
Introduction: Danielle’s testimony is an honest, raw, and heartfelt story of pain, healing, and the redeeming love of Jesus. Through seasons of deep brokenness and loss, God’s grace was at work, reaching her in the darkest moments and offering hope and restoration. Her journey is a powerful reminder that no matter how difficult life may seem, Jesus’s love has the power to heal, transform, redeem, and make all things new.
Danielle's Testimony:
My earliest memories are really foggy. It’s like I remember saying things more than actually having done them. When I was seven, I prayed and wished so hard to forget what happened to me that I ended up forgetting most of everything before then. That was the year my father left my mother on her birthday—and the year my best friend’s big brother violated me. Even the memory of crying in the bathtub, letting out the cold water, and running more hot water seems like a clip from a movie. For years, I thought that little girl died that day. A few months later, my paraplegic grandfather, who had been living with us after my father left, passed away in the house. He was a war veteran and a public figure in our community. When he died, not only did his income leave, but the community, the family, and what seemed like life itself left as well.
I guess this is why I started exploring my neighborhood to find family and connections. I walked through our backyard, where we had pear and apple trees, blackberry bushes, and strawberry patches. Beyond all that was a small patch of woods that connected my house to that best friend's house—the best friend I no longer visited, no longer called my best friend. I avoided her home completely. I began walking past all of that, crossing the street, and finding friends at the apartment complex in our small town. I knew by the music and voices coming from the back of the complex that that’s where I was headed. A familiar smell of sweet smoke met me before I turned the corner. My father and his van club used to smell like that some nights. People were having a good time—that much I knew—and they were. Adults sat around, children played, and they invited me in. They had so many questions, all so interested in me and my family. It felt nice to be noticed and spoken to again, especially since my mother was now working two jobs and was rarely home. Our house was cold, dark, and empty as she struggled to make up for the income we lost when my father left.
Without my father’s stable job as a manager at a local plant or my grandfather’s retirement pension, life was not easy. My mother, who had been a stay-at-home mom, suddenly had to take on everything alone. My father, meanwhile, went to live with his best friend in an apartment, where they stayed together for three years, fighting my mother for the family home and other properties. After the divorce, those two men moved into the family home and lived there for another ten years. It took me that long to realize that his best friend was actually his lover.
The adults behind the apartments let us sip beer and sometimes gave us “shotguns” from their smoke. When the uncle of the girl I played with told me to “just hold it for a while,” I started to believe that this was just how men were. In some way or another, they were going to hurt you if you wanted their company. It didn’t take long for me to stop wanting male attention altogether.
Middle school brought a new kind of freedom because I was part of a group. We had moved out of my childhood home and into a newly built neighborhood on the other side of town. All of our moms were single and worked all day, so we took turns visiting each other’s houses, searching for food after school, smoking our mothers’ cigarettes, watching Yo! MTV Raps, and doing whatever the group suggested. By age 12, we pooled our money together to buy small amounts of marijuana, which lasted days. Back then, a $10 bag went a long way. We often supplemented it with weed from my best friend’s mom’s stash. Nancy always knew exactly where to find it—under the bed on the left-hand side.
As we grew, our appetites grew for all the things adults around us were doing. I still had issues with sex. Unlike the girls in my group, I didn’t want to do it. Maybe that’s why I overindulged in food instead. By the time I was 16, an 18-year-old girl from New York moved to our town. Now I understand why she chose me. She must have recognized my broken smile as one that matched hers. One day, she ran away from home and stayed with me for a few nights. On the second night, we lay in my mother’s bed, and she told me about the things that had hurt her. My tears must have let her know that I understood completely. She proceeded to comfort me and herself in a way I had never been touched before. Of all the things I had experienced, this left one of the most significant impressions on me. Once again, my perspective on life was changed without my permission. I constantly thought about her, even after she was made to go back home.
My mom eventually remarried. Her new husband had a daughter who was much younger and wilder than I had ever been. I resented them both, even though where we were living then was a better place, and his job brought some stability. He said suggestive things to me from time to time, but as I mentioned earlier, I expected that from men. He never touched me, though. I don’t think he realized how scared I was of him. Years later, he admitted that because of all the fights I got into at school, he had been scared of me. Big, strong, angry, and now kind of boyish—that was my protection.
By then, I had started selling weed to my schoolmates, so I had the connections. Where we lived, there were two connected townhouse communities, so I had no shortage of customers. When a new couple from New York asked around for weed, they were directed to me. They were already involved in robbing and scamming people. My favorite cousin and I eventually got involved with them, breaking into houses to steal guns, which they took back to New York to sell for profit. One night, during a break-in, the homeowner came back while we were still inside. My cousin confronted him, but he couldn’t win the fight. I grabbed something from the kitchen, ran outside, and hit the man hard to help my cousin escape. From the ground, the man begged me to stop, and I did. I didn’t want to hurt him; I just wanted us to get out of there. About a month later, at a 7-Eleven, I was surrounded by police. The homeowner had described one of the “three male assailants” as heavyset, light-skinned, and muscular—and they identified me as the robber.
The judge sentenced me to five years, with one suspended. He said that since I refused to help the authorities find the other two involved, I could serve their time as well. My cousin continued selling marijuana, but I don’t know what happened to the New York couple. Eventually, my cousin started selling crack, not knowing that his mother would become addicted, take his supply, and cause his supplier to kill him over the money she owed. When my mother told me this on Christmas Eve, while I was still in prison, I felt a heavy burden of guilt. By then, I carried so much guilt that I figured neither heaven nor Earth valued me.
I continued to fight in jail while also pursuing companionship with the same sex. I was transferred to Virginia Beach jail, which was far away and very different from Chesterfield, where I was from. After getting into a fight there, I was placed in the men’s isolation unit, where meals and books were brought to me. We were allowed two showers a week and one hour of recreation. I read a lot of Harlequin romances, but they didn’t interest me because I couldn’t relate to them. I also read other informative books, including parts of encyclopedias.
Although my mother’s family were Jehovah’s Witnesses and shunned me because of my behavior, I eventually chose a Bible from the cart of books I could see through the little window on my cell door. It was then that I read what Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John said about Jesus. Each of these men was different, and most importantly, Jesus was unlike anything I could imagine. His love entered that cell. I fell in love with a man I had never met because of how these men spoke about Him. I came to believe He was real, but at the time, I didn’t understand that He was alive and present in my life, even in prison.
After two and a half years in prison, the lifestyle became my new normal. I functioned as a pod leader, supplying contraband to individual dorms—a role that was very similar to selling weed. I even imitated the behavior of the men I had seen in my life with their women and felt like I was at the top of my game.
When I was released, I carried that worldview with me. For the next few years, I worked two or three jobs, supported my habits, and leveraged my position in the communities I frequented. Eventually, I started craving the kind of life I saw many of the girls I had gone to school with living. They had babies, boyfriends, and lives that revolved around their families, while I had been locked up during my senior year. I decided to try to get in line with what they were doing.
When my son’s father found out I was pregnant, he became frustrated and violent. I fought back, had him arrested, and decided I would do it on my own.
My mother and I, of course, had a strained relationship during this time. When she found out I was pregnant, she discouraged me from keeping the child and suggested that I let her raise him. I agreed. The shame and guilt weighed heavily on me, especially during arguments with her about his future. She would gaslight me with comments like, “You should do better. Look how you’re hurting him. You should never come back to visit. You’ll just destroy his life, too.” I believed she was right.
There’s so much I haven’t shared—so many ugly things that happened during that time and all the foul truths that came to light. Ultimately, I agreed that he should stay with her for a few years, at least until I could get my life together. But I still didn’t understand the power and truth of God. Without Him, all of my best efforts were destined to fall short.
Once again, I worked two or three jobs to maintain a middle-class income, trying to recreate the traditional lifestyle I remembered before my father left. Meanwhile, I became even more entrenched in homosexuality, trafficking, and exploitation, exposing myself to all the dangers and darkness that came with them.
To stay awake for late nights and afterparties at the gay club, I started dabbling with cocaine. Like many people who sell and use drugs, I thought of myself as a junior Tony Montana. It fed into my sense of control and allowed me to become more violent and obnoxious. My personal use quickly escalated to a sixteenth of an ounce a day, which required me to sell constantly just to maintain my habit.
Around 2005, some major indictments were handed down in Richmond City, causing a complete drought in the area. I couldn’t find my usual connections to support my habit, so I began associating with more dangerous people. I remember one particular day, waiting for a drop-off while a guy smoked a drug I hadn’t tried before. I became curious about what he was doing, and those of you who have tried that kind of drug know how quickly it hooks you. I was instantly addicted.
For the next several months, I hid my new drug of choice from everyone. I started dating local distributors to ensure I had an unlimited supply, but as many of you know, "free drugs" cost you far more in the long run. Eventually, I began feeling sick every time I was with one of these men—almost nightly. Since he also used heroin, I assumed he was slipping it to me to make me even more dependent. We argued often, and when I finally broke up with him, I realized within a few weeks what had really been going on: I was pregnant again.
I decided to go back home and submit to my mother’s way of life. For the next eight months, I thought deeply about what I truly wanted. I wanted the Jesus I had read about in prison and the Jesus my mother professed to believe in. I wanted to protect the daughter growing inside of me from the same pain I had experienced so easily and so often in my life.
My relationship with my son began to improve as we spent time getting reacquainted, and he was doing much better with me around. When my daughter was born, I was filled with so much joy that I couldn’t see the jealousy brewing around us. Jobs turned into careers, and apartments turned into stability. My son and I were both flourishing, and even those from my mother’s religion began to embrace us and use my story as a testimony of redemption.
For the first time, I was able to maintain stability for more than two or three years. My daughter, Olivia, was five and doing well in school—so much so that she even helped teach my illiterate stepfather to read.
While we were on vacation in Virginia Beach, my mother passed out at the condo. I rushed her to the hospital, and the report was both confusing and disturbing. After many questions, my mother finally admitted that she had been diagnosed with cirrhosis and had kept it a secret. She had always been an avid pill-popper, complaining of pain and depression. She often sent us to 7-Eleven to buy over-the-counter medications, and we had become accustomed to taking turns supplying her with pills, as well as sharing our own prescriptions whenever we had them.
Over the next several months, her health rapidly declined. Everyone assumed she was having mini-strokes, and although people gave their opinions or advice, I didn’t correct them. I was used to keeping secrets and went along with it.
When the house behind my mother became available for rent, I moved closer to her, even though the rent was significantly higher than what I had been paying. I knew I needed to be nearby, as her end was drawing near.
Keeping everything together became increasingly difficult. Her husband began cheating on her, my son started having behavioral issues at school, and a woman in our church had become a source of unhealthy comfort for me. My life began to spiral again. Despite being "dressed up" with the appearance of normalcy, it was just like the streets—filled with sex, lies, and drugs.
When my mother died, all hell broke loose. My brother and I fought about keeping her secret, and other family members accused me of not allowing them to grieve properly. The inappropriate relationship with the woman at church was exposed, and I was disfellowshipped and banned. My feelings of worthlessness hit an all-time high.
Speaking of being "high," I knew how to numb the pain. Addiction had been lying dormant, but as many of you know, addiction never really goes away—it only grows.
I used it in a different way. I knew I wanted to die as well, but I couldn’t justify killing Olivia’s mom just because my mother was dead.
With no reason to stay in my hometown, I decided that distance might help ease the pain. We moved to Charlotte, North Carolina. However, I ended up doing the same things in a different place—just at a slower pace. Before long, I was managing a restaurant, sleeping with and selling drugs to my employees, and trying to forget some of the pain I had left behind. Finding a stable place to live was still difficult. One of the assistant managers, who desperately wanted more of me and what I had to offer, insisted I move in with her to get back on my feet.
We used drugs and fought so much that we eventually decided she would stop working so I could continue. This left her at home to use even more frequently. I didn’t even notice how miserable Olivia had become. I was so consumed by my own misery that no one else’s pain registered with me. The woman I lived with, her sons, and everyone around me suffered because of my suffering.
One night, after a long night of fussing, arguing, and using, I woke up to the sound of gunshots. I remember lifting my hand to shield my face from the light and noticing my pinky dangling. I was more upset at the audacity of them shooting me than I was about my injuries. Then it hit me—what about Olivia?
I jumped up to find her and saw her in the bathroom, crying into the phone while the 911 operator gave her instructions. Later, I woke up in the hospital as a surgeon explained that I would have a metal insert in my ring finger, but they couldn’t save my pinky. I also learned I wouldn’t be able to pack the wounds in my back on my own, and I would be released soon.
The next person to speak to me was a police officer. He explained that my girlfriend, my best friend, and the watchman were all involved in the shooting. What terrified me most was remembering that, as they carried me out of the apartment, I had screamed to my “friend,” “Get my baby and my bag.” Olivia had been left in his care, along with all my belongings.
I immediately called him, trying to speak to Olivia. I didn’t let him know that I was aware of his involvement in the shooting. I couldn’t risk letting Olivia know she was in danger. When I asked how she was being treated, he assured me she was doing fine. I told her I’d be home in a few days to get her.
I sent Olivia to live with the sister of the cousin who had died, hoping she would be safe there. However, that cousin later took her to the hospital and dropped her off, claiming that her new husband—a sheriff—didn’t want Olivia in the house because she had too many problems that could threaten their marriage. Olivia was placed in foster care. That’s when I began forming a plan.
Over the years, I had made several attempts to get sober, clean, reestablished, and rehabilitated, but they all failed. This time, I knew the quickest way to get into a residential program was through the hospital.
A CPS-certified peer specialist gave me a list of transitional housing programs in Georgia. I had always wanted to visit Georgia, and since I had no home, I figured, why not? I picked a place that had a name that sounded good to me, and even the owner’s name was the same as my daughter’s.
The owner welcomed me in, and the place was clean. Unfortunately, she wasn’t. I quickly realized that the $900 monthly fee was being used to fund her habit. Meanwhile, the women who came to lead Bible study at the house constantly told us that God had put it on their hearts to invite us to live with them. By “us,” they meant me and the woman who had picked me up from the mental hospital and had just started the program as well.
We were the only two who lasted in that hard situation and stayed clean. Looking back now, I know it was because we both insisted on coming to know Jesus.
Eventually, the owner’s drug use became overwhelming. Her anger and persistence grew. What sustained us was our strength and knowledge of God’s love for us. We were seeing signs and wonders. We attended conferences and conventions, experiencing our first time being slain in the Spirit, receiving words of knowledge, and being among heavily prophetic people. Witnessing these things come to pass convinced us that we were cleansed by the blood of Jesus and would never return to our old ways.
On a trip to Florida, where I began speaking in tongues, I made the decision to leave the transitional house and live in the ministry with the women who had been guiding us. When I returned, I paid the owner for the partial week I was gone and for the following week that I would not be staying. I then said goodbye. She argued, promising she would no longer interfere with Bible study. She even vowed to make more room for my daughter to live with me, knowing how much I desired that. But I told her I could not stay because I wanted more of God.
She became enraged, resorting to name-calling and making threats. But how many of you know that when Satan shows his horns, it’s not his best move—it’s his last?
At times, there were up to ten of us living in that four-bedroom house, along with five pets. But God’s presence was constantly with us, along with His grace and mercy. Donations, sponsors, and benefactors were sent by the Lord to provide for us. Every week, we visited multiple churches that poured into us both spiritually and financially.
Sometimes I would complain about having to get up early to go to Bible study, forgetting that the hours I used to work before were much more strenuous. God would send me small nudges—through His Word or through people who observed us from afar and witnessed our progress and growth. Slowly but surely, our children were being returned to us.
My now best friend had her daughter living with us, and mine was on the way.
The women who had taken us in were also growing in power and authority. They were given platforms within the news and the community to share their ministry. To this day, their ministry is set apart and continues to help others in powerful ways.
My heart’s desire was still to have a stable and secure home for my daughter and me—just as we had before everything fell apart. I felt I had taken that from her and was determined to restore it. I held onto the promise in Scripture: “You will receive back all that the enemy stole.” I knew this would be our portion.
I believe God gave the founder of the ministry a plan. She encouraged me to go back to school for culinary arts. Through many tears and prayers, I graduated with high honors and made the Dean’s List.
Around that time, a house was loaned to the ministry. My daughter, who was now living with me, and I were allowed to move into the five-bedroom house while the ministry decided what to do with the property.
Meanwhile, we went on a spiritual retreat to Epworth by the Sea. While watching one of our girls get baptized in the ocean, I met a woman on the beach who kept asking about my job choices and career plans. After our discussion, she told me that the Lord said I would be her next recovery coach. If that wasn’t amazing enough, the week before, I had filled out an application for a recovery coach position at her office. Look at God!
Today, I am a certified peer specialist in addiction and mental health. I have an associate’s degree in restaurant and hospitality management. I live in a townhouse near the ministry with my daughter. I drive an Escalade, and my daughter, who is graduating this year, drives a Ford Focus.
But the invisible blessings are even greater. The joy of the Lord, hope for a bright future, the ability to help others receive Christ, freedom from generational curses, my daughter’s trust, and her willingness to join me on our walk in holiness—these are the blessings that truly matter.
I want to tell you that you were created with a purpose, and God will turn the world around to ensure that you make it home to Him. He loves you, He chose you, and He will do the work—if you surrender to Him with a yes. You don’t have to create your own way. He has already laid one out for you.
"I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten... You will have plenty to eat, until you are full, and you will praise the name of the Lord your God, who has worked wonders for you; never again will my people be shamed." Joel 2:25-26 (NIV)
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