Katrina Staggers Harvin

The most devastating thing about trauma is that it robs us of our agency. It makes us the “subject” of someone else’s actions or a “victim” of circumstance. It forces a narrative onto us that we didn’t choose.

But here is the breakthrough: when you tell your story, you stop being a character in a tragedy and start becoming the author of an epic.

Storytelling allows us to separate our identity from our trauma. You are not the “broken thing” that happened to you; you are the woman who survived it, the woman who is processing it, and the woman who is rising above it. This shift in perspective is where your power lives.

By naming your experiences, you take ownership of them. You decide which parts of the story define you and which parts were simply stops along the way.

In our community, we see this transformation every day. It is a transition from silence to strength.

If you’re feeling like your identity has been buried under the weight of your past, I encourage you to explore what it means to reclaim your identity after trauma. It is the first step in picking up the pen and writing a new ending.

There is a kind of leadership that doesn’t ask to be seen.

It doesn’t seek applause, recognition, or reward. It shows up early, stays late, listens deeply, and carries burdens that were never assigned. It is leadership rooted not in title, but in servitude, and it is one of the most powerful forces shaping lives, families, and communities today.

I have always known my gift.

Long before I had language for it—before I understood purpose or calling—I felt an undeniable pull toward outreach. Toward people. Toward the quiet corners where voices were muted by pain, fear, or circumstance. I didn’t want credit. I didn’t want anything in return. I simply wanted to help someone stand when they felt they could not rise on their own.

That is the heart of a servant.

A servant’s heart is not weakness; it is courage. It takes strength to give when you could withhold. It takes humility to uplift others without stepping into the spotlight. And it takes deep conviction to keep showing up when no one is watching.

People with a servant’s heart often see what others overlook. We notice the woman who has learned to smile through exhaustion. The child who is quietly falling behind. The individual who has been told “no” so many times they’ve stopped asking. We recognize pain not because we seek it, but because we understand it. And I have known pain.

Servanthood is not about rescuing; it is about empowering.

It is about using the talents placed inside us—our voices, our time, our compassion—to help others find theirs. It is about standing beside someone long enough for them to remember who they are. Sometimes support looks like resources. Sometimes it looks like advocacy. And sometimes, it simply looks like believing in someone before they believe in themselves.

Those who serve do not measure impact by numbers alone. We measure it by moments:

• The first step forward after a long season of silence
• The spark of confidence in someone who had forgotten their worth
• The strength it takes for another person to say, “I’m ready to try again.”

I have always loved outreach because outreach is where humanity meets hope.

It is where empathy turns into action. Where listening becomes healing. Where serving becomes leadership.

In a world that often celebrates self-promotion, the servant’s heart chooses something different. It chooses purpose over praise. Impact over image. And community over competition.

To serve is not to shrink; it is to expand the lives of others.

And when we do that—when we use our gifts to support those who are not yet strong enough to move forward—we become part of something greater than ourselves. We become bridges. We become voices. We become safe places for growth.

That is my calling.

That is my gift.

And that is the quiet, transformative power of a servant’s heart.

I did not write Interrupted Prayers to relive my pain. I wrote it because silence was costing me my peace.

For years, my prayers were sincere, yet often interrupted—by fear, trauma, unanswered questions, and memories I desperately tried to bury. I learned early how to survive without speaking, how to smile while hurting, and how to move forward while pieces of myself were still broken. What I didn’t realize then was that unspoken pain does not disappear; it waits.

Interrupted Prayers was never about exposing wounds for storytelling. It was about truth. About naming what happened, acknowledging what was lost, and honoring the parts of me that endured more than they should have. I wrote the book to make sense of my journey and because I knew my story was not meant to end in silence.

As I wrote, I discovered something powerful: healing does not begin when the pain ends—it begins when the truth is spoken. Each page became a conversation I had never been allowed to have. Each chapter gave language to emotions I once believed I had to carry alone. Writing forced me to confront memories I avoided and to see myself not just as a survivor, but as someone worthy of joy, faith, and restoration.

The greatest gift of writing Interrupted Prayers was freedom: freedom from shame, freedom from self-blame, and freedom from the belief that my past defined my future. I learned that my prayers were never unanswered—they were being answered in ways I could not yet understand. God was working to heal me and prepare me to help others. What once felt like brokenness became purpose; what once felt like loss became testimony.

This book gave me my voice back. It reminded me that my story mattered long before anyone read it. And in releasing it into the world, I discovered that healing multiplies when shared. Women began to see themselves in my words, finding courage in chapters that once terrified me to write.

Interrupted Prayers is not just my story. It is proof that even when life disrupts your faith, your innocence, or your sense of safety, God is still present, still working, and still writing something meaningful from what was interrupted.

I wrote this book for myself, but I released it for anyone who has ever whispered a prayer through pain and wondered if God heard them.

He did. And He still does.