8d • General
Sharing a bit of me.
I don’t talk about this part of my life often.
Not because I’m ashamed, but because some experiences carve so deeply into you that words feel too small for them.
Years ago, I lived through something I never imagined would touch my life.
I was kidnapped in Haiti and held for six long days.
Six days of uncertainty.
Six days of praying my family would find a way, and knowing they were doing everything they could.
Six days of wondering if I would make it out alive.
When I was finally released, everything outside looked the same…
but nothing inside me was.
And the chaos didn’t end there.
I lived in a country where danger wasn’t just a possibility but a rhythm;
gang violence, constant threats, the fear that stepping outside could change everything.
I watched my marriage fall apart.
I lost pieces of my life one by one.
And as if that wasn’t enough, a chronic illness slowly settled in and took up space in my body in ways I’m still learning to manage.
I was angry.
Broken in places I didn’t know could break.
Carrying memories that felt too heavy and a silence that felt even heavier.
And then one day, not with fireworks, not with some grand revelation, I just…
picked up a brush.
Then later, oils.
Then herbs, soaps, creams.
Anything that could keep my hands busy so my mind wouldn’t collapse under the weight of what had happened.
Those small rituals became my lifeline.
A way to keep my sanity intact.
A way to give shape to emotions that didn’t have names yet.
A way to rebuild what had been taken from me.
In the middle of all that, I wished I had something, a space, a guide, a quiet companion, that could help me process without overwhelming me.
Something creative.
Something grounding.
Something that didn’t ask me to be “okay” before I was ready.
And that’s where Color Me Strong eventually came from.
Not as a product.
Not as a “project.”
But as a survival instinct turned into pages.
It was born from trauma, rebuilt through resilience, and shaped by the same tenderness I had to relearn for myself.
I’m sharing this here because some of you have survived things too.The kind that leave you with invisible bruises.
The kind that steal your breath at random times.
The kind that make you feel like the world moved on while you stayed stuck somewhere only you can see.
If you’re there…
I see you.
And I’m glad you’re still here.
If anyone ever wants to talk about healing, trauma recovery, grounding techniques, creative processing, or how art becomes a bridge back into your own body, I’m here.
And I’m grateful to walk among others who understand what it means to rebuild quietly, softly, stubbornly.
Thank you for reading my story.
It’s not the beginning and not the end, just one of the chapters that shaped the woman I’ve become.
Yours truely
Victoria
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Sharing a bit of me.
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