A Little Bit of Grit, and a Whole Lot of Grace

Recorded live at the DamesTalk Open Mic, July 22, 2025.

A Little Bit of Grit, and a Whole Lot of Grace

There are moments in life that don’t just shape us—they carve us. They build our grit, and if we’re lucky, our grace. For those of us who grew up walking on eggshells, you might know what it feels like to scan every room for threat. It has a name: hypervigilance.

“Hypervigilance is what happens when our natural fight-or-flight instinct goes into overdrive.”

It can feel like a curse. But over time—and with therapy, education, and faith—I’ve come to see it differently. For me, it became a superpower. Here’s how.

Survival Mode

I was ten years old when I took my first step toward power—though I didn’t know it at the time.

One day, after my mother hurt me badly, something broke. I realized this time, maybe someone would believe me. I needed them to. So I did something that no child should have to think through: I made the bruises worse. Then I walked into school, went straight to the nurse, and showed her.

That decision changed everything.

By twelve, I was standing in a courtroom, looking a judge in the eye and saying, No, I don’t want to live with my mother anymore. My father got custody.

Choosing Healing

When I was seventeen, my father kicked me out. And once again, I had a choice.

I didn’t want to stay trapped in someone else’s storm. I didn’t want to carry the anger. Or the sadness. Or the emptiness. I just knew: if I wanted to heal, I had to start.

So I began therapy. It took eight therapists before I found the one who felt right—and I’ve been doing the work ever since.

My grandparents took me in, though the dynamics were complicated. These were my mother’s parents—the same people who’d once looked the other way when the court deemed her unfit. And yet, I was close with them. I stayed for a year, then moved out on my own. But I still spent every holiday with them. I still do, with my grandma.

When they got too old to cook, I stepped up—even when it overwhelmed me. That’s how I’ve always responded to pain: not by retreating, but by showing up.

Giving Back What I Never Had

For years, I felt alone. So I gave what I craved: time, energy, care.

Instead of partying, I volunteered—with Special Olympics, with the elderly, with animal shelters. I helped at soup kitchens. One Christmas, I cooked thousands of pancakes starting at 3 a.m.

I learned how to lift. How to move my body in a way that was strong, and not punishing. I taught myself to cook and bake. I read every book I could find about healing. I built a life I could live inside. I chose environments that felt safe. I chose myself.

Faith and the Long Road Back

Somewhere in the space between where I’d been and where I hoped to go, I started trusting in something greater.

I didn’t grow up in church, but around 22 or 23, I found my way back to faith. Unfortunately, my return came with its own kind of trauma. One Sunday, during a four-hour service, I tried to leave quietly halfway through. The pastor stopped me—and told me I would die of cancer in six months. That the devil was chasing me out.

I had hoped my stepmother would defend me. Instead, she sided with him.

Once again, those who should have protected me didn’t. So I did what I’ve always done: I showed up for myself.

Loss, Love, and the Boombox

My grandfather used to call me a pistol. He’d whisper in my grandmother’s ear and say, “She’s special.” I hold onto that.

When he died in 2018, I was 24—and suddenly the one responsible for everything. Making decisions. Carrying out wishes. Holding the family together. There wasn’t space to grieve—only to act.

The doctors and nurses didn’t always take me seriously. But I kept showing up. I brought a boombox into his hospital room and played his favorite songs. When he moved to hospice, I brought it there too—so the last thing he’d hear was something he loved. So he’d know we’d be okay. So he’d hear me say, I love you.

That was new for me.

I didn’t grow up saying I love you. Especially not when the person who was supposed to love me told me she wished I would die in my sleep.

But something in me broke open. And what came out was love.

Carrying On

The morning my grandfather went to the hospital, I’d spoken to him—something I rarely did. It was usually my grandma I called. But we were fighting that day. Eleven days later, he was gone.

That taught me something simple and unshakable: Always say I love you.

A few years later, I left my job working with children on the spectrum so I could care for my grandma full-time while she recovered from a broken shoulder. I was at the hospital every day. Everyone knew my name.

Doing what’s right—even when it’s hard—is how I live.

Through it all, I’ve felt God in my ear, whispering:
You may not understand now. But you will. Keep going.

Grit, Grace, and Getting Here

There were days when I felt like life just kept taking from me. Uprooting me. Again and again.

But I caught those thoughts midstream and asked:
Is it true?
Can you absolutely know what's true?
How do you react when you believe that thought?
Who would you be without the thought?

Those four questions, from Byron Katie’s “The Work,” became part of my daily practice. They helped me let go of the shoulds and shouldn’ts that drain us. They helped me reframe. And rebuild.

Today, I’m a personal trainer. A strongman coach. A general fitness coach. A yoga instructor for all ages and abilities. An advocate. A nervous system workshop facilitator. A strong kids coach. A medical proxy for my special needs sister. A nonprofit volunteer for the elderly. A member of two loving churches.

I’m also a natural athlete, heading to Nationals for Strongman. And I’ve been invited to speak at a national seminar on inclusive fitness in Tacoma, Washington.

On Thursday, my grandmother turns 96. I’ll be there, watching her smile ear to ear while she devours one of my pineapple upside-down Werther’s cupcakes.

That’s a blessing I don’t take for granted.

Becoming

I’ve known since I was a child that I was meant to move mountains—inside myself, and for others.

And I still do. Every day.

I am not that angry, lost, hopeless little girl anymore.

In the space between who I was and who I’m becoming,
I’ve found a woman with a little bit of grit—
and a whole lot of grace.

One day at a time.

Samantha Fox is a strength coach, yoga instructor, and fierce advocate for inclusion—both in fitness and in life. A survivor, caretaker, and lifelong learner, she brings grit, grace, and grounded faith to everything she does. When she’s not coaching, caregiving, or leading workshops on healing the nervous system, you’ll find her volunteering, lifting heavy things, or baking something delicious for her 96-year-old grandmother. A Little Bit of Grit, and a Whole Lot of Grace is her first published piece—and a powerful reminder that healing begins the moment we choose ourselves.