Victory in Vulnerability

By: Oree Freeman, National Speaker

How do we measure the success of a survivor’s life? I don’t think we have the answer. And sometimes, I don’t think we have the right to even ask. It’s not just about the responsibility of data use—it’s the fact that we’ve become obsessed with numbers instead of the complex, painful, beautiful, redemptive stories that can’t be quantified.

Every survivor has a different story. A different journey. A different destination. Healing isn’t linear. Sometimes, you have to go back just to move forward. True success isn’t found in the mechanical hurdles we overcome—though don’t get it twisted, those milestones should be acknowledged and celebrated, because they matter. But real success? Real victory? It’s in the unseen moments. The days when no one is watching. When you are broke and no longer eligible to receive resources because you have “aged out” of the foster care system. When the labels fade, you’re no longer just a “survivor of human trafficking,” but a person—walking, breathing, living, fighting for wholeness.

For the past ten years, I’ve been in the spotlight—on stages, speaking to thousands, shaking hands with some of the most powerful and influential people, traveling to places I never imagined, and making money I never thought possible. I had “made it.” Even other survivors in the audience would say, “Wow, what a redemptive story. Look what she got out of it.” But all those words focused on what I had—not who I was. The truth?

I was a hypocrite. A liar. A thief. An addict. And let’s not pretend—. I didn’t keep ending up in unhealthy relationships just because I had left ‘the life.’ When you’ve only ever known exploitation, abuse, control, what comes next doesn’t magically become healthy. The only difference was that they weren’t traffickers. But I didn’t know how to be alone—and it’s no wonder. My survival had always depended on someone, even if that someone was harmful.

I had to learn not to fill my life with what was familiar because my ‘normal’ from 11 to 15 wasn’t childhood—it was being bought and sold, night after night. It wasn’t bedtime stories or school dances. It was survival. It was exploitation. It was being sexually abused 10 to 20 times a night. So when I got out, what was I supposed to do? I clung to what I knew, even when it was killing me—still chasing worth, still trying to put a price tag on myself, blind to the fact that I was already priceless. I didn’t have a clue who I was. I stood on those stages, speaking words I didn’t yet know how to live.

People didn’t have to call me out—God did. He’s been chasing me since I was a little girl. His grace covered me. His mercy held my hand. And when it was time, when I was on my knees in my townhome, high out of my mind, I looked into the mirror and said, “God, I don’t know who I am anymore. Please help me. I don’t want to live like this.” Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant with my baby girl, Evelyn. And no, I’m not saying God placed a baby in me. My choices led to that. But God used it. And suddenly, I had another reason to fight. Let’s not forget—I was recovered from trafficking at 15. The statistics were stacked against me. But at 15, I also learned how to take accountability for my choices. And when I look back at my adolescent and young adult years, I can’t just say, “I made dumb mistakes.” No—because healing is a process. Recovery is a journey. And the small victories along the way? They built the foundation of who I am today.

Victory is a choice. 

At 11 years old, I sat in a courtroom, double-chained, shackled at my hands and feet, the chain wrapped around me twice. I heard the voice of my former adoptive mother say, “I don’t want her anymore.” The judge asked if I wanted cake before sending me back to the holding cell. One of the last things I heard that day was, “That little girl is going to need more than cake.” I was going to need a miracle. 

But here’s the victory: 

I chose to return to a group home at 18 because I wanted to graduate high school and get extended aftercare services. 

I chose to leave Los Angeles and give Orange County a chance. (Environmental shift.) 

I chose to get a job at Chuck E. Cheese, and Homeboy Industries, and work late nights at Denny’s—because I needed something to keep my mind from spiraling. (Ambition) 

I chose to stay in transitional housing until I was 21 so I could have support. (Self-regulation.) 

Did I backslide? Of course. I dated unhealthy men. I spent money on stupid things. I made choices I wasn’t proud of. But those small victories were planting seeds that would later sprout freedom. Because real healing doesn’t happen overnight. And real support doesn’t come with an expiration date. People expect survivors to “get it right” immediately. But true healing takes time. It takes falling and getting back up. It takes people who won’t give up on you. 

The Seed of Transformation 

When I found out I was pregnant, that was the moment everything changed. I sold everything I had and chose to go live in a shelter. Not because I had to—I was making good money—but because I wanted better for my daughter. I chose to share a room with another woman off the streets. To have a curfew. To take parenting classes. To give up my independence for the sake of my child. I chose to stay in that program until Evelyn was almost eight months old. Casa Teresa changed my life, but even more than that, it gave me the space to make daily decisions, which changed me. And when I finished that program? I chose another transitional home where I could save money and have real support. It came with rules, expectations, and accountability, and yet again, I chose the harder route. I chose therapy twice a week. I chose to stay in spaces that pushed me to grow. 

And then—the biggest decision I ever made: I moved to Texas. A place where nobody knew me. Where there were no resources to fall back on. Where I had to be fully dependent on God. That move was the best decision I ever made. Because I finally learned what it meant to live in the quiet. To be still. To face myself fully—without distractions, without running. Learning to live fully surrendered to God. 

Here’s what victory looks like:

Tonight, I tucked my daughter into bed in a safe neighborhood, in a home filled with love and Jesus. She had a warm meal, a bath, and a mother who prayed over her without anyone trying to hurt her. Evelyn has a mommy who is present. Evelyn has a mommy who is sober. Evelyn has a mommy who has therapy tomorrow because she is still committed to getting free. Evelyn doesn’t have to be afraid. Evelyn watched me graduate with my second degree. Evelyn watches me with a healthy community and support. Evelyn experiences her mommy being patient and kind. Evelyn saw me give my life to Jesus. Evelyn is learning to serve others when she goes with me to work. Evelyn gets to grow up free. 

I am not just Oree, the victim. 

I am not just Oree, the survivor. 

I am Oree, the VICTOR. 

The Biggest Challenge Survivors Face? Trust. Freedom. Not the external kind—the internal kind. Too many survivors are struggling financially, mentally, and emotionally. Some age out of service, and some don’t have a healthy community. And let’s be honest—most don’t even know how to be alone. That’s why we fall back into bad relationships, unhealthy cycles, and people who “somehow” always find us because healing is hard. Because real support is rare. 

But here’s what I know: We need people—the ones who show up, stay, and invest. Be that person. Find that person. Create spaces where survivors are more than a number—where they have a future, where they have family. Because real victory? It doesn’t happen alone.

If you think you know someone who is a victim of human trafficking, reach out to your local police or call the National Human Trafficking Hotline (888-373-7888).

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We are grateful to Oree for sharing her story, expertise, and invaluable insights. Oree was compensated for her time, and we encourage others to recognize and compensate survivors for their lived experience and professional contributions. Survivor leadership is key to creating effective, informed, and survivor-centered solutions.