My name is Samantha Nichole Hamilton, born on May 13, 1989, in Blythe, CA..

I never imagined that the places meant to protect me would become the very shadows where my innocence was stolen. At just eight years old, I was pulled from my chaotic home and placed into my first foster family, a decision that should have been my salvation but turned into a nightmare.

The foster father, a man with a warm smile and cold eyes, waited until the house was quiet before he crept into my room. His hands, rough and unyielding, marked the beginning of a terror I couldn't escape, leaving me frozen in fear and confusion. That first night, the abuse wasn't just physical; it shattered something inside me, a piece of my spirit that I didn't even know I had. I remember the stinging pain, the way my body betrayed me by not fighting back, and the overwhelming shame that followed.

In the morning, I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror, seeing a girl who looked the same but felt utterly broken. No one noticed the change, or if they did, they looked away, perpetuating the silence that allowed it to continue. As weeks turned into months, the foster home became a prison of secrets. I'd hide in corners, clutching my knees to my chest, replaying the incidents in my mind like a loop I couldn't stop.

The foster mother, oblivious or perhaps complicit in her denial, went about her days as if nothing was wrong. I tried to tell her once, whispering about it, she dismissed it as a bad dream, her words cutting deeper than any wound. That betrayal by an adult I trusted fueled a rage that simmered beneath my surface, teaching me early that the system designed to help was riddled with blind spots.

By the time I was ten, I was moved to a group home, hoping for a fresh start, but the patterns of abuse followed me like a dark cloud. The group home was overcrowded, a chaotic mix of kids just like me, all discarded by families or fate. One of the older boys, who was supposed to be a peer, not a predator, cornered me in the laundry room one afternoon. His grip was forceful, his words manipulative, convincing me that this was just how things worked in places like this. I endured it, not out of consent, but out of a survival instinct that told me fighting back would only make it worse.

The psychological toll was immediate and profound; I began to withdraw, losing interest in the few joys I'd clung to, like drawing or reading. Nights were the hardest, filled with flashbacks that made sleep impossible, leaving me exhausted and detached. I questioned my worth, wondering if I was somehow inviting this pain, a toxic thought planted by the very people who should have protected me.

Yet, even in that haze of despair, a flicker of resilience sparked within me, a quiet vow to one day break free from this cycle.