I Was Never Broken

Tanya Marcon-Moore

The past has a way of whispering until we’re ready to listen.

For me, listening meant acknowledging what happened, seeing myself as I truly was, and reclaiming the story that had been waiting to be told.

Through this process, I’ve learned how fierce I was. I’ve seen how faith was guiding me to safety. And, most of all, I’ve realized that it was never my fault.

Perry Power once said, You have to tell yourself first. Before you can share your story with others, before you can write it down, you need to sit with yourself and speak your truth.

For 40 years, my story was locked away. I knew it was there. I knew what had happened. But I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

That silence trapped me—it kept me in anger, confusion, insecurity. My reality was warped. It was as if everything I believed about myself was just a mask, hiding a terrible truth.

But when I finally spoke my story—to myself first—I realized something powerful.

I wasn’t broken. I was hurt.

The more I sat with my truth, the more I could see. I kept hearing that song in my head, by Johnny Nash (1972), "I can see clearly now, the rain is gone..."

I started writing. And as I did, my memories flooded back—but not the way I had once remembered them.

This time, I saw them as they really were. As if I were an adult watching a movie, I finally understood.

It was not my fault. It was never my fault.

I was never broken.

I read Bonnie Couch's book, Shout It Beautifully, and I felt it deep in my soul, in the pit of my stomach. I would raise my arms and say those words, free and loud—Shout it beautifully!

As I wrote, more memories surfaced. It felt like spilling a jar of jelly beans, like popcorn bursting in a hot pan.

But it wasn’t just the memories—it was the truth within them.

I cried. Oh, how I cried.

I cried for my mum. For myself. For my stolen youth. For my sister. For my babies—because I had been a broken mother.

For the version of me that never got to exist because of what happened.

But the more I wrote, the more I lifted my head.

That lost little girl—knees to her chest, head in her hands—began to rise.

She was learning to stand.

I listened to Perry, to Emma, to other authors in Powerful Books—some published, some still struggling. I watched as we all transformed, breaking free from the past, becoming strong, beautiful souls.

I realized I needed to own my story. To share it.

I had a voice that needed to be heard.

And I was not broken.

Yes, I lost the life I could have had.

But the life I do have is incredible.

My youngest son once asked me, Mum, why didn’t you move somewhere warmer when you were 19?

I told him, Because your dad was here.

And with him, my life became what it is today.

And that means you, Josh.

You wouldn’t be here otherwise.

Maybe that was my journey all along.

To be here.