A Story of Survival, Redemption, and the Fight for Change

As a teenager, I never had the luxury of safety, guidance, or support. I grew up in a home defined by alcoholism, chaos, and cycles of abuse that had plagued generations before me. Love wasn’t safe. Stability didn’t exist. And no one told me what I could do—only what I couldn’t. I was forced to grow up fast, out on my own at a very young age, and left to figure out life with no one to lean on.

By the time I was 15, I was already dabbling in hard drugs and navigating situations no child should ever experience. I was lost, vulnerable, and deeply wounded. The trauma I endured was overwhelming, and I fell into the same destructive cycles I was born into, simply because I didn’t know any other way.

As a young adult, I met my first husband—the first person who offered me true comfort and protection. For the first time, I had a safe place to sleep, someone who didn’t judge me, and a sense of home. We had a daughter together, and for a brief time, I felt like I had finally found stability.

But that safety was short-lived. My husband became severely mentally ill, and I watched helplessly as he transformed into someone I didn’t recognize. His family and our friends didn’t understand the changes in him, and I became the target of blame. The emotional toll was enormous. When he took his life, I was the one who found him. That moment shattered what little security I had left.

Grief overtook me, and I was barely holding on. Knowing I was in no condition to care for our daughter, I made the heartbreaking decision to place her with his parents. I turned to drugs to numb the pain. In my brokenness, I made a terrible mistake—a felony theft committed during one of the lowest points in my life. I was given a diversion program that was unrealistic for someone in my circumstances, and when I failed it, I turned myself in. I took responsibility, served my time, and made a promise to myself and my daughter: I would never go back.

And I haven’t.

It’s been over 20 years since I completed my probation. I’ve remained clean and committed to building a meaningful life. I escaped another cycle of abuse, surviving a relationship that nearly cost me my life. I went back to school, became a certified paralegal, and was elected to serve on my local school board. I’ve raised children, mentored others, volunteered my time to support those in crisis, and done everything in my power to break the generational cycles that once defined me.

But despite all of this—despite my clean record, my service to my community, and my dedication to doing right—my past continues to follow me. In the state of Colorado, there is no true path to redemption for someone with a felony, even a sealed one. I cannot own a firearm or legally train to protect myself. I cannot become a notary. I am barred from many government positions. I am still labeled a felon—forever—despite 20 years of transformation and contribution.

That’s why I am now seeking legal counsel to challenge this system. Colorado’s “forever felony” status is not only unjust—it is dehumanizing. People can and do change. I am living proof of that. I believe in accountability. I’ve taken mine. But I also believe in second chances—and that belief is what fuels my fight.

In order to move forward with legal reform and challenge these outdated laws, I am humbly asking for donations. Legal support is expensive, and I cannot do this alone. Every dollar raised will go toward securing legal representation and building a case that can help not only me, but so many others whose lives are still defined by a mistake they made decades ago. If my story speaks to you—if you believe in redemption, in justice, in second chances—please consider contributing to this cause.

I share my story to be a voice for those who are doing the work, walking the hard road, and building new lives—only to find themselves blocked at every turn by outdated policies. I am not asking to erase my past. I’m asking for the law to recognize who I’ve become.

Let redemption be real. Let it be possible. And let those of us who have walked through the fire show others that healing can happen—and that we are more than our worst mistakes.