What Not to Wear to a Murder Trial

FROM MY BOOK: What Not to Wear to a Murder Trial: and Other Tips Tragedy Taught Me

I will never forget the moment evil finally beat me. The heavy air in the packed courtroom, the battle between hope and hopelessness in my heart, the look on the face of the only juror who met my eyes— it’s all burned into my brain. So, too, is the sound of the gavel hitting the desk, the words “That’s it” coming from the prosecutor’s mouth and, most of all, the way the defense attorney’s expression snapped from surprise to true fear as he watched my face change from horror to hatred.

In that moment, as I lunged toward my husband’s newly acquitted killer and the MPs stopped me, that defense attorney realized what I had just realized myself: I had lost the battle for my inner peace. I was in that moment filled with the kind of rage borne only out of complete hopelessness for anything other than a life with no meaning. I was no longer envisioning a future in which I could somehow piece my life back together. I was instead fantasizing about the satisfaction I would feel by stabbing my stiletto straight through the killer’s eyeball. 

All the pain we’d endured, all the years we’d spent placing our faith in the system, all the healing we’d attached to an outcome we had no control over, had been worse than for nothing. It had all served only to complete the task of shattering any possibility that I would ever be able to make my life matter again.

In that moment and the months after, I was trapped in the hold of hopelessness. I struggled with suicidal thoughts. I believed my kids would be better off without me. Anger, apathy, self-pity, fear, and defeat were the masters of my life. By day, I took care of my kids and did what had to be done. The moments I played with my boys were the only moments I was able to occasionally glimpse a purpose and potential joy. Other than that, I truly didn’t care what happened to me anymore. 

If I’d only known then what I know now, I would have been able to navigate the trauma of those years so much better. I would have met the news of my husband’s death from a place of strength instead of predetermined defeat. I would have been able to detach my self-prognosis of happiness and hope from the outcome of a situation I could not control. I would have been a better mom. I would have never been vulnerable to the predator who undid all the healing I began to achieve and scorched the earth before I got rid of him. 

But that was then. 

Today I’ve taken my life back. I see beauty in even the worst days. I absorb, process, and overcome challenges, loss, and pain at light speed. I learn from it all and use those lessons to avoid repeating mistakes. 

I am happier, healthier, more present, and more appreciative of life than I was before tragedy and trauma double-teamed me. 

That doesn’t mean life is perfect or that I am not still in need of improvement. It just means I understand the ebb and flow of life and how to ride it. I make it a point to work on making myself a better version of me today than I was yesterday. 

I’ll also never forget the moment I made the decision to take my life back. I can feel the summer sun burning my cheeks, hear the horses nickering in the paddock, and see the phone I’d just dropped lying beside where I knelt, sobbing, on my driveway. 

It was my lowest moment where I’d finally punched right through rock bottom and stepped into its underworld. My ex-fiancé had just called me— collect—from the rehab center. I made the mistake of thinking he was calling to say he was sorry and wish me a happy birthday. Instead, he asked me for more money. 

I barely stammered out a “no” through my shock before he hung up on me. 

There was no apology for the years of emotional, drug, and alcohol abuse; the times he’d pass out on the floor or fly into a blacked-out rage; or for taking tens of thousands of dollars from me, depleting all my savings, and leaving me with a negative checking account to address large debt. 

Not to mention breaking my heart and shattering my four innocent children’s hopes—again. 

He didn’t wish me a happy birthday either.

As birthdays go, it was the worst one I’d ever had, and that includes no one coming to my sixteenth birthday. 

So how did my lowest moment turn into the first moment of my comeback? How did I climb out from under the massive mountain of misery and hopelessness and start that climb up to life with a much prettier view? How can what I went through help you? 

Fair questions, and I answer all of them in my book What Not to Wear to a Murder Trial (and other tips tragedy taught me).

Fear not; I don’t just count on my own experience to answer these questions for you—I pulled powerful nuggets of wisdom from some of the 250 guests I’ve interviewed for my podcast. So, in addition to my own thoughts and insight, you’ll be learning from genuine military heroes, survivors of unspeakable trauma, entrepreneurs who’ve overcome defeat to build multimillion-dollar companies, and people who go above and beyond for the sake of others.

I wrote this book because I know it can help you or someone you know flip the script on pain. I know it can build triumph from tragedy, and I believe we all have a duty to share the lessons we learn in this life.

I’d love to help you turn your own life experiences into a book, too. Let’s talk!