Editor’s note: Hannah is identified by a pseudonym to protect her safety.

On a rainy November day, Hannah stroked Jackson’s wet mane. He had grown fat over the years at this Gainesville farm, but Hannah believed he had earned the right to be spoiled. She of all people could understand the life of neglect and loneliness the horse had endured.

She, like Jackson, had found solace on the farm.

She gazed at the lush pasture around her, bundled up in her purple raincoat and rubber boots to stay dry. But the weather didn’t really matter. She was happy to be on the farm. Happy to be alive.

She has been living in a room at the farmhouse for nearly three years, with memories that haunt and a box full of gifts she has received over time. They help her stay grounded. Among these gifts are three hard-earned sobriety chips, tokens of the time Hannah has been sober, and a framed picture of her smiling while hugging Jackson’s neck. The most important of her possessions are the gifts her sons have given her over the years — a teddy bear her youngest son gave her on Mother’s Day one year, a heart-shaped silver necklace engraved with the word “mom” from her elder son on the first Christmas she spent with him after years of her absence.

These are all reminders of the hardscrabble life that Hannah fell into. Now, after all this time at Sacred Roots Farm, she is finally regaining control of herself and her destiny.

Hannah’s life was never meant to turn out this way. She grew up in middle-class Montgomery, Alabama, in a one-story brick house with white shutters. A swing that her dad made hung on a tree in their well-manicured backyard. Her parents were God-fearing folks, and Hannah and her older sister attended church with them every Sunday. Hannah didn’t mind listening to sermons. In contrast, her sister despised them, and in the pews, Hannah fidgeted and scowled in an act of solidarity. She looked up to her big sis, who she considered prettier and more charming. She would do anything to be just like her.

That’s why when her sister offered her weed for the first time, Hannah didn’t hesitate to try it. She was only 14 then.

As innocent as that might have been on her sister’s part, the marijuana was the start to many years of drug abuse. Fueled by insecurity and despair, Hannah spiraled downward from marijuana to methamphetamine and cocaine. Drugs robbed her of her youth. Her 20s and early 30s were tainted by abusive relationships; she believed cruel, hateful men was all that she deserved.

Amid this tough time in her life, she became a mother of two sons, each from a different father she no longer sees. As much as she wanted to clean up her act for her beloved boys, she could not give up her addiction, keep a job and remain out of prison. She knew she was not fit to be a mother in this state. Her parents had to step in and take in her two boys.

When she first parted from her sons in her days of addiction, Hannah believed the only option she had left to get back on her feet and get the drugs she so craved was to turn to prostitution. A friend introduced her to a Montgomery prostitution ring. She landed with a pimp, who eventually introduced her to intravenous heroin, his favorite method of controlling his women.

Over time, Hannah’s pimp became more and more violent toward her and the other women he controlled. He beat and tortured them for disobeying his orders and withheld drugs until they performed to his standards. Hannah no longer felt like a person. She was nothing more than a commodity. The drugs were her only escape from the reality of her cruel life.

She endured five years of being trafficked by her pimp until one day, armed men in black uniforms and face coverings surrounded his house, breaking down the front door and beaming their flashlights through the windows. Hannah slowly raised her shaking hands above her head. She didn’t know if these men were the cops or a gang or a set-up, but she was certain she was in trouble as she stared down the barrel of a gun. Hannah spent seven long months in jail, frightened to testify against her trafficker for fear of retribution. She was sure he would kill her.

From jail, Hannah ended up in a halfway house. Her sister, who had finally overcome her own drug addiction, stopped by now and again to comfort Hannah and bring her anything she needed. Still, the halfway house was a band-aid solution to a terminal problem. She needed to find a place that would help her turn her life around. Somewhere that she could find purpose. Somewhere she would finally find the will to become sober.

Hannah believed the only way she could regain her life was through the help of God. She knew she needed to find a new home where she could rekindle her childhood faith. Only then could she finally see change in her life.

Within Hannah’s first year at the farm, she stood in a pasture, waiting to be approached by one of the horses. Part of the healing journey at Sacred Roots requires that riders not initiate the approach. Jackson, a brown, heavy-set stallion, immediately trotted up to Hannah. She then had to ask Jackson for consent to ride. He bowed his head into the bridle in agreement.

Counselors use the practice to teach women that relationships should be about mutual trust, not about control.

Hannah had heard about the Sacred Roots Farm and its healing ways while she was still living in the halfway house. This place was special, she thought. It was not like any other trauma or recovery center. This place was teeming with verdant fields, horses, goats, chickens. And women who had survived the worst of humanity.

Sam Haupt, an evangelical Christian missionary, founded the farm in 2018. During his time working for a mission agency, he had been exposed to women and girls who had been trafficked. Fueled by his love for his own daughters, Haupt wanted trafficking victims to live in a better world. The women who shelter here take classes in self-esteem, relapse prevention and self-defense. They also learn about God.

That’s what attracted Hannah to Sacred Roots.

When she first arrived three years ago, tears streamed down her face as she gave her sons one last hug. She was scared and distrusting of others. With an aching heart, she stepped into a new chapter of her life without her friends and family by her side. But she found comfort in the animals. She listened to the birds singing and the rustling of the trees. She scanned the horizon of vast green fields dotted with bleating goats and sleeping pigs and horses eating hay.

As the weeks went by, Hannah slowly began to trust the workers on the farm. Her nightmares became less frequent. She started going for more nature walks and socializing with the other women as she went about her various tasks on the farm such as feeding the chickens or watering the plants in the garden. At times, she let down her guard a little, and very gradually she gained some measure of peace. Not all at once and not necessarily unbroken by fear and anxiety, but an increasing glimmer of hopefulness was growing. As she looked at the raised garden beds, she found herself wondering if she too would slowly learn to grow like all the strawberries, tomatoes and peppers budding from the soil.

Hannah had never felt closer to God. She found that she could smile once again. As she awoke each morning, she found her usual dread replaced by a newfound excitement for each day, bolstered by a group devotional to begin every morning. Hannah was becoming a different person, and this was evident to all those around her.

Opal Hargrove, the equine director on the farm, felt it was time Hannah learned to ride the horses, a crucial part to the trauma recovery process. They are, says Hargrove, exceptional at regulating their own emotions when they sense anxiety from humans. The farm usually rescues horses that are too old or broken down to be ridden. Like the women, the horses often come from places where they were abused and neglected.

On that day, as Jackson approached her, Hannah grew tense. She white-knuckled the reins. But she managed to get onto the saddle and slowly ride Jackson around the pasture. With each ride, she loosened her grip. She was learning to trust Jackson. She was learning to trust herself.

Her anxieties washed away as she and Jackson galloped through the farm. She was in charge atop this majestic animal. She felt his power and it coursed through her.

A few weeks before Christmas, three older women visiting from South Georgia are busy decorating. All eyes fell on Hannah, now the house manager, to provide instructions on where all the decorations should go.

“Please tell me you’re not planning on getting a spruce tree,” one of the visitors said.

“Are we decorating the mantle, or aren’t we?”

“Hmm…what a peculiar antler chandelier,” another chimed in, a hint of condescension in her voice.

Three years ago, Hannah might have been overwhelmed as the visitors clucked away like the chickens on the farm. No longer would she be the insecure woman she once was. Hannah had an air of confidence, almost entertained by their somewhat out-of-touch, though well-meaning, comments. She coolly commanded them. She was in charge.

She has come a long way in her recovery, but the road ahead still feels uncertain. She wants desperately to be closer to her sons in Montgomery and perhaps pursue her dreams of becoming a social worker. She wants to give back, to help others as others have helped her. Leaving Sacred Roots is not an easy proposition. Leaving Jackson. Leaving the purposeful life and soulful solace she found here.

Whether Hannah goes back home to her kids in Montgomery or remains at this life-giving farm, she is at peace knowing she has regained her life and her Christian faith. She is no longer embarrassed to attend church, no longer the insecure girl she once was. She has turned her back on the chaos of the life she once knew, a life of drugs and prostitution. The farm has transformed her into a new woman with unwavering confidence in who she is and what she believes in.

Neva Drane is a student majoring in journalism at the University of Georgia.