Understanding Grace

There were only three clear lies she ever remembered—ones that made her stomach turn when they surfaced. But even calling them lies didn’t quite sit right anymore. Most of what she once labeled as dishonest were actually fragments. Responses. Stories told by different parts of her, shaped by trauma she hadn’t yet faced, or voices inside her she didn’t even know were hers.

Some weren’t lies at all.

They were memories from other alters—parts of her that took over when she couldn’t. Parts that stepped in to survive. Other times, she’d make up something small to join a conversation or avoid suspicion. She wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. She was trying to exist.

But this one? This one still haunted her.

She had accused a detective. She didn’t know which part of her told the story—only that it wasn’t true. And for nearly twenty years, she carried it like a stone hidden in her chest. He hadn’t deserved that. She knew that. Even back then. But DID doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t care about reputation or timelines or the damage left behind. It just reacts, reacts to triggers, and she ends up broken even more. 

Not immediately. That came later—with clarity, with therapy, with sobriety. With nights where sleep wouldn’t come and memory played everything back like a scratched cassette on repeat.

She always knew she would go back. It wasn’t about clearing her name. It was about owning her truth.

When she walked into the church office, her hands were shaking. She half expected the door to slam shut behind her. She braced for coldness, for dismissal—maybe even rage.

But that’s not what she got. He remembered her. He looked older, but then, so did she. There was a flicker of caution in his eyes—but not rejection. He didn’t shut her down. He listened.

She told the truth—not the polished version, but the raw one. She explained what she had done. What she remembered—and what she now understood she couldn’t. How her mind had shielded her from pain in ways that blurred truth, and how parts of her had spoken things she couldn’t control or recall.

She didn’t beg. She just told the truth.

And then he did something she never anticipated.

He laughed.

Yes, he laughed. Not cruelly—but with disbelief and relief. He told her internal affairs had cleared him almost immediately. Her complaint had never even been considered valid.

Then, they prayed.

He forgave her. Not with dramatic words or sweeping declarations, but with the stillness of someone who understands just how complicated pain can be.

He didn’t excuse it. He didn’t say it didn’t matter. But he saw her. He saw how far she’d come.

They talked for hours—about trauma, broken systems, redemption. About second chances. In her case, she joked, she’d needed more chances than the two of them had fingers and toes.

Then he offered her something unexpected, would she speak to his criminal justice classes?

The irony nearly made her laugh. But he was serious. He believed her story—all of it—had value. That her experience could teach. Could warn. Could open the hearts of young people in a way no textbook ever would.

And so she did.

She spoke the truth—to a room full of young adults hungry to understand the world they were preparing to step into. She told them what trauma does, how survival can blur morality, and how one unhealed wound can spiral into years of destruction. She told them about lying—and then living with it. About making amends. About being seen. And she spoke to them about grace and mercy.

Real grace. The kind that doesn’t erase what happened, but chooses to build something better anyway.

And this time, she didn’t lie to herself.

Pictured: (l) Clifford George the rest are, me/Adena 7 years old, 14, and 17.