Over the last 35 or so years, I have woven together 130 books—novels, short stories, young adult narratives, and tales for children–the titles of which can be viewed here. From the very first character I can recall, a gentle spirit named Shelby, to the latest female protagonist, Evariste, whose transformation from sheltered and naive to resourceful and purposeful healed pieces of me deeply buried, these characters have sheltered my heart. Their presence acting as both a constant source of joy and also a numbing agent potent enough to keep me afloat.

I was sexually abused from a very young age and, during those moments, I found refuge in the vivid stories of imaginary figures who danced around me, performing clear and cinematic scenes destined to become a chapter in a book. Their stories softened the jagged edges of my pain. Sometimes, I only felt the physical pain after he left the room, so invested in the stories on the ceilings was I. Afterward, when I’d write, bringing these characters to life, it allowed me to return to their worlds, to their stories, and walk away from the pain of mine. Revisiting them, either by writing or reading it afterwards, the anguish, the panic, and the terror seemed to fade, much like dew evaporating under a morning sun.

It was more than even that. Creating stories was far more than a mere pastime; it was a lifeline, a tether to hope. I was in the fourth grade when a beloved teacher, Mrs. Krutsinger, first invited me to read one of the Mickey books aloud to my classmates. Mrs. Haymer, in the sixth grade, allowed me to do the same. Reading the stories aloud was sharing my innermost secrets out loud, with real people, and, when someone would talk to me about the characters or their stories, I felt seen, and heard. Years later, I’d be able to say really hard words like rape and abuse out loud because my characters had paved the road: they’d been saying those words for years. Characters like Abrielle in “Me” or Arianna in “Dreams of a Dancer” absorbed my pain, allowing me space to feel joy and hope.

And, so, this Portraits of a Character series allows me the opportunity to revisit some of my most beloved characters and what attributes they afforded me. The backstories to these characters can help pinpoint where I was at that time and what I needed others to know.

The Trouble with Trust: Aria

In the sweltering summer of 2013, a new story offered—one that traversed the span of thirty years, chronicling the tumultuous journey of a girl named Aria. Born into a world marred by betrayal and strife, Aria’s childhood was a mosaic of sorrow and fear: she bore witness to the brutal murder of her mother and the tragic self-destruction of her father, only to be tossed from one reluctant home to another.

An outcast from the outset, Aria bled rebellion. With strands of her hair dyed a rebellious purple, she lost herself in hard rock rhythms and boldly peppered her Sunday School teacher with questions that made the air crackle with discomfort. Each new guardian, though hesitant, opened their home to her, only to find themselves tested by her fiercely independent spirit. Music alone became her refuge—a sacred haven where her voice could rise unchained, where the notes held the promise of understanding. When Aria, defying her uncle’s stifling order, dared to audition for the choir, his retaliation was swift and merciless. In one shattering moment, the fragile remnants of her innocence crumbled to dust, propelling her into a frightening world without music. In this new and daunting reality, she struggled to exist in a silence that echoed louder than any song.

Adrift in a sea of hopelessness, Aria risks everything when she pilfers money from the savings jar, abandons her life, and chases freedom. A cast of unexpected strangers interrupt her journey, including a homeless man who turns desolate, forgotten fields into fragrant explosions of color. Delicate threads of trust begin to sew her heart together until betrayal burns away progress and she resorts back to a familiar defense: escape. This time, when she starts hitchhiking, she doesn’t know where she’s going or what she’ll fine. Aimlessly, she drifts like a tumbleweed. Until stranger after stranger begin to tell her they talked to Joey, the homeless man, and he thinks she should go to a ranch for abused kids, run by a man named Landon Montgomery and his wife.

As reluctant as everyone else, Landon offers her a deal: she can stay if she’ll work. Life on a ranch, surrounded by kids whose stories echo hers, demands grit, perseverance, and a hundred percent effort. Landon accepts nothing else. Rebelliousness matures into spirit, but Aria’s stumbling block is trust. Amidst a circle of kind-hearted men, empathetic women, and charming children, she finds herself trapped by the weight of her own walls, unable to embrace vulnerability or genuinely trust the safety that surrounds her. As long as she harbors distrust, she remains locked in a world without song.

The trouble with trust is that it demands vulnerability. Vulnerability is an important aspect of trust; it creates a tricky tension between our need to rely on others and our need to protect ourselves from risk and harm.1

The word “shame” originally denoted a sense of regard for propriety and decency, emphasizing modesty and the covering of one’s body as a hallmark of respectability. Later, by the late 1500s, the word shame evolved to mean: “…painful feeling of guilt or disgrace; confusion caused by shame; state of being in disgrace; dishonor, insult, loss of esteem or reputation…” 2 When you grapple with guilt, whether justified or not, or feel a sense of uncertainty about the truth, revealing the specifics of that shame can be a profound exposure of your character. What if they agree? What if they think, how could you allow that? or well, you did or didn’t do XYZ, so.…? By sharing these intimate struggles, you lay yourself open to judgments that may only serve to reinforce your deepest insecurities about who you truly are. In a different story (Taramul Viselor), Rachel and her husband have a game they play. Whenever one of them wants to share something scary or important, the person asks, uncover me? and the expected answer is, uncovered. This simple exchange symbolized a commitment to share the burden of any hidden fears, fostering an environment free from judgment and shame when they confided in one another. The trouble with trust is that it usually requires you to confide without that firm assurance.

I have a small circle; outside of my girls, I can, without hesitation, name only one I truly trust. Aria and I delt with harrowing abuse and the resulting shame differently. I never embraced rebellion. I wouldn’t have run away, even if the idea had occurred to me. While I pined for acceptance, I rarely gave others the opportunity to offer it since I was never sure they really would. To really believe in someone, I needed them to stay first, to see the broken scars, extend compassion, and still choose to stay. I needed to believe they were as invested in being a part of my life as I was in being a part of theirs. I offer a free copy to anyone who shows any interest whatsoever in my writing; I do it because the writing is my “uncover me?” moment. I do it because reading The Character, River’s Rowan, or Broken will tell you more about me than I know how to say out loud.

The trouble with trust is that it’s also, “... the cornerstone of any social relationship“3 . Without it, the foundation for meaningful relationships, be it romantic, friendships, or workplace, diminish. Aria was one of my more spicy characters (this is what I imagine a day with her, Landon and Ash might be like. Notice Aria as the instigator of mischief), and, as usual, I felt more empathy for her than for less independent female leads. Because I had already uncovered Aria; I knew her bravado was a coverup for a girl running scared. Scared that she would never be more than damaged goods. Scared that she’d never shed the weight of shame. The girl with the smart mouth and devil-may-care attitude was a girl terrified of being held down again and robbed of more than she had to give. My heart ached for her voice to rise in song and, more importantly, for her to know it was heard. After making a mistake and feeling the heat of Landon’s (safe) wrath, Aria tries to run again. But, this time, Landon stops her, promising her she still has a place at the table if she’ll just trust that what he says, he means.

With big risks come big rewards. Courage isn’t blindly doing something hard. Courage is doing something hard knowing the risks. The trouble with trust is that it requires courage. It necessitates the ability to see even just a glimmer of light at the end of the proverbial tunnel and the wherewithal to stay focused on that far away beacon while you uncover your shame to someone else. The trouble with trust is that it’s easily broken and hard to retrieve. When your voice is silenced, when someone holds you down and your scream means nothing, when you feel pain unlike any you knew existed and the only thing your hurt changes is your universe, trust implodes like a damaged submarine. The trouble with trust is that, without finding the courage to give it, you won’t know the life transforming healing it alone offers.

In the end, my rebellious survivor chooses to flay herself, to embrace the vulnerability she feared. She listened to the underdog, to the outcast, the lone voice pleading her to amplify his words of hope and protection above the lies of abuse. She chooses light over darkness, joy over confusion, and miracles over evil. She chooses trust.

And she sings.

Footnotes: References

  1. Centre, E. (2023, October 26). Ethics Explainer: trust. THE ETHICS CENTRE. Retrieved May 31, 2025, from https://ethics.org.au/ethics-explainer-trust/ ↩︎
  2. Harper, D. (n.d.). Etymology of shame. Online Etymology Dictionary. Retrieved May 31, 2025, from https://www.etymonline.com/word/shame ↩︎
  3. Trust. (2025, April 21). Psychology Today. Retrieved May 31, 2025, from
    https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/trust?msockid=0ea632065d9466e63a8227925ce5677b ↩︎