I have a “real” job. Five days a week, I work in revenue management. I’ve worked within hospitality for a dozen years now and, for most of those years, have felt woefully intimidated. Every once in awhile, someone will try to spark a non-work, non-book, non-kid related conversation. Every time, I leave the interaction feeling woefully inadequate. I often replay dialog in my head, scrutinizing just how awkward or inept my responses were. It’s not necessarily that I think they are better; I usually just think there’s that special something, that intangible skill, that others have that I don’t.

As much as I lead, as much as I am not afraid of giving workshops, or acting as a volunteer for sexual assault survivors, or teaching children or leading teams at work… I often feel like a ghost. Ghosts are invisible. I recognize the irony in that because I’m not really invisible: in fact, I work hard to build communities, to speak out, and I’ve been very fortunate to be able to do that. Building communities means being a leader. Being a leader means being visible. So, I’m not really invisible. 

Kind of like a ghost. 

No one can tell me they don’t exist because I’ve felt them. I was around fourteen or fifteen, I guess, when we lived in a remote cabin in the middle of Absolute Nowhere, GA. The cabin was wonderful: wraparound porch with a swing, wood burning fireplace, a solid two miles to any other humans, and wildlife everywhere. We had board games, a deck of cards, crossword puzzles and time. The cabin sat on a hill and there was a creek that ran within hearing distance of it. In many ways, this cabin was ideally suited for me because, while I’m comfortable in a suburban setting or even in front of a large crowd, the deepest, truest part of who I am is most at peace tucked away into the mountains surrounded by the smell of cedar, honeysuckle and pine. It’s where I wrote Mountains of Hope, which was the first book about the Holocaust after reading The Holocaust: a History of the European Jews by Martin Gilbert, my parents fought a lot there, and there was one nightmarish night where I was left hurting. That night, I couldn’t go to sleep because there were beings in the room: they surrounded by bed, wore all black and were laughing at me. I couldn’t see their faces, but I knew where they were, what they looked like in terms of height, and what they were doing. I would have been terrified no matter what but, given what was happening with my dad, these ghosts were nearly more than I could handle. I tried praying, but they didn’t go away. That scared me because, usually, prayer would make bad things leave. I even braved running through them to turn on my bathroom light because light drives out the darkness. That didn’t work, either, and when I turned to the other side of the bed, trying to get away from them, they moved, too. Eventually, I stared quoting out loud the armor of God. I didn’t know what else to do. This worked, and I was able to go to sleep. But I still vividly recall how terrified I was of those ghosts / demons / things that night. I couldn’t see details about what they looked like, but they were real. 

In another house, there were multiple ghosts residing with us, but they weren’t mean or scary. They whispered my name sometimes; I could sense where they were in the room (specifically, one of them liked one of our couches). My point is: you’re not going to convince me they aren’t real even if I haven’t actually seen one, because I’ve felt them. 

I sometimes feel like that. Like others maybe can hear me, or watch some curriculum I’ve developed or speech I present, but I’m not sure they really see me, and the parts of me that they do see don’t represent who I am completely. For example: I created the HERO workshop because I spend a lot of time on the RAINN hotline offering support for survivors of sexual abuse. On this hotline, I don’t talk about my story; I use an alias as my name; I don’t even acknowledge that I’m also a survivor (unless the survivor needs that). Instead, I offer resources, compassion, and act as a sounding board, which is exactly what support specialists should do because it’s what the survivors need. I started worrying about the support specialists, though, because I know that many of them are also survivors of sexual abuse and, as a volunteer myself, it can sometimes feel that my story isn’t as important or as supported. (For the record, this has nothing to do with RAINN: they encourage volunteers to “debrief” with leaders after difficult calls and have other resources available if we need more, but it’s purpose-driven, short-term assistance meant to counteract a specific trigger), and I wanted other survivors to feel seen, to feel the support they’re offering to others. So, I created a workshop that I hope is impactful, building a community where survivors are getting resources and sounding boards, and space to heal. It is my heartbeat doing this work.

Now stay with me cause this is where we start traveling down the this-woman’s-loco road. My purpose is to reach those who are hurting. My purpose is to make sure others know they are not alone; my purpose is to help those who think No one understands me, no one gets it see that they are not crazy, that someone else does understand. In order to accomplish this purpose, I have to be vulnerable. I have to show the parts of me that are scarred, bruised, and ugly. Putting on display the very parts of me that spark shame and sadness; I have to embrace that which makes me feel like an outsider, like an undesirable. Despite the strength of my words, the truth is, I am always one step away from emotional collapse. It wouldn’t take much for someone to break my heart because I walk around with the gate open. I have to because, if I don’t, other survivors might not recognize their story in mine and might, therefore, go on believing they’re alone when I know they’re not. The irony is that, in this space, to lead means to be vulnerable with a purpose; it means being a ghost.  I can share pieces of my story… but only when I pair the vulnerable with strength. I was raped… but I survived.  I self-harmed… but here are some tools that can help you.  I was attacked…. but this is how I got through it. I thought I was alone…. but you are not. The truth is that, while creativity offered me a way out, I still sometimes struggle with feeling inadequate. The truth is that, if I’m not careful to stay authentic, the strength can make me feel like a fraud while the vulnerable makes me doubt myself. Outside of advocacy, and of writing, I hold a “real” job: I work in Revenue Management for the hospitality industry where I am one of the upper leaders. The vulnerable side of me, the side where that “little girl” lives, keeps me from believing I deserve a seat in those boardrooms. Because shame is so dirty. So, I wear the mask of strength: pretend, just as I have my entire life. First, I work really hard to make sure that what I offer is thorough and better than expected, and then I pretend to be confident in that work as the next person would be. This means that the people at work only see the “capable”, “reliable,” “positive” worker, the one who goes above and beyond, who always volunteers to take on more, who is more dedicated the CEO. It means the survivors who I am trying to reach see the vulnerable side to which they can connect and feel safe enough around to share their story. Meanwhile, to my girls, I am the “happily-ever-after mom,” the one who can turn the half empty into half-full, who finds the positives even in COVID. 

And the “real” Tiffini with the real raw spot on her heart, the real fear, the real but unvoiced pain remains invisible. Invisible, but not unfelt. In short: a living ghost. We all play different roles in our lives: we are slightly different people to our spouse than we are to our friends than to our children than to our coworkers than to our bosses than we are to strangers. Depending on what role we’re playing, different pieces of our personalities emerge. It made me wonder: when are we ever fully free to be our full authentic selves–or are we? 

It circles back to writing for me because that’s really the only avenue where I feel unhindered by expectations or the need to be something for someone. In writing, I throw nuggets of myself in, and I don’t care what should happen in the story. When there’s something bubbling up inside me — whether it be something small in the everyday life or a flashback — that I can’t talk about, I’ll rattle the keyboard, tap tap tapping out all the emotions in written form. When I feel a need to share, but can’t in a one-on-one situation, I’ll develop a curriculum and offer it to others to build the community we all need. When I feel as invisible as a ghost, I’ll write more blogs, saying the same things, telling the same stories, until I feel it’s heard. Cause that’s what ghosts do, right? They flip lights on and off, blow open closed doors, whisper your name when no one else is there–hanging around until they know they’ve been noticed. 

Feelings like shame, guilt, sadness — these things are that way, too, aren’t they? I’ll hide from one-on-one ineractions by rejecting invitations because I feel ashamed, awkward, less than in front of others when I’m not leading… but after I reject the invitation, I’ll write about how alienating shame is. If I feel like I’ll no one will ever care enough to knock the walls down, I’ll re-read a good romance story to help convince me love is real. If the silence gets too loud, I’ll turn on music to sing to. Rattling those chains without turning the lights on.

When the girls were little, we lived in a very old, two story white-and-black house that probably had more stories than I would have known what to do with. Walls were wood paneled. My daughter said she saw a little girl who was “bad”. She was terrified of going to one of the bathrooms without me. She said the girl wanted to play with her, but was scary. In that same house, I stood in the kitchen, cooking, when I heard my name being called in a voice that sounded almost identical to my mother’s. It was so real I went looking to see who had said it, wondering if one of my daughters was calling me. My mother was not in the house. Lying in bed in the darkest parts of the night, the bedroom door, which was completely closed, opened. I could explain that away, maybe, by saying maybe an air vent pushed it. But, after being opened for a few minutes, it closed, clicking shut. Air vents only flow in one direction. My sister used to work for a well-known hotel that is well-documented as haunted. One night, she was on one of the upper floors when every hotel door started opening by itself just as she passed by. People quit becaue of the ghosts in this place; guests complained the ghosts were messing with their bathroom sinks or their alarm clocks; my sister ran from that floor back into the lobby. There’s Casper, Ghost Dad, and then there’s The Golden Arm (which scared me as a kid and a story which Mark Twain often retold); ghost stories can be funny or terrifying. In the end, though, the one thing ghosts share in common is their invisibility frightens people.

Invisibility is scary because invisibility means you don’t matter; invisibility means there’s no protection; invisibility means there’s nothing about you that’s special; invisibility means your pain is insignificant and your triumphs are inconsequential. Invisibility is frightening. And that’s why I’ll continue to shout you matter to the rooftops, to put out workshops, to give away books, to write books dealing with similar themes. There are so many lies in abuse. So many. Too many to list (although I might try). This one is easy to disprove: you are not alone. I am not alone. It might feel like we’re ghosts, living with pain we feel in our bones but can’t talk about, but that is simply not true. We are not invisible. Making seen the unseen is worth every sacrifice, every heartache, every instance of pretending; it is worth it because, in the end, a ghost who turns out to be not a ghost is a voice of triumph over darkness. Every story makes the lies of invisibility a little harder to believe and hope a little easier to see.