I remember my stomach fluttering and tears welling up watching Wonder Woman in a movie theater a year ago. I sat in my seat watching this character experience pain and anguish—and somehow that made her stronger and more compassionate. Nothing could defeat her. I felt like I could be Wonder Woman.

I grew up around drug and alcohol abuse, watching and hearing my father beating my mother and experiencing every type of abuse and neglect someone could experience at varying ages of my childhood. I felt so small, worthless and helpless and none of these experiences became easier with time. And even though it was my normal, it never felt normal to me.

 I struggled to connect with others in school. I was painfully shy with a crippling fear of talking to anyone, isolating myself at school and at home. My social anxiety wasn’t well understood at school by most. Counselors and teachers were unable to break through my shell, but there were teachers who eventually saw me.

 These teachers may have asked themselves, what happened to her? Rather than what’s wrong with her. They saved me. They gave me the tools to heal. I could paint and write myself a new story at recess, imagine anything was possible by overcoming my fears and anxieties with time and that I could someday escape and create whatever life I wanted for myself. I clutched to this idea that I was clay and could mold myself into whatever I wanted to be.

I am the product of abuse and neglect, but I’m also the product of caring educators who told me I mattered. With each memory that resurfaces, I feel the ping of pain in my chest, but each memory I let myself fully feel, I feel stronger and more compassionate. I used to hide my feelings, wishing to stay invisible, feeling nothing for myself or anyone else. And with time, I now feel deeply for others.

I can now empathize and help others. I’ve been able to rise above a traumatic childhood and become more than a victim of my past, but a warrior.

I am Wonder Woman.