By 21, I had already had my fair share of struggles. Clinical depression often hid behind my smile, but, deep down, I never lost hope. Not really. As I began to heal and find my place in the world, something unthinkable happened.

I awoke with a man, a stranger, in my bed. Then he stabbed me. Seven times. I lost 21 pints of blood. Statistically, I should not have survived.

Yet here I am. Telling my story. Candidly, honestly, courageously. Hoping that I may help others do the same.

To heal. To hope. And above all else, to love.