There’s no failure like failing as a father, a son, a husband, and as a man. Before I came to Union Rescue Mission in July 2020, I was a wreck. I didn’t know if I was coming or going. My spouse had kicked me out of the house. My kids and my dad didn’t trust me. I was living on the streets, drinking so much I thought I’d die—and a part of me wanted to. I had to change. I spent much of my early childhood watching my mother slowly die of cancer. After she died when I was 10, I grew rebellious.”

Diana felt overwhelmed, frustrated, and angry. She had suffered years of sexual abuse as a child, then years of rejection and abandonment by her family. Now 25, she was a victim of domestic violence, and she was trying to raise two young boys diagnosed with autism. She simply didn’t know how to cope and turned to alcohol. “Alcohol became my only friend,” she recalls. Before long, her drinking cost her jobs, homes—and, finally, custody of her sons. “That’s when I learned what heartbreak really was. I felt like my life was over.”

Diana felt overwhelmed, frustrated, and angry. She had suffered years of sexual abuse as a child, then years of rejection and abandonment by her family. Now 25, she was a victim of domestic violence, and she was trying to raise two young boys diagnosed with autism. She simply didn’t know how to cope and turned to alcohol. “Alcohol became my only friend,” she recalls. Before long, her drinking cost her jobs, homes—and, finally, custody of her sons. “That’s when I learned what heartbreak really was. I felt like my life was over.”

I’ve been through so much. When I was 5, I was kidnapped in Mexico and trafficked to the United States. I escaped at 9, after suffering four years of unspeakable abuse, which left bruises and scars over my entire body. I was placed in foster care—but I was already so damaged. After high school, I was on my own, but I felt so much anger and pain. I had no family to rely on, and I didn’t trust anyone. My cycle of self-destruction started there, and I couldn’t stop it. What I didn’t know is that even more pain but also my resurrection were coming.

I was born on Skid Row, already addicted to drugs before I left my mother’s womb. I stayed in the hospital for four months until my grandmother agreed to raise me. She was great to me, but my father and uncle—who lived with us—fought so violently every day that the police were constantly called to break it up. By third grade, I was so traumatized, depressed, and emotionally shut down and I started cutting myself just to feel something, anything. When I was 14, my grandmother died. After I lost her, I was passed from an aunt to my dad to foster care. In high school, I was sexually assaulted by a friend’s older brother, who then threatened me if I ever told anyone.