Read this if you’re scared to go home.
Read this if your family says they love you but your stomach drops every time you hear the front door open.
Read this if you’re being gaslit, controlled, or manipulated and everyone keeps telling you “it’s not that bad.
This is for the kids who got good at hiding.
For the ones who got punished for crying.
For the ones who had to act like everything was fine in public just to survive another day.
This isn’t a story about healing.
It’s about escaping.
Call It What It Is — Abuse. Not “Tough Love.” Not “Just How He Is.”
Dear “Scam” You Didn’t Win. Here’s My Story.
Scam came into our lives when I was around two.
Funny enough? My mom was still with my biological dad when she started getting close to him. – They “worked” together.
At first, it was just “friendly.” Scam would invite my parents to his family’s cabin — you know, “as friends.” He’d hang out with them like nothing was going on. Like he was just a nice guy who liked boats and beer and being around happy families that weren’t his.
My dad? He didn’t think anything of it.
He trusted my mom. He trusted the vibes.
What he didn’t know was that in just a few short months, Scam would replace him — like a cheap swap — and steal the role of “dad” like it was some twisted prize to be won.
And my mom… she played with it.
She let the connection bloom even though she was still in a relationship.
Wild, right?
I remember our house always having weird energy.
Like static. Like the air was watching you.
Around my dad, I could be me. I could be picky. Say weird jokes. Bang drumsticks against the wall. He’d join in, laughing. He saw me. There was freedom in the chaos.
But with Scam?
The vibes were dark. Heavy. Controlled.
You could feel when you were about to get in trouble — even if you hadn’t done anything wrong yet.
One time, I was around seven. I told him I didn’t like the texture of my Kraft Dinner.
Know what he did?
He dumped milk all over my plate. And me.
And then said, “Does that fix it?”
Like I was some spoiled little brat who needed to be taught a lesson.
It wasn’t just that. It was the threats.
Every time I said I was going to tell someone, Scam would get in my face and twist his voice low —
“No one’s going to believe you. You’re just a kid.”
“You think someone cares?”
And the worst part? My mom watched it happen.
Maybe not always directly. Maybe not all the details. But she knew.
And when it became clear she was stuck with the man she emotionally cheated on my dad with… she did what most people do:
She froze.
She told me she still loved my dad, but she stayed.
She watched the man she “chose” manipulate her daughter — and still tried to convince me this was a “family.”
It was a sick dynamic.
I learned early:
My life was fucked. And no one was coming to save me.
So I did what survivors do:
I faked it. I smiled. I got good at hiding things.
I made people think I was okay until I could get out.
And now?
Now that I’m here, Scam — now that I’m safe and grown and no longer scared of your voice in the hallway —
Let me say it clearly:
You don’t own my silence anymore.
Why don’t I tell the truth now, Scam?
Because it’s mine.
And because you never deserved to be protected in the first place.
Build a Mental Exit Plan (Because No One Was Coming to Save Me)
When I started realizing I couldn’t just leave, everything in me broke.
Because if I left, I risked everything.
I risked being separated from my siblings. I knew deep down the system wouldn’t keep us together, and I couldn’t live with that. Watching them go through the same kind of emotional warfare I did — except theirs was more twisted, tied directly to our mom — made me feel like I had no choice but to protect them.
I became a parentified daughter. Not by choice. By survival.
Every time Scam yelled at my sister or got too intense with my younger brother, who was his biological son, I’d bolt for the hallway, ready to shield them. I’d stand in Scam’s face and throw the truth back at him. The kind of truth that made cowards flinch.
You look funny when you’re mad.
You spit when you talk.
Your eyes look crazy.
I’d laugh right in his face. Not because I wasn’t scared, but because it made him stop. Problem was, when I did that, he turned on me.
He’d throw me into furniture. Slam me against walls. Spit in my face and laugh while I wiped it off. I knew what was coming every time, and I did it anyway. Because that was the only way I knew to protect them.
One time we went camping. I was maybe fifteen. Scam was pissed at me for something. I don’t even remember what. He grabbed a broom and swung it at me so hard I ducked and ran straight for my mom. I was crying, shaking. I told her everything. You know what he said?
“I was just snapping her back into reality.”
And my mom?
She looked at me. She didn’t hug me. Didn’t pull me close.
She told me to go right back outside with him.
She followed behind like this was normal.
When we got outside, she pushed my face into the dirt.
She laughed. She made it feel like a game.
But I was on the ground. Crying. Dissociating so hard I could barely remember who I was.
Because in that moment, I knew. I could die here and no one would care.
So I shut off. I shut down.
And I started building my way out.
Start a Secret Escape Plan (Even If You Can’t Use It Yet)
That was the moment I knew I was done.
Done begging for protection.
Done being the punching bag.
Done pretending this was a family.
So I started collecting evidence. I secretly recorded fights, conversations, moments where Scam would leave me on the side of the road and I’d have to walk home. I’ve never released those recordings, maybe I never will, but I kept them because I knew I needed something to prove what I had lived through.
I started packing a backpack and hiding it.
Inside: a change of clothes, basic toiletries, makeup, some bus change. Enough to survive a few days.
Some nights I couch surfed with guys who I knew had bad intentions.
They’d get pissed off when I wouldn’t sleep with them.
They told people I was a slut.
But I didn’t care. Because even the worst of them had more morals than my own family.
They made up stories about me. Called me names.
But I knew the truth. They were using me, and I was using them right back.
I ate food from strangers. I slept where I could. I prayed God would save me.
By the time I hit grade eleven, I had momentum.
My mom tried to trap me with a contract. A full-blown list of chores and rules that felt like a prison sentence.
I told her I wasn’t signing it.
That was it. I was out.
She told me since I was still under eighteen, she’d give me the child support money she got for me. She handed me two hundred dollars. That’s it. That’s all my life was worth to her.
But I took that money and ran.
I found a job online. I found a place willing to rent to a seventeen-year-old. And just like that, my escape plan became real.
I had a social worker meet me at Starbucks once a week. She’d ask if I was okay. I wasn’t allowed government housing. I was too close to eighteen. But every time she came, she made sure I had what I needed. She told me I was smart. She asked if I wanted to press charges.
I didn’t.
Because my siblings were still there.
And my mom had already turned them against me.
Don’t end up like Taylor.
Do better than your sister.
She ruined everything.
It hurt.
But I knew what she was doing.
Even my junior university sport coach pulled me aside one day and asked why I kept showing up late. I told him a little bit. He offered to help me get into a university out of town. But I didn’t have the grades. Because while my life was falling apart at home, I was still showing up to school every day exhausted, broken, homework undone, and trying not to cry in class.
I used to be a straight A student.
Until survival became more important than school.
Start Building Trust Outside the Home
The system wants to keep you isolated. They want you to believe no one cares. But someone does. Even if it’s a friend, a teacher, a coach, or just someone online. I started by telling one person. I didn’t even say the full truth. I tested the waters. But that moment helped me breathe again. It reminded me I wasn’t lost.
The more I shared my real situation with people I trusted, the more support I received. Free money. Free clothes. Paid days off work. Free rides. I think it made people uncomfortable, like they couldn’t believe I was asking for help without giving something in return. Some probably thought I was lying. But the ones who knew, really knew. Even if no one came in like some savior to pull me out, I knew I needed witnesses. In case something happened to me. In case one day I didn’t make it out.
At first I reached out to my dad’s side. I tried some of my parents’ so-called friends. But most of them shut me down. “Family is family.” “You only get one mom.” That kind of stuff. I learned the hard way that some people don’t want to help. They like watching victims crash and burn. It makes them feel like their own mess of a life is somehow perfect in comparison.
I felt that energy a lot. Especially with certain friends. But there was one who didn’t treat me like that. Her name was Laura. She saw me. Fully. Always.
Her dad was kind too. He’d ask if I wanted to stay for dinner or if there was anything I liked to eat. Sometimes they’d even buy snacks just because they knew I liked them. Laura would give me bus fare without question. Whatever she had, she shared. They lived in a trailer park out in Westbank, and at night we’d walk the streets talking, taking pictures, just being kids.
She was the closest thing I had to a sister. And she made me feel safe. I will always have love for her. Always.
Understand You Don’t Need Permission to Leave
I used to think I needed a reason—something big enough—to justify walking away. Like it wasn’t valid unless it looked like a movie scene. But bruises fade. The fear doesn’t. Abuse isn’t always loud…but mine was. And physical. And constant. There were bruises. There was rage. There were nights I locked the door and still didn’t feel safe.
They’ll tell you it’s not “that bad.” That it’s love. That you’re dramatic. But when your body flinches before your brain can explain why—that’s reason enough.
You don’t need a breakdown to break free.
When COVID hit, the preschool I worked at shut down—and for once, the world pausing gave me space to breathe. I started getting payments from the government, and it was like tasting freedom for the first time. I slept for weeks, finally catching up on the movement and chaos I had been surviving for years.
I used that money to buy my first camera. My first car. My first everything. I started creating daily—content, photos, anything. Slowly, people started to notice. I got asked to shoot menus, collab with brands, do photo sets. I didn’t even care if I got paid—I was being seen. I got to show up in the world without hiding.
That was the year I started healing.
I didn’t have the name brands or the perfect setup or the money—but I had emotion. I had stories. And people felt it.
Then I met my now-husband. He was at a bar I was shooting at on a quiet night. I almost didn’t go. I had just prayed the night before, saying I needed rest. But something pulled me there…and there he was.
After my shoot, I said hi. We instantly connected. He remembered me from middle school volleyball and high school basketball. It was like a piece of my old self, someone I had forgotten, walking back into the room.
When we got serious, I told him everything—my past, my bruises, my fears. He didn’t flinch. He just said, “Okay, here’s how we grow.” He upgraded my camera, no hesitation. After that, it all took off—bookings, content, modeling. My story became my power.
That chapter cracked everything open.
It didn’t erase what I went through. But it proved I could survive it.
Aftermath: Healing Isn’t Linear, But It’s Worth It
Leaving wasn’t the end for me—it was just the beginning. Healing has been hard. My mom has never met my son. I gave birth alone with my husband by my side in a world that often feels like it hates women. My friends stopped coming around because they thought I had changed. My fiancé’s family knew how vulnerable I was and they played into it.
I remember kissing my son after he was born. We told them not to come to the hospital. They showed up anyway. They demanded to come in. After I told them not to kiss him, because I didn’t want anyone that close that early, they did it anyway and looked right at me after. In all those moments I stayed silent because I was so tired. My heart just couldn’t fight anymore.
I let God and divine karma work for me. To be honest, it’s been the best thing yet. The universe has shown up for me more than anyone ever has in my whole life. It’s given me confidence.
From being sued because I refused to work multiple nine-hour film sessions for eight hundred dollars a month to being targeted by older people who hired me for their businesses and tried to get me to hand over credit for my work. It was a lot. A lot of those things bring up feelings I’m still trying to heal from. They make me think “Why me?” They make me feel like “If only that hadn’t happened.”
But then I get this little kick from the universe. Maybe it’s getting sick, losing my voice, or getting fired. I’ve clawed my way back every time—with the help of God. Every creative move you see from me, every idea that floats into my head, is followed by a dramatic reminder of who I am.
I remember who I want to be. I ask myself how I can help others who might be in similar situations. How I can grow from this. That has been the biggest help.
I don’t think I’ll ever fully heal, but I plan on using every ounce of hurt to create something positive. Something that sparks change. And that’s exactly who I will continue to be.
This is me — Taylor.
And I hope you learn to love yourself as much as I have learned to give myself and my faults over in trust that someone has a bigger plan for me.
I just have to keep standing up for myself and believing I can do it.
If I can, so can you.
