When Your Pain Becomes Someone Else's Safe Place

Long before BFF Youth Network ever existed, I began volunteering with what was then the Atascosa Family Crisis Center—now known as Safer Path Family Violence Shelter.

At the time, it was not yet a residential shelter. It was a place survivors could turn to for resources, support, and safety. In the beginning, my involvement was mostly at the board level. I was not deeply involved in the day-to-day work yet. But years later, I returned—this time as an employee—as the organization transitioned into a residential shelter. I even had the privilege of helping rename it.

And somewhere in that season…

Everything changed.

Being surrounded by survivors was not always easy. There were moments it triggered wounds I thought I had already worked through. Moments my own history—my childhood trauma, my abusive first marriage—rose quietly to the surface.

That was when I began truly understanding what triggers were. What trauma does to the mind. What family violence really looks like beneath the bruises, beneath the silence, beneath the excuses. And I found myself bringing something into those conversations that could not be taught in textbooks or trainings:

Lived experience.

Because I am not only someone who worked with survivors.

I am one.

And sometimes, that perspective made all the difference.

Sometimes understanding someone does not come from knowing the right thing to say…

It comes from knowing what it feels like to live it.

That was where something inside me began to shift. That was where my desire to help others truly began.

Years later, after leaving the shelter, my family and I began dreaming about what would eventually become BFF Youth Network.

We all grew up in low-income households. We understood what it felt like to watch opportunities exist just outside your reach—not because you lacked talent…

But because your family simply could not afford them.

At first, our dream was simple:

Help families pay for programs and opportunities their children might otherwise miss.

But as we dug deeper, we realized something bigger:

The real issue was not only access.

It was cycles.

Cycles of poverty.

Cycles of survival.

Cycles of never being taught what financial stability, planning, or opportunity could look like.

And as a family of cycle breakers…

We asked ourselves:

Why not help break this one too? That was when financial literacy became part of our mission. And with that…

So many other ideas began to unfold.

Sports.

Arts.

Mentorship.

Writing.

We wanted to do it all.

And maybe one day, we still will.

But in the beginning, resources were limited.

So we asked ourselves:

What can we create now?

What can we offer that does not require a massive budget—but still changes lives?

That is where our writing classes were born.

And then I asked:

Why stop there?

Why not help these young writers get published?

Why not help them hold something in their hands that proves their voice matters?

And suddenly…

One class became an anthology.

One anthology became a source of funding for future programs.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that…

I decided to finally publish Scar Tissue & Stardust and give its proceeds back to the mission too.

And none of this was built by me alone.

My older sister helped inspire our earliest financial literacy vision through her own children’s book.

Our board vice president—a life coach with a literary background—became the lead instructor for our writing classes.

And my mother…

She became our Treasurer.

There were moments in building BFF Youth Network when the weight of it all felt insurmountable. Moments when funding felt impossible. When ideas were bigger than our resources. When setbacks made me question whether I was truly capable of carrying this vision. And in those moments…

My mother kept my heart in the mission.

She reminded me why we started. She reminded me who we were trying to reach. She reminded me that giving up was never really an option. And when I felt like walking away…

She would not let me.

There is something deeply healing about that. Because the same woman who once stood helpless, trying to make sense of my pain as a young mother…

Now stands beside me as I try to help others heal theirs.

And somehow…

That feels a little like grace.

But if you ask me when I knew we were doing something that mattered…

It was the moment I watched those kids hold their first published book in their hands.

The look on their faces…

The excitement in the room…

The pride.

The disbelief.

The joy.

Parents crying.

Families celebrating.

Young writers realizing their voices mattered.

I cannot fully describe what that felt like.

Except to say this:

In helping them find their voice…

I found even more healing in my own.

And if the little girl who stayed quiet could walk into one of our programs today…

She would probably still be a little shy.

But we would help her become brave.

We would help her speak.

We would help her believe.

And above all else…

We would help her see that she is magic.

— Jennifer Rene Wallace