Chap­ter 46 marked a crit­i­cal moment in my journey—a moment when silence was no longer bear­able. I had spent thir­teen years with a court-appoint­ed lawyer who, despite being in my cor­ner in name, nev­er tru­ly advo­cat­ed for me. Dur­ing the pan­dem­ic, I start­ed ques­tion­ing his inten­tions more deeply. I began call­ing him reg­u­lar­ly, twice a week, hop­ing to use the con­sis­ten­cy to cre­ate some sense of con­trol over my own life. In every call, I searched for signs that he believed in me and the free­dom I sought, but what I often found was hes­i­ta­tion and vague assur­ances. It became clear­er that while I was plan­ning my way out, he wasn’t the per­son to make it hap­pen.

Even as I felt con­strained by the sys­tem, I was men­tal­ly prepar­ing to break free. I had stayed qui­et to the world, but inside, I was pray­ing with intensity—for change, for release, for courage. One night in June 2021, some­thing inside me snapped. I picked up the phone and dialed 911 from my home in Cal­i­for­nia. I report­ed my father for con­ser­va­tor­ship abuse, some­thing I nev­er thought I’d have the strength to do. That call wasn’t made out of anger alone—it came from a place of truth, from a real­iza­tion that if I didn’t speak up, no one else would tru­ly advo­cate for me.

In the days that fol­lowed, I found myself stuck in a painful lim­bo. I had start­ed to push hard against the con­ser­va­tor­ship, yet the legal and emo­tion­al restraints hadn’t been lift­ed. Each day, I waited—powerless to make major deci­sions but grow­ing bold­er in my pri­vate resolve. Dur­ing that same peri­od, it seemed like my sto­ry was every­where. New doc­u­men­taries, end­less media spec­u­la­tion, and pub­lic dis­cus­sions about my life filled screens and head­lines. Yet I wasn’t allowed to speak. I watched strangers ana­lyze my every move while I remained silenced in my own nar­ra­tive.

The hard­est part was learn­ing that my sis­ter had a book com­ing out—one that includ­ed sto­ries about me. I couldn’t say any­thing to respond. Legal­ly, emo­tion­al­ly, I was still under my father’s thumb. My voice was trapped behind lay­ers of con­trol, and the frus­tra­tion built with every pass­ing day. I remem­ber lying awake at night, star­ing at the ceil­ing, want­i­ng to scream but know­ing I had to wait. It was as if I was stand­ing in a burn­ing room, forced to stay qui­et while oth­ers told the world how I felt.

I began to reflect more on how this dynam­ic had affect­ed not just my free­dom, but my rela­tion­ships. Being pub­licly por­trayed in a way that didn’t reflect who I tru­ly was felt like betray­al. I want­ed my fam­i­ly to under­stand how their actions—directly or through silence—were dam­ag­ing. Trust had been bro­ken so many times that I start­ed ques­tion­ing if it could ever be repaired. I thought about all the missed birth­days, the stolen moments of peace, and the choic­es that were nev­er mine to make. Those years couldn’t be reclaimed, but maybe they could be the rea­son change final­ly hap­pened.

For any­one who has lived under tight con­trol, even regain­ing small free­doms can feel rev­o­lu­tion­ary. Dur­ing this time, I clung to the few things I could still claim—my thoughts, my mem­o­ries, my faith. I jour­naled con­stant­ly, record­ed voice notes to myself, and tried to visu­al­ize what life could look like beyond this cage. Some days were filled with doubt, espe­cial­ly when the legal bat­tles felt slow and drain­ing. But oth­er days, I held onto hope like a life­line. I wasn’t fight­ing only for myself any­more. I real­ized that if I could break free, maybe oth­ers trapped in sim­i­lar con­ser­va­tor­ships would have a chance too.

The strength I found didn’t appear overnight. It built in layers—through every call to the lawyer, every ignored plea, and every tear­ful con­ver­sa­tion with those who tru­ly cared about me. When I final­ly told the world the truth, I did so not just to reclaim my free­dom but to restore my iden­ti­ty. I didn’t want to be some­one else’s prod­uct or project. I want­ed to be human again—imperfect, pas­sion­ate, and able to make my own mis­takes. That chap­ter wasn’t just about speak­ing out. It was about remem­ber­ing who I had always been, before the silence tried to erase me.