We were back in Missouri, and the school arranged for me to see a counselor due to low self-esteem. I was in fifth grade and genuinely disliked myself. I felt utterly worthless, as if I had no value in the world.

I remember sitting on the sidelines, watching the other children play, too afraid to join in. It was intimidating simply being around them. I never felt like I belonged. I was born with a prominent purple birthmark on my face, and the other kids took to calling me “Purple Lip Sally.” Children can be cruel, but my inability to stand up for myself made their taunts even easier.

The only light in my world during that time was Amy. She was beloved by everyone and radiantly beautiful. Whenever she saw someone picking on me, she would step in without hesitation. I knew she loved me, and her protection meant everything. How fortunate I was that fifth and sixth graders shared the same playground—I sought her out every recess. She became my shield, the one place where I felt safe.

That year was incredibly difficult for her as well. She lost her best friend in a car accident. I can still see her banging her head against the brick wall outside when she learned the news. It was devastating for everyone who knew her.

After our return to Missouri, he grew even meaner. As a condition of staying, my mother had required that he stop drinking and attend her church. He went only a handful of times before resuming his drinking. Life simply returned to the way it had always been.

We were raised as Jehovah’s Witnesses. My mother believes she is one of the “chosen”—one of the 144,000 who will go to heaven and rule with Christ. Our faith forbade holidays and birthday celebrations of any kind.

My hair had grown very long. One day at the Kingdom Hall, an elderly woman turned around, looked at me in front of the other children and my mother, and said warmly, “Your daughter is so beautiful. I love her hair.” She smiled at me with genuine kindness. My mother smiled back and replied, “Yes, she is very beautiful.”

The moment we arrived home, my mother took me into the bathroom and called Amy in. She ordered her to cut my hair. The result was so uneven that my mother had to take me to a professional beautician to fix it. She instructed the stylist to give me a boy’s cut. I will never forget the look of pity on the woman’s face as she worked. It was the first time I had ever had a professional haircut. When she finished, my mother’s wishes had been fulfilled—I looked like a boy.

I wished desperately that the woman at church had never complimented me. Yet a few weeks later, she showed up at our house. She came into the room where I was sitting, lifted my chin gently in front of my mother, looked me in the eyes, and said, “You are beautiful. Do not let anyone make you think otherwise.” I glanced at my mother and saw only cold, empty eyes staring back at me.

It was moments of kindness like hers—and others throughout my childhood—that kept me from being completely consumed. By “consumed,” I mean the way darkness can overtake a person’s heart. Evil, if you will, seeks to devour everything it touches. When I see a child now, I often smile at them, even if it might offend their parents. I know too well the suffering that can hide behind young eyes. In that brief moment, I hope to make their little inner flame burn a little brighter and ease their pain, if only for a second.