The first three times I ever asked for help while living in an abusive relationship, I turned to my father. He was the male figure I believed was supposed to protect me from any harm in my life. But for more than a decade, every time I found the courage to ask for help, the message was the same: the blame was placed on me. 

“Don’t talk back to your partner.” 

“Shut up.” 

Those words made me believe that I was the problem. 

The next time I found the courage to ask for help was at VIP, from someone who was very special to me. I had already been a volunteer there for seven years. VIP had also been part of my childhood: I remember watching my mother walk out of her counseling sessions with tears in her eyes. I never imagined that one day I would be sitting in that same place. 

As a Promotora, I spoke with women in my community about the different forms of violence. I taught them how to recognize the signs of abuse. Yet, I struggled to recognize that I was also a survivor. There were no bruises or physical injuries, but the emotional and psychological damage was so deep that it had pushed me to the edge. 

At VIP, I had always been treated with kindness and respect: first as the daughter of a survivor and later as a volunteer. But when I came through the doors as a client, I experienced something that changed my life: compassion. 

For the first time, I was able to share my story without fear of being judged. 

That was the beginning of my journey out of a relationship that had tormented me for thirteen years. I left my home with my children, ages 3 and 12, and only $100 in my pocket. 

We moved into Casa Sandra, a two-year residential program for survivors of domestic violence. My children began receiving support through the Child and Adolescent Program (CAP). At first, my daughter barely spoke. She was afraid. My son cried for his father and began having tantrums he had never experienced before. 

Little by little, through the support they received, I watched them begin to recover what violence had taken from them. I saw sincere smiles return, confidence grow, and those small moments of happiness we shared over the food we loved. 

While they were healing, I began my own healing journey. 

I participated in The Parenting Journey, a 12-week workshop where I was able to talk about the challenges of raising my children alone after trauma and learn tools to become the mother they needed me to be. 

Later, I had the privilege of joining VIP’s Restorative Justice Program. 

It was an experience that transformed my life. 

When I entered the program, I had already been separated from my abuser for a year. I thought I was okay. I believed I had already healed. 

But I learned that healing has many layers. 

Through that process, I faced questions, emotions, and guilt that I had never truly worked through. I learned to forgive myself for the role I played without ever intending to hurt anyone. I learned to release guilt that was never mine to carry. For the first time, I was able to say out loud the things I had spent years trying to bury in silence. 

And then I cried. 

I cried because I realized how fortunate I was. 

I had been able to leave safely. My children were physically unharmed. We found a program that opened doors to resources, support, and hope. 

Along that journey, I met many other survivors. 

I heard stories that shook me to my core. Stories that made me cry. Stories that filled me with anger as I witnessed how violence can be passed down from generation to generation. 

Many of us leave our countries searching for a better life, only to find ourselves facing abusive situations again. And when we decide to ask for help, we often encounter additional barriers: language, immigration status, fear, or simply not knowing how to navigate a city as large as New York. 

That is why I wish there were many more programs like VIP throughout the world. Places where people can find a safe space to heal, break cycles of generational trauma, and rebuild their lives without language, documentation, or any other barrier preventing them from receiving the support they need. 

Today, I am a Promotora. 

Together with six other survivor women, we share information about available resources so that no one has to face violence alone. 

But we know that millions of survivors are still waiting for their first opportunity to ask for help. 

Our commitment is to reach as many people as possible and help break the cycle of violence. 

I still have many dreams to fulfill. 

And I hope that, wherever life takes me, I will always extend my hand to someone who needs it. 

Because one day, when I needed it the most, someone at the Violence Intervention Program reached out their hand to me.

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Image Credit: Tehuanas, 1940. Rosa Rolanda (1895-1970)