staceybooks

I didn’t get this tattoo because it’s trendy or cool.

I got it because I’m alive.

And for a long time—I didn’t want to be.

The cross and semicolon on my arm tell a story.

The cross represents my faith.

The semicolon represents a pause in a sentence that could’ve ended—but didn’t.

Together, they’re my reminder that God interrupted my ending with a but not yet.

The first time I tried to end my life, I was holding everything together on the outside and falling apart on the inside. I was leading, parenting, working, performing. I was the woman who smiled, who served, who worshipped. But behind closed doors, I was battling shame, anxiety, guilt, and a constant voice whispering, you’re not enough. I was drowning in silence. So I took the pills. I wanted peace.

I woke up. And I wasn’t grateful.

I was angry.

Because surviving didn’t erase the pain.

It magnified it.

The second time, I didn’t think I’d survive the blow. Someone I trusted—someone I called a friend—turned on me. They took my past, twisted it, and made sure it hit the headlines. The lies, the manipulation, the betrayal—it all exploded. My world unraveled in front of me. I was humiliated, terrified, and shattered. Everything I had worked to rebuild crumbled under public judgment and private shame.

I tried to leave this world again.

I was taken to the hospital. My life was saved.

And then—almost immediately after—

I was booked into jail.

No time to breathe. No chance to process. One minute I was a patient. The next, I was an inmate.

That moment broke something in me… but it also woke something up.

When all I had left was a cold cell, a thin blanket, and a Bible—God showed up. I’d like to tell you everything changed overnight. It didn’t. But in that stillness, I began to see that my pain had purpose. That surviving meant something. That if I was still here, I had work to do—not just for myself, but for others like me.

People with a past.

People carrying shame.

People who look “fine” but are barely holding on.

People who need someone to say: You’re not alone. Your story isn’t over either.

I wear this tattoo because I lived through two moments that were supposed to be my end. I walked through hell—twice—and came out not clean, not perfect, but still breathing.

I keep going because my life—flawed and fractured as it is—has value.

I keep going for the women who don’t see a way out.

For the ones who were betrayed by people they trusted.

For the ones who are one decision away from giving up.

I keep going because I believe in second chances. I believe in healing. I believe in truth. And I believe in the power of saying:

I’ve been there. And I’m still here.

So here’s the truth:

My story isn’t over.

And neither is yours.