.

Not because I owe the world another version of me.

Because I owe myself one.

God:

Let the record reflect...

The witness did not fail.

The witness carried more than she was ever meant to carry.

The body has testified.

Its testimony is admitted into evidence.

HEARING THREE

July Enters Into Evidence

Bailiff:

The Court calls its next witness.

God:

Who is testifying today?

Me:

July.

I didn't realize it at first.

I just knew I woke up heavy.

Yesterday I felt powerful.

Today...

I felt drained.

Sad.

Heavy.

I had a restless night.

So I did what I've been doing since I admitted myself into this rehabilitation.

I went outside.

I sat in the sun.

I didn't have an agenda.

I wasn't trying to solve anything.

I wasn't trying to have some profound moment.

I just sat there.

The sun stayed.

Then eventually...

the sun moved.

And somewhere between the sunshine leaving my face...

and the quiet...

I realized what I was feeling.

I'm grieving July.

Not Jaxon.

July.

There's a difference.

I don't know if people who haven't buried a child will understand that.

Sometimes grief isn't attached to a person.

Sometimes it's attached to a month.

A smell.

A season.

A song.

A calendar.

Everybody who knows me knows I love celebrations.

That's who I am.

I celebrate birthdays.

Milestones.

Trips.

Little moments.

Big moments.

I curate experiences.

That's part of who I am.

Before I was known as a caregiver...

Before I was known as a Hope Dealer...

Before all the titles...

I loved celebrating life.

June used to mean anticipation.

June was my baby shower.

June was waiting.

Dreaming.

Planning.

Believing.

We thought we had more time.

Jaxon wasn't supposed to be born in July.

He wasn't supposed to be a July baby.

He wasn't even supposed to be a Leo.

Life had other plans.

He came on July 25, 2020.

And now...

every time July gets close...

my body remembers before my mind does.

That's what happened this week.

I woke up carrying something I couldn't name.

Until I sat still long enough to hear it.

I'm mourning July.

I don't know what birthdays look like anymore.

I don't know what celebrating looks like anymore.

I don't know what honoring looks like anymore.

I just know...

it doesn't look the way it used to.

And I don't know what to do with that.

Maybe tomorrow I'll feel different.

That's the thing about grief.

It doesn't ask permission before it changes.

...

Tomorrow...

Nolin starts soccer.

That's a sentence I never imagined would carry so much emotion.

Nobody tells you how hard it is to go from parenting children with profound medical needs...

to parenting a little boy whose biggest challenge today is learning something new.

People use the word "typical."

I don't like that word.

Jaxon was typical...

until somebody hurt his brain.

Darren didn't choose his diagnosis either.

Their disabilities were never their identities.

They were always my boys.

Now I'm learning how to parent a child who needs me differently.

Not less.

Differently.

That sounds simple.

It isn't.

It feels like learning motherhood all over again.

...

Today was soccer.

If I'm honest...

it overwhelmed me.

Not because of soccer.

Because of everything it represented.

Nolin cried.

He wanted to hide behind us.

He didn't really want to participate.

At first I didn't know what to do.

Maybe he was overwhelmed.

Maybe I was.

Maybe both of us were trying to figure out what this new life looks like.

We're not quitting.

That's not who we are.

But I also realized...

every first asks something from me now.

Every first reminds me that life kept going.

And I'm still trying to catch up.

...

Somewhere in the middle of all of it...

Darryl looked at me and said,

"We're going to be okay."

He wasn't preaching.

He wasn't trying to fix me.

He wasn't trying to rush my healing.

He just reminded me...

that we're still here.

I held onto that.

Because some days...

hope doesn't sound like a sermon.

It sounds like your husband quietly reminding you...

"We're going to be okay."

...

I don't have a profound ending today.

I really don't.

Today I have sadness.

Joy.

Pain.

Gratitude.

All sitting in the same room.

And I think that's okay.

Because this isn't me writing after I've healed.

This is me writing while I'm still inside it.

I'm writing to release.

And today...

this is what needed to come out.

God:

Let the record reflect...

The witness did not testify about a birthday.

She testified about a season.

The Court admits July into evidence.

HEARING FOUR

Cross-Examination

Bailiff:

The witness will remain under oath.

God:

The Court has heard your testimony.

Now we're going to ask the hard questions.

Not because you're on trial.

Because healing requires honesty.

Are you ready?

Me:

I think so.

I don't know if anybody is ever ready for this part.

But yes.

God:

Who were you really angry with?

Me:

Everybody.

Nobody.

Myself.

It depended on the day.

Some days I woke up angry at the world.

Some days I woke up angry at my circumstances.

Some days...

I woke up angry before my feet even touched the floor.

I thought grief was making me angry.

Maybe it was.

But this week I realized something.

Not all of my anger belonged to the people I was giving it to.

That hurt to admit.

I put things on my husband that didn't belong to him.

I expected him to carry losses he couldn't carry.

I expected him to fix things that weren't his to fix.

I expected him to understand a pain that was changing every single day.

Then I got mad when he couldn't.

That wasn't fair.

He's grieving too.

People don't always see that.

They see the mother.

They don't always see the father.

They don't see the man who buried his sons.

The man who had to put on a uniform and serve his country while his wife was trying to remember how to breathe.

The man who lost his best friend too.

He's hurting.

Just because he hurts differently...

doesn't mean he hurts less.

...

I also had to apologize.

That mattered to me.

Grace without accountability isn't really grace.

If I hurt somebody...

I need to own it.

Grief explains some things.

It doesn't excuse everything.

That was a hard lesson.

But it was mine to learn.

God:

What else?

Me:

I had to stop trying to save everybody.

I don't think I realized how much of my identity was wrapped up in fixing things.

If somebody had a problem...

I jumped in.

If somebody was hurting...

I carried it.

If somebody needed help...

I showed up.

Sometimes before they even asked.

I thought that made me loving.

Maybe sometimes it did.

But sometimes...

it made me unavailable to myself.

This week my life coach said something that won't leave me alone.

Everybody cannot fit through the crevice of the sacred place God is taking me.

Everybody.

Cannot.

Go.

I've been sitting with that.

Because I've spent most of my life making room for everybody.

Even when there wasn't any room left for me.

So I started minding my own business.

That sounds funny when I say it out loud.

But it's true.

If it isn't my business...

I'm not carrying it.

If nobody asked me...

I'm not volunteering.

And even if somebody does ask...

The answer isn't automatically yes anymore.

Now I stop.

I pray.

I Ask myself.

I ask God.

I think about my husband.

I think about Nolin.

Then I decide.

That has never been my process before.

God:

How has that changed your relationships?

Me:

Some of them are changing.

Some of them won't survive this season.

That makes me sad.

Because there was love.

There still is love.

But I finally understand something I didn't understand before.

Love...

and access...

are not the same thing.

Just because I love you...

doesn't mean you automatically have access to every part of me.

Some doors are closed because I'm healing.

Not because I'm punishing anybody.

That's different.

I wish more people understood that.

I keep thinking about something I heard.

Kirk Franklin told Travis Greene,

"Travel light."

Leaves are beautiful.

They're necessary.

But if they never fall...

they become weight.

I've been thinking about that over and over again.

Some people were beautiful in one season of my life.

Some relationships served a purpose.

That doesn't automatically mean they're supposed to go where God is taking me next.

That's hard.

Because letting go of people you love...

is another grief.

God:

Tell the Court about your family.

Me:

That's probably the hardest part.

I'm struggling with my mom.

I'm struggling with my grandfather.

I asked for space.

I asked for boundaries.

And I don't think they understood that I wasn't rejecting them.

I was trying to save myself.

Then I got mad at myself.

Because I called my grandfather.

And the conversation activated something in me.

I found myself trying to explain emotional maturity.

Trying to explain unconditional love and honestly thats something I've never felt from him.

Every time I've asked him for help he has told me "No" that's 1 reason I never ask anyone for anything. This is hard to admit God because I constantly feel rejected and I have done nothing wrong. I question what is wrong with me. Why not me....

Then Trying to explain things I don't think I should have had to explain.

I walked away from that conversation exhausted.

Not because I don't love him.

Because I realized I can't make people understand something they're not ready to receive.

That's not my assignment.

This week has taught me something.

No...

it's teaching me something.

I don't have to convince people that my boundaries are necessary.

I just have to keep them.

They don't have to agree.

They don't even have to understand.

Healing doesn't require their permission.

God:

One final question.

Who are you becoming?

Me:

I don't know yet.

And for the first time...

I'm okay admitting that.

I don't have all the answers.

I don't know what Week Two looks like.

I don't know what next month looks like.

I don't even know what tomorrow looks like.

I just know this...

I'm not abandoning myself anymore.

Not for approval.

Not for guilt.

Not because somebody is disappointed.

Not because I'm afraid someone will think I've changed.

I have changed.

I had to.

Because the woman who walked into this courtroom...

needed somebody to finally choose her.

So I did.

God:

Let the record reflect...

The witness accepted responsibility where responsibility belonged.

The witness released responsibility where it never belonged.

The testimony is admitted into evidence.

The Court will hear its final witness.

HEARING FIVE

The Verdict

Bailiff:

Will the witness please return to the stand.

God:

The Court has heard the testimony.

Before this Court issues its ruling...

Is there anything else you need entered into the record?

Me:

Yes.

I don't want people reading this a year from now thinking I had it all figured out.

I didn't.

I'm still inside it.

This isn't a story about someone who healed.

It's a record of someone who chose to begin.

This week looked nothing like I thought rehabilitation would look like.

It looked like waking up one day feeling powerful...

and the next day not wanting to get out of bed.

It looked like sitting in the sun long enough to realize I wasn't grieving my son that day.

I was grieving July.

It looked like discovering that creating boundaries comes with its own grief.

Because some of the people I love...

won't have the same access to me anymore.

Not because I stopped loving them.

Because I'm finally learning how to love me.

That has been one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

...

This week I also realized...

I don't need alcohol.

I don't need a glass of wine.

I don't need a martini.

I don't need to numb what I'm feeling.

I need to feel it.

Because if I numb the pain...

I numb the healing too.

That surprised me.

I honestly thought I'd want an escape.

What I wanted...

was peace.

There's a difference.

...

I'm also tired.

Not just physically.

I'm tired of carrying titles that became expectations.

I'm tired of people telling me how strong I am.

I know they mean well.

But I don't experience it as a compliment anymore.

Strength was never something I chased.

It was survival.

Nobody asked me if I wanted this life.

Nobody asked me if I wanted to learn how to bury children.

Nobody asked me if I wanted to become an expert in hospitals, diagnoses, medications, ventilators, therapies, and grief.

Life handed it to me.

I responded.

That's different.

I didn't ask for strength.

I asked for my children.

...

This week reminded me that before I was known as a caregiver...

before I was known as a Hope Dealer...

before all the titles people use when they introduce me...

I was Shantrael.

I loved traveling.

I loved celebrating people.

I loved curating experiences.

I loved creating memories.

That woman isn't gone.

She's buried underneath years of surviving.

Part of this rehabilitation...

is digging until I find her again.

Not creating somebody new.

Remembering who I've always been.

...

Forty means something to me.

People look at my life and think they know what I need.

"Stop traveling."

"Stop spending."

"Pray more."

They don't understand.

Travel isn't me running away.

Travel has always been one of the ways I experience the goodness of God.

It's part of who I am.

It's one of the places I breathe.

The goal of this rehabilitation isn't to become somebody smaller.

The goal is to become whole again.

...

I also know this.

Tomorrow is Week Two.

I don't know what it will bring.

I don't know what evidence will be entered into the record.

I don't know what grief will look like when I wake up.

But I know this week changed me.

Not because my grief disappeared.

It didn't.

Not because my body suddenly healed.

It didn't.

Not because every relationship got better.

They didn't.

This week changed me because for the first time...

I stopped waiting for somebody else to save me.

I participated in my own healing.

I chose to stay.

I chose to tell the truth.

I chose to apologize when I needed to.

I chose boundaries when they hurt.

I chose rest when guilt told me to keep working.

I chose life.

Again.

And again.

And again.

That's what this week was.

Not perfection.

Practice.

Not arrival.

Agreement.

An agreement between me and God...

that if He would keep breathing life into me...

I would stop abandoning the life He was trying to save.

God:

Let the record reflect...

The witness appeared before this Court carrying grief.

She leaves carrying truth.

The witness is not discharged because she is healed.

The witness is released to continue her rehabilitation.

One day.

One hearing.

One honest testimony at a time.

There will be more evidence.

There will be more questions.

There will be more healing.

This Court is not closing.

It will reconvene.

But the work of Week One is complete.

The testimony has been received.

The evidence has been admitted.

The truth has been spoken.

Court is adjourned.

Gavel.

P.S

Court Adjourned

End of Week One

If you had asked me seven days ago what rehabilitation looked like, I would have pictured a place.

A building.

A program.

A room where somebody else told me when to wake up, when to eat, when to rest, and how to heal.

Instead, God asked me to build it.

Inside my own home.

Inside my own life.

Inside a heart that wasn't sure it could keep carrying everything it had been carrying.

This week didn't make me healed.

It made me honest.

I discovered that grief doesn't always announce itself. Sometimes it shows up disguised as anger. Sometimes it hides in exhaustion. Sometimes it waits until the calendar turns to July. Sometimes it sounds like silence. Sometimes it sounds like your own body finally saying, "No more."

This week I learned that protecting my peace will cost me some relationships.

I learned that love and access are not the same thing.

I learned that my body wasn't betraying me—it was finally telling me the truth.

I learned that apologizing doesn't make me weak.

It makes me accountable.

I learned that I don't have to save everyone to prove that I'm worthy.

Most importantly...

I learned that I am worthy of saving too.

I don't know what Week Two will ask of me.

I don't know what evidence will be entered into the record.

I don't know what tomorrow's testimony will sound like.

I just know that I showed up for myself this week in a way I never have before.

Not perfectly.

Intentionally.

So tonight, I leave this courtroom with gratitude.

Gratitude for my therapist, who agreed to walk beside me.

Gratitude for my life coach, who keeps challenging me to come back to myself.

Gratitude for my husband, who is learning this new life with me.

Gratitude for my boys, whose lives continue to shape the woman I'm becoming.

And gratitude to God...

Because even on the days I couldn't hear Him...

He never stopped hearing me.

This is not the end of my story.

This is not even the end of my healing.

This is simply the official close of Week One.

Tomorrow, I will wake up and do the work again.

One breath.

One boundary.

One honest conversation.

One act of courage.

One day at a time.

The testimony has been entered.

The evidence has been received.

Week One is complete.

Court is adjourned

In true Shantrael fashion, I have something else to say. I Love you; Thank you! I gotta give recongnition where it is due: My men stepped up for me this week....they carried me....ABBA, My husband, Nolin, Jaxon, Darren and my Dad!!!!