Emerging from Darkness

Sharing my story with you comes from a place of deep vulnerability and courage. Every hardship I've faced in life prepared me for the unexpected battle against cancer. We all have struggles that make us feel isolated, but I want you to know that you are not alone. My journey shows the profound connection between trauma and cancer, and how finding inner strength can lead to incredible resilience.Through my detailed and comprehensive story, you'll see how past experiences brought me the strength and courage needed to make tough decisions after being told by UCLA in 2010 that I only had months to live. Now, still years cancer-free, I hope my story offers you hope and inspiration.

In 2000, my life took the most dramatic turn it ever has. I hid it because it was hard to talk about. I was a victim of sexual assault, which left me with deep emotional scars. The trauma was overwhelming; I was haunted with nightmares and lived in a constant state of fear. Panic attacks became a regular part of my existence, overwhelming me with fear and uncertainty.

When one of the perpetrators was released from prison, he began stalking me, leaving notes on my car, waiting in parking lots, disabling my car, and appearing out of nowhere because he was waiting for me. This made me anxious to go anywhere. I thought I would go crazy, and this went on for two years. He was cunning, and the authorities could not track him down as he continually succeeded in finding me every time I moved.

I had reported every incident to the authorities in many police districts and obtained restraining orders, but they were powerless in the end. I began isolating to protect others, and as I isolated, I felt lonely and more vulnerable. When he attacked me again, I was left with nine stitches, a dislocated jaw, and bruises all over my body. Each attack left me feeling like a failure, filled with shame for not being able to protect myself or my family. The fear for my life and the lives of my loved ones was constant and burdensome.

My fear began to consume me and became a constant voice of caution, guiding every decision I made, whether it was walking to my car or entering my home. It affected my work because he knew where to find me, making job security impossible. As a single mother, this constant upheaval was exhausting and took a significant toll on my mental and physical health. I felt alone and powerless much of the time, and even the thought of dating someone felt impossible; I didn’t want to bring this danger into someone else's life. The fear became a background noise that never stopped, a constant reminder to keep everyone safe from what I felt I had brought upon myself.

Starting Over: The Challenge of a New Identity

Having to frequently change jobs and relocate disrupted my life in countless ways. I was working hard to get promoted, but my constant need to leave jobs made me look unreliable. The financial strain was overwhelming, leaving me constantly worried about how I would support my family. The emotional burden of these changes made it incredibly difficult to maintain a sense of normalcy and stability for myself and my loved ones.

It was terrifying to feel so unstable, and the responsibility of providing for my children weighed heavily on me. I felt like a failure for not being able to offer them the security they deserved. I couldn't tell my new employers the truth because I feared they wouldn't hire me if they knew my situation. Keeping secrets became more and more of a habit, adding another layer of stress to an already difficult life.

My situation became dire and unmanageable to the point that Victims of Crime needed to get involved and assist me. I stayed in a women's shelter first, and then later, to protect me, I was required to change my identity and relocate. This meant changing everything—my name, my social security number, and moving 1,000 miles away from everyone and everything I knew and loved.

This transformation was not just a legal necessity; it was a complete upheaval of my identity and existence. Legally, I could never return to my former identity. The bureaucratic reasons for this were rooted in ensuring my safety; this step was designed to permanently protect me from those who threatened my life. It was a monumental decision, filled with fear and uncertainty, but it was the only option to keep me safe. The weight of this choice was immense, and the realization that I had to leave my entire life behind was almost unbearable.

I lay there night after night, wondering how in the world I was going to live my life like this. It was terrifying but felt like the only safe option at the same time. I felt it was unfair. I had to adjust my life while he was on the loose. I cannot explain the feeling of starting over with no identity; it made me feel victimized even more. I was sad, angry, and filled with so many other emotions I can't even describe.

When it came time to choose my new name, it was not easy. Everything is attached to our name as adults—driver's license, banking, college transcripts, birth certificate, baptism certificate, work history, resume, references, credit cards—everything! What name could possibly replace my birth name? I thought about it, prayed about it, and finally chose the name, Shannon Knight. This decision was emotionally and psychologically challenging because it was a change that would last forever. I needed a name that would remind me to always "put on the full armor of God," as Ephesians 6:10-11 says: "Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes."

Choosing this name was deeply personal for me. Shannon Knight became my source of strength, my shield of protection, and my declaration of faith in God. It was a symbol of resilience, a beacon of hope, and a constant reminder that I was more than my circumstances. My name was the beginning of a new life with no trace of the former life I left behind. I felt the weight of starting over, the uncertainty of the future, and the immense pressure of building a new identity from scratch. This meant looking for work and starting all over with no work history or evidence of education, not even a high school diploma. Each step felt like walking into the unknown, filled with both hope and fear.

Even now, in sharing this for the first time publicly, I know it comes with risks of criticism, scrutiny, or worse. But I share this not just for myself, but for anyone who feels alone in their struggle. You are not alone.

Rebuilding a Life

The transition to a new life was incredibly challenging emotionally, psychologically, physically, and spiritually. Moving 1,000 miles away to Port Orchard, WA, a small enough town to hide in, brought an overwhelming sense of isolation. I was in a new place, unfamiliar and strange. I showed up with a diagnosis of PTSD and anxiety because of what I had endured. The culture was different in Port Orchard, and there were no familiar faces. The comfort of family and friends, those I leaned on for support, were now out of reach. It’s funny how much we take for granted and unless we let go of it all we do not realize all that we had. The simple, everyday interactions that once grounded me were no longer there, and to make matters more challenging, I didn’t have a car and certainly could not finance one. I needed to find a job with no trace of my past. I felt adrift, unmoored from everything that gave me a sense of belonging.

Introductions, which were once seamless, became complicated. Every new friendship felt awkward because Shannon Knight had no past I could share. I couldn't talk about my former life or the reasons behind my new identity for safety reasons. Each time I met someone new, I had to navigate the delicate balance of forming connections while keeping my history a secret. This made making new friends feel disingenuous and left me feeling isolated.

There’s a constant undercurrent of fear. The reason for my relocation, the threat that forced this drastic change, hung over me. Every unfamiliar face was a potential threat, and I often found myself looking over my shoulder, anxious and tense. The new identity was supposed to protect me, but it also reminded me of the danger I was escaping from.

The loneliness was profound. I missed everyone—family, friends, neighbors. The people who knew me, who trusted me, who understood my quirks, and loved me unconditionally were now out of reach. Every day felt like a struggle to maintain a facade of normalcy while internally, I felt like I was falling apart. There was no one to share my fears with, no one to comfort me when the nights got too long and dark.

Living in this town, I experienced culture shock, which added another layer of difficulty on top of my fear. Simple tasks became monumental challenges when I didn’t know what to expect. Going to the bank, shopping for groceries, or even making small talk with neighbors induced social anxiety. I felt like an imposter with every conversation, out of place, trying to adjust to this new identity and navigate a life that was so unfamiliar.

Every time someone asked me my name, anxiety and a sudden pang of deceit washed over me. As a sincere woman who deeply values honesty, living a lie for my safety was agonizing. Each introduction felt hollow, as if I was offering a facade instead of my true self. My soul screamed inside, longing to reveal the truth to every new friend or acquaintance I made. They would never know the real me—who Shannon Knight truly was. The weight of living a lie for protection was a constant burden, tearing at my sense of self and making me feel disconnected from the genuine person I am.

I often questioned my drastic decision, wondering if there could have been an easier way, but it always circled back to this was the only safest way, like it or not. The sense of being lost was not just physical; it was emotional and spiritual. I wondered and prayed about how I would ever rebuild my life from this point. The future seemed uncertain and bleak, and the weight of starting over was crushing.

In the midst of this, choosing a new name became a small but significant act of defiance and hope. Shannon Knight is not just a name; it’s a reminder of strength and resilience. "Put on the full armor of God," I told myself, clinging to my faith as my only steadfast defense in this chaotic battle. My new name became a shield, a source of inner strength, and a declaration of my will and hope to survive and fight back against the forces that sought to destroy me, even when all seemed lost. My faith kept me strong when I was afraid.

Knight, this name change was both an end and a beginning. It marked the loss of my former self but also the birth of a new identity forged in the fires of my adversity. It was a promise to myself that I would not be defeated, that with my faith in God I will rise above the circumstances that tried to break me. It was a symbol of my determination to protect myself, to reclaim my life, and to find a way to heal and move forward.

Stage 3 Breast Cancer Diagnosis

Life has a way of knocking us down when we least expect it. In 2006, I was diagnosed with stage III breast cancer. It was a shock that left me feeling utterly lost. The bilateral mastectomy I had to undergo took a tremendous toll on me, both physically and emotionally. I felt like I had lost a part of myself that was deeply tied to my femininity and identity. It was more than just the loss of my breasts; it felt like a loss of womanhood, of the person I once was.

The weight of these trials felt unbearable. It was hard to see beyond the pain, and the future seemed bleak and uncertain. I grieved not only for my physical changes but also for the life I had envisioned. Dreams and plans were put on hold or disappeared altogether. The diagnosis brought with it a profound sense of vulnerability, stripping away the layers of security and confidence I once had.

As I took it one day at a time, I started to hope that maybe there could be a larger plan for my life. These trials, I thought, could perhaps be useful in helping others one day. Just maybe. This realization came slowly and humbly, but it offered a small glimmer of hope in the darkest moments.

Sharing My Story

I began to share my cancer journey publicly, hoping to help others going through the same thing. Talking about cancer was easier than discussing the trauma of being a victim of sexual assault and stalking. The shame and pain surrounding those experiences were immense and hard to voice. Cancer was something people could understand and relate to, a common battle that many face. It became the story I revealed as Shannon Knight.

People often wondered how I found the courage to be open about my diagnosis. The truth is, it was the lesser of all I had endured. The other parts of my experience, filled with details too painful and complex to share, remained hidden. I could write a book about those experiences, but it was easier to talk about cancer. Sharing my cancer story became a way to connect with others and offer support, even as the deeper, darker parts of my journey stayed in the shadows.

A Bittersweet Return

In June 2009, I received a letter from Victims of Crime informing me that it was safe to return home. I was happy and anxious to rebuild my life and reunite with the people I had missed so dearly. The authorities deemed it safe, and I was filled with joy. However, returning home also meant facing a host of new problems I hadn't anticipated.

When I first arrived back in California, I couldn't wait to return to the beach. The familiar sights, the warmth of the sun, and the smell of the ocean brought a sense of comfort and nostalgia. It felt like stepping back into a life that had been paused, waiting for my return. But this wasn't the same life I had left behind. I wasn't the same person anymore.

Driving past some of the places where the incidents took place triggered flashbacks. Memories of the trauma came flooding back with vivid clarity, making my heart race and my breath catch. The familiar streets, once filled with everyday life, now held shadows of my past fears and pain. Each drive felt like navigating a minefield of memories, never knowing which turn would bring back the terror of those dark times.

The longing to reclaim my original name, my true identity, was a constant ache. It felt like a piece of myself was missing, a vital part of who I was that I could never legally reclaim. This desire was tangled with the reality that, even if I could, the scars of my past and the person I had become would never fully align with that name again. The name I was born with represented innocence and a life before trauma, a life that no longer existed for me.

Reuniting with family and friends was bittersweet. The people I loved and missed were so excited to see me again, believing that my return meant everything could go back to the way it was. They expected me to be the same person I was before, with the same joys and sorrows, as if nothing had changed. They were unaware of the depth of my transformation and the new legal constraints on my identity. It was as if I had to rebuild my life again, but this time among those who didn’t fully understand the extent of my suffering and the profound changes I had undergone. Their well-meaning but misplaced expectations added another layer of emotional strain.

In my large Italian and Latin family, names hold deep significance and pride. Changing my name without fully explaining why provoked strong reactions from my relatives. Some family members ignored my new name or treated me as if I had disrespected our family legacy. My children, who called me "Mom," were caught in the middle. They were torn between the traditional expectations of our family and the reality of my new name.

There were frequent situations around this issue. My children felt the weight of these cultural expectations and the confusion it caused. The deeply ingrained sense of tradition in our family, combined with my legal obligations, created a challenging environment for all of us. My children struggled to navigate this new reality, and it took an emotional toll on all of us.

Innocent jokes about my new name, stemming from their naivety about what had happened to me, felt like tiny cuts. They couldn’t grasp why it hurt me so deeply. These comments, though well-intentioned, reminded me of the painful journey that led to my name change. I found myself smiling through the pain, trying to hide the hurt their words caused, knowing they meant no harm but feeling the sting all the same.

It remains deeply emotional for me to this day. While it might seem trivial to some, the impact of this situation was profound. Imagine being in a family where every name carries a legacy, and changing it, other than through marriage, feels like altering a piece of that legacy. The resistance and confusion from my family and the strain on my children were not just about a name, but about identity, tradition, and belonging. The emotional turmoil it caused was immense, affecting our sense of stability and connection.

When I felt able to talk about a small part of what happened with someone I trusted, I found it incredibly challenging. Discussing the sexual assault and stalking was as difficult as talking about breast cancer. Fear of the unknown loomed large. I worried that people would judge me or gossip. Even saying the word "victim" felt awkward and brought on intense anxiety.

How do you explain so much when people ask what they think is an innocent question about my name, which is actually a fully loaded question? I loved these people very much, but I also didn't want to be vague because it diminished the gravity of what I went through, which is why anyone would ever go through an identity change. And when you only share a tiny part of what happened, it somehow doesn't feel justifiable to have gone through the identity and relocation process. The validity is questioned all in the name of trying to keep horrific details to myself.

I was constantly nervous and awkward, trying to balance honesty with the desire to protect myself from further pain. Each conversation felt like walking a tightrope, where one misstep could lead to a flood of emotions I wasn't ready to confront publicly. The fear of judgment and misunderstanding was always present, making it difficult to fully open up to those around me. I felt a strong desire to please my family, but their differing views only added to my unease. I was almost ashamed of my new name when I came home, feeling stuck with it whether I liked it or not. The journey home, which I had hoped would be a time of healing and reunion, instead became another complex chapter in my ongoing story of survival and resilience.

Battling Stage 4 Breast Cancer

In 2010, I experienced a devastating recurrence of cancer at stage IV and was given only months to live. Again, the question "Why me?" surfaced, and the path ahead felt like an impossible mountain to climb. Persistent coughing and sharp pain in my sternum and ribs led me to numerous emergency room visits, where I was repeatedly diagnosed with asthma and costochondritis. These misdiagnoses kept me from seeking further evaluation until it was nearly too late. In July 2010, I was finally diagnosed with stage IV metastatic breast cancer that had spread to all lobes of my lungs, my ribs, sternum, and the lymph nodes under my collarbone, as well as other soft tissue areas.

My UCLA doctor told my family and me that there was no chance of remission. He predicted three months to a year left for me to live, saying the disease would eventually lead to paralysis and death.

Every time I thought I couldn't take any more, something would happen to prove otherwise. After surgery on my sternum, I agreed to forty radiation treatments to slow down the bone metastasis and alleviate the pain. However, complications like pneumonia and a staph infection allowed me to complete only twenty-two treatments. The radiation burned my chest, back, and lungs. Testing revealed that the cancer had progressed, and since I could not hold still on the radiation table due to chronic coughing, they stopped treatment. I went home scared, with no other options from my oncologist.

CMN Hospital Saving My Life

After much research, I found CMN Hospital in San Luis, MX. Alternative cancer treatment is not covered by health insurance, so my girlfriends in WA and I did fundraising to get me to CMN Hospital. It took five months to raise the money, and by February 7, 2011, I was admitted to CMN Hospital. The advanced alternative cancer treatments I received there, which included intravenous vitamin C, B17, ozone therapy, ultraviolet light, dendritic cell therapy, and an autologous bone marrow stem cell transplant, were lifesaving.

These therapies, not typically offered by conventional oncologists, used my natural killer/fighter cells instead of drugs. Even though Stanford University successfully studied autologous bone marrow stem cells with women who had stage IV breast cancer, with a survival rate of 23%, these treatments are still not widely available. I often wondered why I had to leave my country to get this treatment.

Within six months of starting treatment at CMN, by August, I was free of all symptoms. Two months later, on October 15, 2011, I received my PET scan results that confirmed there was no evidence of disease. CMN's alternative cancer treatments had worked! Dr. Payan saved my life.Empathy Through Trials

Many who serve as advocates, counselors, and volunteers are trusted because they have faced similar or even more severe trials. There’s a unique bond that forms when someone truly understands your pain because they have walked that path themselves. Their experiences have shaped them into strong, compassionate individuals who can genuinely support others. This empathy is not a coincidence but a gift that comes from their journey through pain and healing.

Finding Purpose in Pain

We all have stories. Our identity can sometimes get wrapped up in one significant event, but we know there is more that has shaped us. Each of our experiences, whether painful or joyful, contributes to who we are. God uses these experiences to shape and prepare us for our unique purpose.

Have you ever wondered when and how God will use you? We may not even realize the moments we have been instrumental in helping others. Perhaps during cancer treatment, I spoke to someone who was terrified, offering her comfort and strength to face her own battle. In those moments, God was using me in ways I might not even see.

We can often be very hard on ourselves, thinking of how we could have done something differently. There might be moments when fear and self-criticism seem overwhelming. But as we continue to grow in faith, these feelings can be replaced with self-compassion and a deeper understanding of our purpose. Each step, no matter how small, brings us closer to healing and fulfilling God’s purpose for our lives.

"God comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God." (2 Corinthians 1:4)

This verse highlights the purpose behind our suffering – to offer comfort and support to others going through similar trials.

Now, as a life coach for women, I am blessed with a wonderful husband and seven grandchildren. Each day, I am reminded of the preciousness of life and the importance of using my experiences to help others. My past, filled with trials and triumphs, has shaped me into the person I am today.

Seeing my past through the eyes of not just a survivor, but someone who has been refined by God's grace, I ask myself, "What would God want me to do with all of this life experience?" The answer is clear: to empathize, to support, and to guide other women who are navigating their own difficult journeys.

Triumphant and Strong

Today, I am stronger, a victim no more, and I find genuine joy in helping other women, especially in holding on to their faith. Look at how far you have come. Glance back to recognize your own strength. Each trial, each hardship, equips us with the unique ability to offer empathy, support, and strength that only someone who has walked a similar path can provide.

If you are reading this and are going through something extremely difficult, please know that your pain is valid and your journey is respected. You do not have to feel regret or lose hope. Even in the darkest moments, you are not alone. There is hope and healing through faith. Our shared experiences connect us in resilience and hope. Hold on to your faith and remember that each step forward, no matter how small, brings you closer to healing and fulfilling your purpose.

There was a time when I felt like a victim, overwhelmed and consumed by the pain and fear that defined my life. But through the process of healing, I have come to realize that being a victim is not a permanent state. It is a part of the journey, a chapter in our story, but not the end. Healing takes time, and it's okay to acknowledge the pain and the struggles.

Emotional healing is a crucial part of our journey. We cannot feel shame for the periods of time we were victimized. It was valid to hide for a while, to protect ourselves, and to let others earn our trust. This behavior is a natural response to trauma, and it’s important to honor our need for safety and healing during these times.

Through faith, resilience, and the unwavering support of those around us, we can transform our pain into strength. We can emerge from the shadows of victimhood and step into the light of victory. I no longer see myself as a victim. I am a warrior, a survivor, so are you. Your story matters, your pain is valid, and your journey is significant.