Kimberly Elaine Brown Blaine

I have been asked many times about the color choices and the selection of the plane on the cover of my book. It is cathartic to finally be able to share.

We escaped in the hours just before dawn, from the clutches of a terrorist. One of my most poignant memories is what I saw after our plane rose above the clouds—the sun beginning to rise and the sky coming alive. The colors had a vibrancy I will never forget. The hues were the brightest orange, yellow, and deep shades of orange, as the sun had not yet fully made its entrance.

I recall looking at the billowing clouds beneath me, stretching endlessly in every direction. I remember the silence within the plane, empty except for us. A sense of peace began to pierce the bubble of fear I had carried on my shoulders.

Still young, I was forced to see firsthand the ugly side of life, and in its aftermath, I became a child who had grown up too quickly. I kept staring out the window until the last vestiges of the sunrise faded.

I looked across the aisle at my parents. They were leaning into one another, still clutching each other’s hands—eyes closed, heads resting together. They looked exhausted. My brothers were asleep, and the last thought that crossed my mind before I joined them in slumber was:

We made it.

How safe is the world we live in? We are always at risk of one thing or another, whether it be infectious diseases, livelihood crises, environmental damage, or even heartbreak. These threats impact both our physical and emotional well-being. To survive, humans have done their best to secure the resources necessary to fulfill their needs.

According to Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, safety is a fundamental human requirement. This includes personal security, resources, employment, and health.

Many believe that money can guarantee safety, but is that really true? Can money offer protection from political conflicts? Crime? Chronic diseases?

Let's dig a little deeper.

The truth is that there is only so much money can protect you from. Sure, it can help build defenses, but how does money help when life's misfortunes strike?

Here are several scenarios where wealth does not offer protection.

War and Political Conflicts

War has drastic short- and long-term consequences, and civilians are often the most affected. They may be deprived of freedom, and the country’s economy can suffer significant damage. Enduring the effects of war is often inevitable. While wealth may lessen some hardships, it cannot prevent conflict. Although money might help people recover from some physical consequences of war, it cannot address the emotional aftermath, such as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), anxiety, or depression.

Crime

Being wealthy and influential can sometimes increase the risk of becoming a victim of crime. Whether it is mugging, burglary, kidnapping, or even hostage situations, wealth and visibility may attract criminal attention. In such cases, wealth can become a liability rather than a form of protection.

Pandemics

Pandemics are highly unpredictable. No amount of wealth can fully prevent exposure to a pandemic or completely prepare someone for its impact. COVID-19 claimed millions of lives, and both the poor and the wealthy found themselves vulnerable. Wealth alone could not instantly produce a cure, and many people were left hoping they would not become the next casualty.

Illness

Money cannot guarantee protection from chronic or terminal illnesses. Disease does not discriminate based on wealth. While financial resources can provide access to better care and treatment options, they cannot always cure chronic or life-threatening conditions. Similarly, children born with disabilities into wealthy families must still face the same realities and challenges as others with similar conditions.

Natural Disasters

Natural disasters are another example of events that money cannot fully control or prevent. No power in the world can stop earthquakes, hurricanes, or tsunamis from occurring. While certain measures can reduce potential damage, the occurrence and impact of such disasters are largely beyond human control.

With That Being Said…

Where there is law and order, there will always be crime. Where there is health, there will always be illness. And where there is safety, there will always be danger lurking in the shadows.

While wealth provides many advantages, it cannot guarantee protection from life's misfortunes. It may help ease some burdens, but it cannot completely eliminate them. This idea is reflected in the novel Carrasco '67: A Harrowing Tale of an Imperialist Pig, where the author recounts the events that unfolded for the Gray family in 1967, when their lives were subjected to terrorism and their illusion of safety was shattered.

Some stories remain dormant.

Mine waited in the quiet recesses of my mind and memory. They lingered in the pauses between attempted conversations as I tried to initiate discussions with my father, desperately wanting to validate our lived experiences — only to be silenced. They waited in the space between who you appear to be and who you truly were.

Carrasco 67 was one of those stories.

Sometimes fear itself became a weapon.

For years, I lived what many would consider a successful, functional life. I showed up. I achieved. I supported others. From the outside, there was little indication that beneath that competence lived a younger version of me who carried the darkest of secrets.

I did not begin writing this book because I wanted to become an author.

I began writing because the silence was emotionally exhausting.

When Silence Becomes Survival

Trauma has a way of teaching you how to adapt. You learn how to compartmentalize. You learn how to hide things. To lie. You learn how to smile when necessary. You learn how to tell a version of your story that feels safe — one that doesn’t allow others to know your most uncomfortable truths. You learn early how to survive by hiding parts of your soul.

Over time, this new version of us — my family — became our identity.

I had become strong during our dalliance with the terrorists’ constant presence in our lives. Responsible. Reliable. Independent. But strength without acknowledgment can turn into isolation. Independence can mask fear, even as it projects the very strength meant to protect ourselves — our family — or anyone who knew us. We had to learn quickly the art of self-preservation.

There is a particular loneliness that comes from carrying a story no one can fully understand — and one you cannot fully share.

We were instructed to remain silent about the past. Not to speak of it among ourselves or with anyone at all. It minimized what happened and, at times, played games with our psyche, morphing memories as if it had been just a nightmare instead of a lived reality. I convinced myself that because I had survived, there was nothing left to address.

But survival is not the same as healing.

The body keeps what the mind tries to dismiss. It holds onto the internal stress it once endured.

The Moment I Knew the Story Needed to Be Told

The decision to write Carrasco 67 did not happen dramatically. It unfolded slowly.

It began with a plea from my mother. She said, “People may never know who we are, but I want them to know our story.”

Her words carried the emotional weight of a wife who held her husband in her arms after nearly losing him to kidnappers. Of a mother who was told terrorists had nearly abducted her young daughter. Of a woman whose home was invaded, surrounded by Military Police inside and out, just to survive another day.

Why did certain triggers still exist? Why did certain memories still carry emotional weight?

Because severe trauma can be managed, even accepted, and one can move forward — but the mind never forgets.

As I reflected on my mother’s request, I realized something profound: my silence was no longer protecting me. It was containing me.

The deeper I explored my experience, the more I recognized how many people have lived through traumatic events that required anonymity for survival. Conversations would hint at it. Shared glances would confirm it. There was always a common thread:

“I’ve never told anyone this before…”

That was the moment I understood this book was bigger than me.

If I had spent years believing I was alone in my internal struggle, how many others were doing the same?

Carrasco 67 became an answer to that isolation.

Writing Through Memory

There is a difference between remembering something and mentally revisiting it.

Writing requires reliving.

Some chapters came easily — factual, chronological, almost clinical. But the emotional chapters were different. They demanded presence. They required me to sit with feelings I had learned to suppress.

There were days I would close my laptop and feel physically drained. Not because the writing was technically difficult, but because reliving the experiences — and immersing myself in my parents’ headspace — was overwhelmingly heavy. For the first time, I fully grasped the toll it had taken on them.

I confronted the younger version of myself — the one who didn’t yet understand the “why” of what was happening. The one confused about why someone would want to harm us. I felt compassion for the little girl I once was, and in doing so, I better understood the woman I became.

This was one of the most unexpected gifts of the writing process: a sense of closure.

Writing this book reminded me that we survived with the tools we had — my father’s unrelenting drive to protect us, his determination to seek any avenue for safety, and the resilience that carried us forward.

Survival was strength.

The Cost of Unspoken Trauma

One of the reasons this book exists is because of the subtle, long-term impact of unprocessed trauma.

It does not always announce itself loudly.

Sometimes it shows up as hyper-independence. As difficulty trusting. As overachievement. As perfectionism. As the inability to rest.

It shapes internal narratives:

“I have to handle everything alone.”

“My feelings are too much. I am overly sensitive.”

“I am always on guard, ready to flee — but from what? If danger is no longer at my doorstep, why do I still feel this way?”

“Why does it take so long to trust people?”

“Why do I still keep my circle small?”

Those narratives become the invisible architecture of your life.

I wrote Carrasco 67 to dismantle some of that architecture — not only for myself, but for readers who may recognize their own patterns within my story. Patterns of remaining tied to negative experiences. Or, instead, choosing to rise above them.

What happened to us may not have been our choice.

But what we do with it can be.

We are not defined by traumatic events.

We can move forward by choosing not to let them define our future.

The Transformation I Hope Readers Experience

I do not expect every reader to share my exact story.

What I hope is that they recognize trauma can touch anyone — but by removing its power, by loosening its hold, you regain yourself. You regain your strength. Your voice. Your independence.

My hope is that readers move through the pages of this book, experience the turbulent roller coaster of emotions we endured, and leave with this truth:

Negative experiences do not have to define your future.

You can write your own ending.