Credit: Maxwell Holyoke-Hirsch

My name is Jennifer Hopper, and I am the survivor of the South Park attacks of July 19, 2009.

My family calls me Jenny. My friends call me Jen. And my late partner, Teresa Butz, often called me J-Hop.

For the past two years, I have been known as “the surviving victim of the South Park rapes and murder,” or simply as “Butz’s partner.” And for the most part, I have been grateful for the protective bubble given to me by the media. But I am now ready to be known in a new way.

At first, I was afraid to be known more fully. Over time, it became more about protecting my professional life. Most recently, I felt that revealing my identity might somehow cloud the focus of the trial of Isaiah Kalebu, the man who on July 1 was found guilty of entering uninvited, as we slept, into the home that Teresa and I shared in South Park, where he raped us, murdered Teresa, and attempted to murder me.

It didn’t matter who I was, I thought as I went through this process. I was known by name to my family and my friends, but anonymous to the general public, and that was fine. The only thing that mattered was what had happened. Who was lost.

Today, at 38, I find myself craving to have my identity back.

I am prepared to have my name enter the public realm. I know this may be naive, but I believe I should be able to be fine in my professional life—my whole life, really—and have it be known that this happened to me. In fact, having learned how to survive this may even have made me stronger and more able to manage the normal, workaday ups and downs.

Mostly, I no longer want to give off the impression that I’m afraid to be known, or that I might be ashamed of anything that happened that night.

I am not afraid. I am not ashamed.

I am still here. And I will still be here long after Kalebu is sentenced on August 12
(assuming the sentencing happens as planned). I realize that interest in this crime and its consequences will probably fade after he’s sent to prison, and before that occurs I want to use what interest remains to say a few things.

While I’m saying all of this under my own name, which is new, I’m saying it without my image attached, which is as it’s been since the attacks. It will be a little while longer before I feel comfortable with my image being out there. It’s still jarring for me to see Teresa’s pictures on television, feel the private being made public, watch this great love of my life being reduced to an evening news story.

I also worry that an image can be easily skewed.

Also, and on a more personal level, I haven’t wanted to see the pain in my own face since this happened to us, and I still don’t. It’s enough to feel it. To have it captured forever—I’m not ready for that.

* * *

I chose The Stranger as my medium to speak because I believe the work done in these pages by Eli Sanders over the past two years has created a three-dimensional picture not only of the recent trial, but of the psychology of the crime itself. His writing brought humanity to my personal horror, and I will always be grateful to have been interpreted by his honest voice. I am also grateful that people I have never met before were brave enough to read what was often uncomfortably truthful.

To everyone who witnessed our journey through Eli’s words: Thank you for listening. I am less alone because of your bravery.

It’s impossible to describe in words how it has all been, but the closest I’ve come is this: It’s as if on July 19, 2009, someone grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, lifted me up, and dropped me headfirst into another life. Suddenly, you can’t go home. Your home is a crime scene.

Today, there is very little I say or do that isn’t tainted by residual fear, grief, longing, or the process of healing. I’m still sad, I still miss Teresa, my life is still turned upside down. I’m less trusting than I once was, I’m wary of strangers, I’m hypervigilant about my surroundings.

For about 18 months after the attack, I couldn’t sleep at night. My mind was afraid that if I closed my eyes, I would open them to something terrifying. My body was exhausted, but my mind couldn’t stop being on guard. Eventually, I was able to sleep with the light on. I still never sleep alone, and I still sometimes wake up, in the dark, absolutely sure that I’ve heard someone walking around in the house. I have to dig deep into my reserves, reassure myself that I’m safe, and trust that it will fade in time.

And while it does, I long for the innocence I experienced before Kalebu entered our lives.

People consistently ask me how I feel about the guilty verdict and whether I’m glad that the whole trial circus—the outbursts, the swallowed pencil, the negotiations over restraints, the talk of supposed orders from God—is finally over. Of course I’m glad it’s over. Of course I’m grateful that he has a mandatory life sentence coming, that he’ll never be out there in the world, free to hurt others, ever again.

But it doesn’t change anything. Teresa is still gone. I was still raped and almost killed. The pain doesn’t go away with a guilty verdict. Wouldn’t it be amazing if it did? Wouldn’t it be incredible if a guilty verdict meant that Teresa could come back and live out her life? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the woman we, her family and friends, now remember on the anniversary of her death by enjoying some of the simple pleasures that used to make her smile—Imo’s pizza, Bud Light, music—could once again enjoy them herself?

Still, the trial was necessary, important, another event with an impact that’s hard to describe in words. I have a dear friend who was there every single day, along with my stepfather, listening to every argument and looking at every single piece of evidence. Other friends, many bequeathed to me by Teresa, came as often as they could. I love them all like family, because that’s what we’ve all become since Teresa left us. My amazing mother, and Teresa’s parents and relatives, who mean more to me than I can say—they were all there, too. They have their own grief, but they also have taken on a part of mine—for me, by hearing me—and there’s a sort of relief in that.

While I followed the trial closely, I only attended a small portion: my testimony of course, Kalebu’s short and strange testimony, the closing arguments, and the delivery of the verdict. The rest was filled in for me by others and by the various news channels—an odd experience, sitting there on my couch, watching reports of what had occurred in court on some particular day, as if this was something that happened to someone else.

The thing that comes back to me most vividly from news reports is the 911 call from the young woman who happened to be up late with some friends that night and ran to help us—hearing my screams in the background of her call, being taken back to that moment, experiencing it all from an outsider’s view. It’s beyond surreal, to recognize yourself living the worst moments of your life and being somehow distant from the proceedings. It has been this way from the start.

You have to compartmentalize to go on after something like this. You put it all away and go about your day. Eventually, you start to wonder if it really happened. And then you hear the screams and you see the dash-cam video, hear the 911 call, and you remember. Yes. This happened. This happened and Teresa is gone. This happened and I somehow made it to the other side. It’s a very strange place to be, but there’s this nice bridging that occurs by sharing the then and the now, and sharing it right now, here in public. It’s almost as if the Jen of today gets to say to the Jen of July 19, 2009, “I’m so sorry this happened.”

But, also, it’s the worst thing in the world to have to say some of the words I said on the witness stand, the words of violence and sexual violence. Especially in front of people who know you, and who don’t necessarily know that part of you. I have empathy for everyone who has to decide whether to do such a thing—and I know many choose not to testify against their attackers. I know they have reasons, and that often those reasons are connected to the way our culture can sometimes make the attacked feel more guilty than the attacker. But at the same time, I never once questioned whether I could testify. I know the truth. There’s nothing anyone can say that could ever take that away from me. I also knew I would testify because if I didn’t, nothing would change.

A part of me was hoping that when I heard the word “guilty,” I would feel this incredible relief—you know, movie-script ending, everyone sails away into the sunset and is happy again. Yes, there was a relief that Kalebu wasn’t found “not guilty,” that everyone did the right thing and the system worked.

But there’s also this lack of satisfaction.

In a way, I felt like I lost Teresa all over again; this was the very last thing I could do for her. You feel a little helpless when you realize there’s nothing out there in the future that might make you feel better. Except time. You know that time heals. And hope.

What I really want, I now realize, is peace.

And I know now, after this trial, that justice does not bring peace. It only brings
justice.

* * *

So here I am, days away from the sentencing of the man who killed my beloved Teresa and almost succeeding in killing me. I have the option to speak at his August 12 sentencing hearing, the opportunity to deliver a “Victim Impact Statement” about how this crime has affected my life.

It’s strange. I have this opportunity to say pretty much whatever I want to him, yet there are no words. There’s no language for that. As a result, part of me doesn’t want to say anything.

But how do I not speak to him during my one chance?

So I’m left with this riddle: How do I find the words, Isaiah Kalebu, to tell you what you took from me?

If I were to address you right now, I would say: I’ll never understand what made you capable of such cruelty, and I absolutely believe that you deserve to go to prison. But I don’t hate you. I never wanted you put to death. I don’t want revenge. In fact, with each day that goes by, I think of you less and less.

I want, though, to say something to your mother, Denise Kalebu: I am so sorry your family was destroyed by this. Thank you for your honesty and bravery in the courtroom. I wish you peace.

Still, I don’t know what I’ll actually say on August 12. It’s still forming. Maybe writing this will help me figure it out.

I know he doesn’t deserve my heart. But I feel that I should say something heartfelt—just in case, through some fluke of fate or justice, some parole board decades in the future needs to know.

I will say the legal and social health system never let me down through this trial. I’m so grateful I want to name names: Lucy, my counselor; Diane Priest, my advocate; Seattle police detectives Dana Duffy and Dave Duty, my truth seekers; King County prosecutors James Konat and Brian McDonald, paralegal Cheryl Woods, and the entire prosecution team, my truth tellers; King County Superior Court judge Michael Hayden; the citizens who made up the jury. Thank you all for listening. Thank you for hearing. Thank you for believing me. Thank you for doing the right thing.

* * *

At the end of the day, there is nothing that can make this wrong right again. No final words or punishment can undo what’s been done.

So as I prepare to close this chapter—somehow, a few days from now, with words yet to be determined—and begin my walk into the next chapter, I want to look, as much as I can, toward the positive, toward the future.

There is a lot of good that has come out of this horror, and a lot that can still come.

Already, I have been given the gift of focus by some special angels in my life. Brandi Carlile and Kim Bogucki, who formed Fight the Fear Campaign (www.fightthefearcampaign.com), and in Teresa’s name have created a program that has taught hundreds of women the art of self-defense. Jean Fox and Rachel Ebeling, Teresa’s lifelong friends, who founded the Angel Band Project (www.angelbandproject.org), which created an album honoring Teresa’s life. Its proceeds aid the Voices and Faces Project (www.voicesandfaces.org), an effort that itself was created “to give voice and face to survivors of sexual violence” and to offer “a sense of solidarity to those who have lived through rape and abuse while raising awareness of how this human rights and public health issue impacts victims, families, and communities.”

I call Brandi, Kim, Jean, and Rachel angels not only because they are four of the most incredible people I have ever known, but because they gave me purpose—gave me something to do at a time when I so desperately needed to connect to something bigger than the loss. Something more powerful than the fear. They helped heal my heart and my mind with their passion and generosity, and I lack the words to express my gratitude.

Perhaps I can demonstrate my purpose and gratitude, though, by writing this. Perhaps I can encourage others to share their stories of violence and sexual violence in whatever way they can.

While it was a great honor to be called the bravest woman in Seattle in this newspaper, I’m pretty much just like you. I wake up in the morning and I do my best to get through the day. I laugh and I cry. I have big dreams and make mistakes (sometimes huge ones). I draw strength from others, especially my friends, who always seem to know what to say, when to laugh, when to do nothing at all. They show up—even when I can’t say the same for myself.

One of the biggest parts of that strength comes from being loved and believed in by my 95-year-old grandma. She tells me that she loves me at least once a day, and when I sat down and told her what happened that night, she never questioned my ability to handle it all. She is the strongest woman I know, and I am glad to have discovered that I am more like her than I thought. When everyone else was so worried that I was going to crack into a million pieces, she just said: “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.” I thought: “Okay. She believes in my ability to be strong. And so I’m just going to be that.”

Many women don’t report rapes, and among those who do, many don’t testify. I understand why. There can be such a level of shame, and the conversation out there, a lot of the time, is: What did the women do to bring this on? In our case: Why was your window open that night?

Well, that’s not why we were raped.

Or, in other cases, that the woman wore a short skirt or opened the door to a stranger. And trials can end up being about whether the woman is lying or what else she did to supposedly try to make this occur. I know they were just doing their jobs, but I felt the defense attorneys tried to do this to me at some points.

All I can say is that I think there is tremendous power in testifying, in saying, “This happened to me.” And if you can, showing that you have a name, a voice, and—hey, I know, this is one of the hardest parts because it’s more than I’m ready to do right now—a face.

So when people say, “Oh, you’re so brave,” I say, “I don’t know.”

I don’t think I’m special. I don’t think I’m this awesome, amazing individual. I don’t. I struggle every day. It’s taken bravery to make the choice to get up every day and not stay in my room and pretend it didn’t happen. And I’m proud of that.

But sometimes crazy stuff happens and we’re called on to be brave, and I don’t think I’ve done anything different than anyone else would do. Anyway, bravery isn’t always a solitary thing. All these people in my life have helped. You, by listening to my story, have helped.

Finally—but, really, firstly—Teresa’s bravery has helped. When someone saves your life, and her life is taken in the process, how can you let it go to waste?

You can’t.

I feel that all the time.

So I try to be the best person I can be and try to make the most of the life Teresa saved. It’s not easy. (Did I mention that?) There have been dark, painful moments. But there have been incredible, delicious, blissful, and hopeful moments as well. I have a beautiful and brave new girlfriend. She has had to witness much of the fear and grief right along with me, all while keeping an open and hopeful heart. She is strong and loving, and makes me laugh like no other. I couldn’t have gotten through the best or the worst without her.

I know that I want to be truly happy again, like I was on those last few days I shared with Teresa, and I firmly believe that second chances are possible. So I will keep working toward mine.

I’ll never be the same person I was on July 18, 2009. Yet I am proud of the woman I’ve become.

I’m in a good place. As good as can be. recommended

263 replies on “I Would Like You to Know My Name”

  1. I’m sorry. This may have already been touched on … But do you believe in the death penalty? This guy is going to get a life cared for .. in a cage, but free to think and pursue anything he wants for life…? To the tune of some $500,000 or more on the backs of taxpayers. ?? Just curious. imo, There should be some sort of extra verifiable proof method .. and then .. wah-lah! And in this case it’s as obvious as the surviving victim knowing that he was in fact the rapist/murderer .. and probably an offender of all sorts his whole life. He’s no random thug that turned crazy .. Disagree? I’d like to hear it.

  2. I wanted tio share this poem with you, it gives me so much comfort. I am proud of you for just getting through all this, and hope you find some small measure of comfort in the words of this beautiful poem.

  3. I’m sorry. This may have already been touched on … But do you believe in the death penalty? This guy is going to get a life cared for .. in a cage, but free to think and pursue anything he wants for life…? To the tune of some $500,000 or more on the backs of taxpayers. ?? Just curious. imo, There should be some sort of extra verifiable proof method .. and then .. wah-lah! And in this case it’s as obvious as the surviving victim knowing that he was in fact the rapist/murderer .. and probably an offender of all sorts his whole life. He’s no random thug that turned crazy .. Disagree? I’d like to hear it.

  4. Thank you for writing this. It was incredibly moving and gave me a feeling of peace I didn’t know I was missing until reading it. It made me cry, partially in relief, when all other articles about your attack left me both jittery and devastated.

    I have been reading all of Eli’s articles about this by myself. I’ve only shared the existence of the crime with my partner, none of the soul wrenching details. I’ve been trying, in some strange way, to protect my own little family, frightfully similar to yours and Teresa’s. I’ve also been trying to reassure myself that something like this couldn’t happen to us, so I don’t need to share it with the my partner. However what you wrote was too beautiful not to share, and puts all of my rationalizations to grinding shame. You are amazing and an inspiration in all sorts of ways.

  5. Jennifer, you may not feel like a hero, but this world would be a much better place if we all exemplified the grace, compassion and strength that you have in your words here and in your reactions to this horrific ordeal. You are an inspiration.

    Much love and peace to you, my dear.

  7. Jen
    I lock my windows everynight now. I kiss my kids
    extra, I give whatever extra energy I have in thought
    to you each day. What a journey you are on. I am trying
    to grasp your abilities, to be forgiving, to be moving ahead.
    I always knew you were destined for a full life. I am
    devestated you lost a love and were caused so much
    pain. We talk about you a lot. Like a touchstone reminding
    us of all things healing and hopeful.

  9. You are on your way, Jen! You are brave – it takes an act of courage to share your story and you have done it beautifully.
    Although I have never met you, I have thought of you many times over the last few years, wishing you strength and healing.
    Jan

  10. Dear Jennifer,
    All the love in the world to you. I don’t know what to say here to convey how deeply your bravery has moved me. And how much I admire the way that you have used your pain to assist in affecting positive change for women with your participation in those programs that you mentioned. You are an inspiration.

    I am glad that you have found love again. I wish for you the second chance that you deserve and hope that you can find peace and happiness in your future.
    Shellie

  11. Jennifer, thank you for everything you have done. You may not think of yourself as particularly amazing or brave, but every step you have taken in this process has provided immeasurable insight into crimes such as these, added humanity to them — so often the forgotten element — reminded us all of what can be lost and also of the incredible capacity to survive and thrive that each of us have. Thank you for writing this.

  12. Thank you for sharing your experience in such a way it calls for all of us to be more compassionate and stronger and the best of who we can be. My love and prayers for you and beautiful Theresa.

  14. Dear Jen,

    Thank you for sharing your story in a way that called upon all of us to be more compassionate, stronger and nurturing. My prayers and thoughts are with you and Theresa.

  15. Jen, thank you so much for sharing your story here. I have never met you or Teresa, but I have thought of you both every day since July 19, 2009. What happened to you has had a deep impact on my life and I have been changed because of it. I wish you, Teresa, and your families peace and healing, as well as Denise Kalebu and the Kalebu family. I am grateful to The Stranger for continued reporting on your story. I am so proud of you for moving forward with your life and for your bravery. Thank you for your courage.

  16. When Eli wrote of you as the bravest woman in Seattle, he may have been either premature or prescient. By writing this piece and introducing yourself to all of us, and the world, you have cemented that status. Like all of these others, my thoughts are often with you both, Jennifer and Theresa. I hope that you can allow time to heal you, eventually, and have the life you deserve, and that you both deserved.

  17. UNCUT: Statement From Victim Jennifer Hopper

    Jennifer Hopper, the surviving victim in the South Park attack that killed her partner, made a statement at Isaiah Kalebu’s sentencing.

    http://www.kirotv.com/video/28850948/ind…

    You are truly a gracious and brave young woman. I hope the media continues to leave you alone now that you have come forward so that you can continue to heal. I don’t know you Jen, but I feel as if I do. I hope I can find the bravery, courage and grace that you have shown when I face my own attackers later this year. Many blessings to you and thank you for sharing your story. May Teresa RIP now.

  19. To #206, I feel you when you suggest the death penalty, I really do. What I get from reading Ms. Hopper’s writing and watching the tape of her statement in court today is that she is forgiving her attacker not because he deserves it but because she does. Teresa’s family does, too. They deserve to take back their power that the attacker would still control if they allowed anger and revenge to dominate their psyches and overwhelm their souls. Thank you #205 for that truly amazing poem. Mostly, thank you Jennifer for showing grace under fire that is powerful and transformative. I’m humbled by your empathy, your courage, and I feel the need to find it within myself to become a better person after having read your story.

  21. Jennifer: the universe will right itself. You will be made whole. You are very loved. Even though I’ll probably never meet you, I love you.

  22. Thank you for sharing your story. May this help the many more women and men who are raped each year.
    One day at a time Jennifer.
    There is a line between being a victim and being a survivor.
    As a former victim myself I know you are well on your way to being that survivor.

    All my best to you,
    Greg

  23. You do yourself an injustice to say you are not brave. Your determination to live life – LIVE – is nothing short of heroic. Thanks so much for sharing your story.

  24. Wonderful story, thank you for sharing, this is how we women empower ourselves. I will say though that men are bigger and stronger than us, so I will be purchasing a gun to level the playing field. I think all women should own one and keep it by their bed.

  25. Wonderful story, thank you for sharing, this is how we women empower ourselves. I will say though that men are bigger and stronger than us, so I will be purchasing a gun to level the playing field. I think all women should own one and keep it by their bed.

  26. Thank you for sharing your story with the world. Your courage will help others to be brave and tell their stories. The gratitude you showed for the support you were given will inspire others to be support for people who have been violated. I hope you continue to heal and make the world a better place through truth.

  27. Your story was told with such strength and honesty, and I think it is amazing how you have reacted.I read what you eventually said in the victim impact statement, and was utterly moved. Thank you for sharing. Keep on keeping on and remember that what you have shared will have such an amazing impact on so many peoples lives.

  29. Jen, chances are you won’t read this. But just in case, I feel compelled to write something.

    I can’t fully express how upset I was reading about your story. I cried for a long time over the horror you and your partner faced, and the sadness of your loss. I don’t know if it gives you any comfort to know that someone you’ve never met grieved over your experience, but I want you to know that the thoughts of many, many people are with you.

    I think you are doing a wonderful thing for victims of sexual assault and you are undoubtedly helping all women take another step forward towards a safer community in which we don’t need to own guns or install dead-bolts on our doors.

    I’m so, so sorry for what happened to you and Theresa. She sounded like a lovely, kind and intelligent woman. As do you. Thank you so much for sharing your story.

  30. Jennifer,

    Wow.You have such a gentle voice and what you say is so resilient. As a young widow myself, your words about the loss of your true love resonated strongly with me. While my husband died of natural causes, it happend suddenly and I too felt picked up by the scruff of my neck and dropped headfirst into another life. I lost my husband two months before your ordeal but even through the fog of my early grief I saw your story and I’ve followed it closely.

    The thing that I appreciated most about your piece was reading that you do not hate Kalebu and did not want him to die. You have not let the ugliness of your experience blacken your heart. It is so important not to let revenge and hate keep you from healing. You have given this world gentle humanity by wishing no harm on him and by feeling compassion for the wrongs that may have come to him. Your ability to feel for him and his family brought me to tears and I hope will be one of the things that helps you find your future peace.
    I dream of my husband often and find comfort in my night time visits with him. I hope that some day sooner than later you can sleep comfortably enough to see your Teresa again.

    The world is a better place with you still in it. Live well for Teresa and live happily for yourself.

    With graditude,
    Robin

  31. Wow, what an amazing, powerful essay. You made me cry, and even though you may not feel brave and strong at times, YOU ARE. Wishing you eventual peace and much love.

  32. That was very powerful. I commend you for sharing your name and working hard to put your life back together. I have thought alot about your story since it all went down, alot. What if that had happened to me? What would I have done? And so on.
    Of course you want your Teresa back, but you will come out of this a stronger person. You have to… By the end of your article, I couldn’t see the pages anymore. I haven’t cried that hard since my Grandmother died. I shed tears for the death and for your decision to deny death and live. Powerful. The most powerful article the Stranger will ever publish –

    Much Love

  33. Thank you. I don’t know you. But I have thought of the both of you many, many times. I write poetry. (I often think of victims of crime–recently I wrote another poem about Goodman, Cheney, and Schwerner!) My poems often speak of the randomness in life, the unfairness. And when I finish I still see the randomness and the unfairness. Parts of your response are words I have written in poems and stories or said in lectures. I love knowing you are a forgiving individual. The perpetrator is not well. he should have had help ages ago. I am glad you can say you are in “a good place,” not the same place, not the best place, but a “good place.” Writing can sometimes bring us to a good place. Know I will think of you two. I shall continue to wish you well and say prayers for you. Time won’t necessarily heal the pain, but I have learned that it sometimes lessens the pain.
    Georgia

  35. As many others have also said, I think about you and your story all the time. I’m in awe that from such horror could come such a flood of love.
    We wonder about you and this is such a gift to the community to hear form you and know that you are OK, at least in this moment. Your story will stay with us. Thank you so much for sharing with us. blessings.

  36. We love you, Jen! You have VIking strength that will carry you through your life towards renewed security and happiness. We value your awesomeness.

  37. Hi Jen,
    I went to high school with you years ago. I read this story and I am in awe. I appreciate your honesty and bravery and am so sorry this happened to you and your partner. I truly hope you and your families find peace. Your compassion is nothing less than amazing.

  38. Thank you for your insight. Thank you for speaking for women who have been raped. I have been, twice. For months you have been on my mind. I wonder how you can live in the space where the impossible happened. I deeply respect your courage. I will never forget you. Please continue to recover.

  39. Thanki you for your insight. Thank you for speaking for those who have been raped. I have, twice. Thank you for your courage. I have hoped for your recovery, and wondered how you can stay in the physical place where the unimaginable happened. Please continue to heal. I will never forget you.

  41. Thank you, Jennifer Hopper. You are amazingly brave and I wish you all the best as you continue to recover. I suspect you will continue to make the world a better place with your strength.

  42. Thank you for sharing your words with all of us. You and Teresa have both demonstrated that love is more powerful than anything, and I will never forget your story. I know that you will find peace and be happy again.

  44. Amazing, thank you so much for sharing your story! Your Grandmother was right, you are strong and human bound together by all that helped you through this horrendous ordeal. I’ll keep you in prayer!

  45. Dear Jennifer Hopper,
    I am so glad you are still here and have found your voice to share with us, the world.

    Thank you for sharing your story. I am touched, moved and inspired by your honesty, courage and willingness to move through this experience as vulnerably as you did.

    With great respect and appreciation for sharing your story, I thank you.

    Kris

  46. Dear Jennifer Hopper,
    I am so glad you are still here and have found your voice to share with us, the world.

    Thank you for sharing your story. I am touched, moved and inspired by your honesty, courage and willingness to move through this experience as vulnerably as you did.

    With great respect and appreciation for sharing your story, I thank you.

    Kris

  47. Thank you Jennifer Hopper for still being here and finding your voice to share with us, the world.

    Thank you for your honest letter. I admire and appreciate the honesty, courage and willingness you possess to move through this experience with such vulnerable grace.

    With respect and admiration for who you are, how you’ve shown up and the bravery to write this letter, I thank you.

    Kris

  50. I’ve been following your story from the beginning and want to say that I’m so sorry for your loss and am inspired by your strength and courage throughout this horrific time in your life. I’m so happy that you have found love again and wish you both peace. Take care. xo

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