One Year Later: I Can See the Lighthouse

Here we are in October. It has been one year since my world was turned upside down.

This year, I have been learning to hold two things at the same time. Two things can be true. Both of them are mine.

Here is the first truth:

This has been one of the darkest chapters I have ever lived through.

A year ago, my safety became a real concern. I discovered that people tied to the alienation industry were talking about me in terms that included "hunting her down." My personal information was posted publicly. On that very same day, a man pulled up in front of my home and photographed it, even though I am enrolled in my state's address confidentiality program. I know how "they" got my address — and they went to great lengths…which is unnerving in itself.

I will never forget that day. The feeling of standing in my own home and realizing it no longer felt safe. The way my body went on high alert and stayed there for the past year. I had to go on medication - antidepressants for my mental health and prednisone when my body was shutting down.

There is a harsh reality to my health, and to the impact the stress of this past year has had on my disease progression. It was 2022 when I received my official diagnosis, after 18 years of searching, testing and seeing multiple doctors. It took a doctor at Stanford to finally diagnose me with Myelin Oligodendrocyte Glycoprotein Antibody-Associated Disease (MOGAD). In the past year, there were times I could barely walk unassisted. Right now, I am relatively stable although it is a very scary and unpredictable disease. So I will be grateful for today.

I would not wish this experience on my worst enemy. I have previously discussed the advocacy world becoming a dark and dangerous place. I have felt robbed. I have felt terrorized. I have carried the weight of knowing none of it was random.

Eight months ago, I made the decision to cease operations at One Mom's Battle. That was not a decision I made lightly. This work has been my calling for sixteen years. I kept the private groups open because survivors needed a place to gather and hold each other up. My retreats continue. My divorce coach training program continues because it's one of the few things that gives me hope in this system. Outside of that, things have been eerily quiet.

For someone who has spent sixteen years using her voice, the quiet was its own kind of hard. Some days it felt like grief. Some days it felt like being erased.

Here is the second truth:

This has also been a year of deep growth.

When everything external was stripped away, I had no choice but to go inward. I rediscovered my gratitude practice. Not the surface level kind. The kind that keeps you upright when the ground will not stop shifting. The kind you practice on your knees, not because life is good, but because you need something solid to hold onto.

And again and again, my gratitude landed in the same place. This community.

For sixteen years, I poured myself into this community. I sat with you in your hardest moments. I celebrated your wins. I grieved your losses as if they were my own. I never did any of it expecting something in return.

This year, it all came back to me. This community wrapped around me like a cocoon. You sent messages. You donated to my legal fund (I am grateful because I continue to bleed out money every month). You checked in. You reminded me who I am on the days I was too tired to remember.

Asking for help is very difficult for me. I suspect it is difficult for many of you, too. So many survivors have been conditioned to believe that needing help makes us weak, or that we should be able to carry everything alone. My cup is filled when I am helping others. Being on the receiving end has been humbling and uncomfortable and healing, all at once. It has been one of the biggest lessons of this chapter.

When I look at my life, I have so much to be grateful for. My family is everything to me - Glenn and I have 17 wonderful years behind us and many more ahead. My daughters are amazing humans and they are living their best lives. This is where I try to remain anchored.

So where do things stand today?

I am nowhere close to the finish line. There are multiple legal cases underway, and I cannot yet share details. What I can tell you is that there has been positive progress on several fronts. I have excellent attorneys in my corner.

For most of this year, I felt like I was alone on a small boat in the middle of a storm. The waves kept coming. The fog was so thick I could not see more than a few feet in front of me. I could not tell which direction was home. With my husband's help, I just kept bailing water and trying to stay afloat.

Recently, something shifted. The sea has calmed slightly. The fog has lifted just enough for me to see a lighthouse in the distance.

It is still far away. I am not docked. I am not safe on shore…but I can see it. And after a year of seeing nothing, that changes everything.

I am not naïve. I know another storm could hit tomorrow. I know this could be nothing more than a brief calm before the next round of waves. Anyone who has been through family court or post separation abuse knows how quickly the weather can change. I have a healthy distrust of systems — and especially court systems. We learn to brace. We learn to scan the horizon. We learn not to trust the calm.

But this year has taught me something important. When the reprieve comes, I pause. I take it in. I let myself breathe.

On an airplane, they tell you to put on your own oxygen mask before helping anyone else. For sixteen years, I was the one handing out oxygen masks. This calm is my chance to put on my own.

So that is what I am doing. I am breathing. I am resting where I can. And for the first time in a long time, I can see the light.

I have been thinking a lot about lighthouses lately. A lighthouse does not chase the boats. It does not shout or sound an alarm to prove it is working. It simply stands there, steady, and keeps shining through the storm.

That image has stayed with me. For eight months, I have been quiet. No big announcements. No public battles. I worried that silence meant the light had gone out. But I am realizing that the light was never about volume. It was about this community. It was in every private group conversation, every survivor who showed up for another survivor, every person who reached out to me when I could not reach out myself. The light kept shining, even when I could not see it.

Maybe that is the lesson in all of this. You do not have to be loud to be a light. Sometimes you just have to keep standing.

If you are walking through your own dark season right now, I want you to hear this. Hope and heartbreak can live in the same body. You can be exhausted and still be moving forward. You can grieve what was taken from you and still be grateful for what remains.

You can brace for the next storm and still enjoy the calm.

Two things can be true.

And if you cannot see the lighthouse yet, please know it is there. Keep going. Keep bailing water. Let someone help you when they offer. The fog does not last forever.

As we move into fall and a season of gratitude, thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. You have been my lighthouse this year. I look forward to the day I can update you…with all of this behind me.

Until then, one foot in front of the other.

Eyes on the light.

Tina