The Woman Who Survived

The other day while canvassing, I met a woman in her 50s who told me the issue she cares most about is public safety—especially youth violence.

She didn’t talk in talking points.

She talked about culture. About emotional intelligence. About adults raising kids without the tools to process anger or pain.

She said we talk too much about punishment on the back end and not enough about what we’re doing to keep young people from falling into harm in the first place.

She believes we need more police and that we also need officers who look like the communities they serve. She knows how hard that is because of stigma, history, and distrust.

Then she told me her story.

She grew up in Gary. Her father was a career criminal. Her mother raised her on welfare. She decided early she didn’t want that life.

She went to the library to teach herself. Took the South Shore Line to Chicago just to walk the Magnificent Mile just to see something different.

She raised two children on her own. One is a Purdue-trained computer engineer with an advanced degree. The other works at a Fortune 100 company.

She herself is a nurse.

And then, quietly, she told me that a year ago, during breast cancer treatment, her husband shot her. The gun jammed. She survived.

She told me it was supposed to be a murder-suicide. She believes she’s alive because of a series of small miracles.

When she finished, she looked at me and said something simple: “All I’ve ever known here is the name. But I haven’t seen the work.”

She said people care less about labels than outsiders think. They care about effort. Presence. Results.

She told me that the fact I was standing on her doorstep—listening—mattered.

“You don’t have these conversations unless you show up.”

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