Tanya's Testimony

I learned that when you ask God for something, you better be prepared to receive it.

God blessed me with a lengthy prison sentence instead of a death sentence.

I grew up in Kansas City, Kansas in a home filled with chaos. Home was an ever-changing address with the only constant being my parents fighting. My dad enjoyed his plethora of drugs, and my mom enjoyed pushing his buttons and being the victim. They finally decided to call it quits when I was 11 years old, but not before finding out that he wasn’t my biological father.

My grandma had broken the news to me in an angry, drunken stupor right before presenting me with the news of the divorce. It was absolutely crushing. My mom and the man I thought was my dad had two sons, both younger than me. I came to find out that I also had two younger half-sisters on my biological dad’s side. The message being sent at this point was that I was unwanted and didn’t belong. Hence my series of poor choices that led me to the foot of the cross.

My biological dad made minimal effort to see me before he died of cancer in 2008. After my parents’ divorce, I lived with my mom and two younger brothers. She continued to choose men struggling with addiction and violence. When their violent attentions turned on me, I decided it was better to become the monster than to be the one subjected to it.

I started beating girls up at school and being rewarded at home for my victories. I was eventually expelled from school and had to complete my schooling that year in the mental health ward of a hospital. Once I returned home, I ran away repeatedly and would stay with friends until their parents would turn me away. My mom had enough of me and sent me to live with my grandma in Fort Scott, Kansas to start my freshman year of high school.

I was kicked out of school my freshman year for a confrontation with my teacher and finished the school year out at another school. I moved back home with my mother my sophomore year, and we got along like rabid dogs. When my 16th birthday came along, I went to school, dropped out, went home, packed my bags, and moved in with a friend in Fort Scott. This lasted about two years before I started bouncing back and forth between Kansas City and Fort Scott.

Over the next twenty years, I gave birth to two sons of my own and married a man that was the sum of every man I had ever known. He was wild, abusive, addicted to anything that made him feel good, and promiscuous. I became the mirror image of my mother. I knew how to push his buttons and play the victim, always convincing myself that I could change him. It took over a decade for me to realize it was a war I was never going to win. I finally filed for a divorce and decided to leave him for good.

At first, I did well. I went to work, raised my boys, and occasionally had a girl’s night out on a weekend when the kids were with their dad. I kept myself busy to keep my focus off the unbearable emotional pain I had pushed far below. Eventually, it made its way to the surface, and I began to unravel. Girl’s night turned into every weekend. Every weekend turned into a meth addiction, which in turn caused me to lose my job. Now bills were piling up and I had to find a way to make money without interfering with my addiction.

I made a phone call to a friend I grew up with in Kansas City, and decided to get my own source of meth so I could sell it and make some money. Everything moved quickly from there. Within a few months, I was making a few thousand dollars a day and spending it just as quickly. My house was a revolving door of addicts, boyfriends, guns, and drugs. I started using the needle and decided it was best to send my children to live with my grandmother.

After a boyfriend had broken both of my wrists, I had a lawyer draw up papers leaving my children to my grandmother in case something more permanent happened to me. I knew I was either going to end up dead or in prison. My addiction took precedence over everything in my life. At this point, all I wanted to do was die, but that was all about to change.

Three years into my addiction, I found myself at a complete stranger’s house, suicidally depressed, injecting a needle filled with a large amount of meth into my vein. As the needle fell to the floor and landed in the old carpet like a dart, I collapsed to my knees on the verge of losing consciousness and cried out to God to save me. I wasn’t prepared for the manner in which he would choose to respond.

As a child, I had attended various Catholic and Christian schools alongside public schools, and my grandmother was a strong believer in Jesus. Having spent so much time with her, I knew in that desperate moment that salvation could only come from God. 

A few weeks later I made a stop at a house to drop off some drugs. When I arrived, there was a woman there that I had a bad history with, so I confronted her and put her in the hospital. I was arrested a week later and found myself facing 21 years in prison, so when I was offered a plea agreement of eight years, I gratefully accepted the offer.

After spending three months in county jail, I started attending the ministry group organized by a local church for inmates. Toward the end of one service, I approached one of the church members. We prayed together, and I accepted Jesus Christ as my savior.

I received a Bible and some reading materials, which I delved into eagerly. I read the Bible so frequently that the pages started to wear out, and I had to carefully tape them back together. I found solace in verses like Jeremiah 29:11, which speaks of God’s plans for his people, and 1 John 3:18, which speaks of expressing love with actions rather than mere words.

As I sat in county jail for several months, my mind began to clear from all the drugs. I found myself overwhelmed with remorse for what I had done, and I wanted the opportunity to make amends with the woman I had hurt. I slid my back down the cold, white cinder block wall and adjusted my orange jumpsuit. I pulled my knees into my chest, clung to my Bible, looked up with tears running down my face, and asked God to make the way.

The next morning an officer pulled me into the hallway to inform me that the woman who was my victim had just been arrested, and because of my good behavior they didn’t feel it was fair to ship me to another county to be held until I was sent to prison. They were giving me the choice to decide if I wanted to be housed with her or to be farmed out. My head spun in disbelief because this is not something that happens normally! I knew right then that God had heard my prayer, and this was my opportunity to put up or shut up.

As my victim entered the jail pod, you could see the fear all over her face. She went straight into her cell and crawled up into her bunk. I gave her a few minutes and then made my way over to her door. I told her she was safe and invited her to eat with me. In the following weeks, I managed to reconcile with her. We both expressed our apologies and started setting aside time every day to explore the teachings of the Bible.

We exchanged Scripture passages that resonated with us and even marked, signed, and dated our favorite verses in each other’s Bibles. Occasionally, I still glance at those pages, and it never fails to bring tears to my eyes, witnessing to how God worked within the confines of that jail. I’ll always cherish the memories of how God started to mend my brokenness. It’s incredible how he turned the devil’s plan to destroy me into something positive, spreading waves of healing to everyone around me.

I spent the next seven years in prison, earning all my good time. The experience was overwhelming, but I used the time to grow closer to God, and I established a godly reputation among the prison staff and my fellow inmates. I became a leader of a women’s Christian ministry inside the prison, and I started prayer groups in the dorms. Women sought me out for guidance, friendship, and prayer. I also tutored women for their GEDs, filed their taxes, and cut their hair. God used me in countless ways and continued to grow me in the process.

I was released in 2020, and, soon afterward, I married my high school sweetheart, who works as a paramedic. Adjusting to his schedule took some getting used to, as did the experience of being a stepmother. During my husband’s absence for 48-hour periods, I readily assumed various responsibilities.

Each morning, I diligently woke up to prepare breakfast and lunch for the children before driving them to school. I assisted them with their homework, accompanied them to their sports activities, and provided care when they fell ill. It was important to me to create a healthy routine as a family.

During this period, I also started rebuilding other relationships in my life, including the one with my brother Canaan. We didn’t have many opportunities to talk while I was in prison, so it felt good to reconnect with him. He worked a lot, but we made sure to stay connected through phone calls and occasional text messages to let each other know we cared.

Fortunately, he managed to join me for Christmas during my first year out of prison, and it was truly special to share that time with him. I recall making a conscious decision not to take any pictures that Christmas because I wanted to immerse myself in the present moment, rather than being preoccupied with my camera. Little did I know this decision would later bring about regret.

In May of 2021, my brother was found dead in a hotel room in Colorado from a fentanyl overdose. He was a Millwright worker and traveled all over the world for work and was away on a job. He turned 38 on May 13th and was expected home a few days later, but now instead of planning his birthday party, we were planning his funeral.

After dealing with the initial impact of my grief, I decided I wanted to do whatever I could to help make sure no other family ever had to go through this. So, over the next 3+ years I began mentoring incarcerated men and women, as well as recovering addicts in my community.

I served as the President of the Fort Scott Salvation Army and Compassionate Ministries, where I participated in organizing fundraisers and volunteering. Additionally, I initiated a fundraiser to raise awareness about mental health issues as I strongly believe addiction often stems from this.

My goal was also to contribute to eliminating the stigma associated with seeking mental health assistance. Just as we seek medical care when our bodies are unwell, it is equally important to seek help when life becomes overwhelming. 

Today, I am a proud Christian Author, and I allow God to use me wherever I am, with what I have. I love writing, and using my voice to speak out about addiction, incarceration, abuse, and the saving grace of Jesus Christ. I am living proof that no one is too far gone to be saved. 

God never wastes a hurt. He is using my past to brighten others’ futures. God uses my words to give a voice to those who need it. When God pulled me out of the darkness, I used one hand to cling to Him, and one hand to pull someone else out.