A Purpose For My Pain: From Poverty To Practicing Law

By Ieshia N Champs

In A Purpose for My Pain, the author shares her remarkable journey of overcoming the unimaginable-rising from the depths of poverty, abuse, and trauma to become a licensed attorney. This powerful memoir chronicles her life of hardship, marked by a childhood of n

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ieshia N. Champs
• Release date: Feb 17, 2025
• ISBN: 9798218594992

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A Purpose for My Pain

Ieshia N. Champs

Copyright © 2025 Ieshia N. Champs

All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This non-fiction Christian book, A Purpose for My Pain is a work inspired by faith and aimed at sharing spiritual insights and wisdom. The content within is rooted in the teachings of Christianity, and any biblical references are used in the context of religious education and commentary.

The author acknowledges the trademarks and copyrights of the products and references used within this non-fiction work.

Cover design by Rose Miller

Published by Ieshia N. Champs

Note: This non-fiction Christian book is intended to provide spiritual guidance and insight. The author encourages readers to seek their understanding within the framework of their faith and personal beliefs.

DEDICATION

This memoir is dedicated to God, who has been my constant source of strength, guidance, and grace. Without His love, wisdom, and unshakable faithfulness, this journey would not have been possible. To Him be the glory for every step, every lesson, and every blessing along the way.

This book is dedicated to my sister, my best friend, my angel, Ebony, who has been with me through every pain, trauma, joy, and challenge. When I look back over my life, I see that God in His grace, blessed me with you.  You've been there to cry with me, lean on, encourage me, and protect me—my backbone since childhood. Thank you from the depths of my heart for walking this journey with me, for being my strength, and for filling my life with love. I love you with everything in me.

This book is dedicated to my late Bishop Richard Holman and my Overseer Louise Holman. Your prayers have covered me, your words have spoken life into me, and your labor of love has guided me, even through my moments of doubt. Your unwavering faith, love, and support have shaped my journey in ways words cannot fully express. Thank you for standing by me, believing in me, and leading me closer to God. I love you always.

This book is dedicated to my children, nieces, and nephews. You are the light of my life and the reason I strive to be better every day. May you always know your worth, walk in love, and understand that with faith, anything is possible.

To my younger self, and to anyone else walking through hard times and struggling to understand why: It gets better. Trust the process. God is not done with you yet. Hold on, and know that your story is still unfolding.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Good Times      7

The Chaos Begins      15

Taken—It’s My Fault      24

A Different World (Foster Care)      28

My First $50      38

It Cost Me      46

From Pillar to Post      58

Ieshia’s Having a Baby & a Crisis      78

The Power of the Tongue      92

The Hand That Hit Me      108

Strange Things (The Prophetess)      123

My Wilderness Season (2009)      133

My Faith Is On Life Support      149

My Exodus      171

And It Came to Past      193

Why Did I Get Married      212

The Jealous Lover - TMSL      221

You Won’t Understand Now      235

The Bar Exam      253

The Purpose      264

The Journey to Forgiveness      273

1

The Good Times

Boom! The sound echoed as we turned the corner, just finishing a game of freeze tag. Port Arthur Police! Get down on the ground! an officer shouted as we watched masked and unmasked officers swarm into apartment 1130 G. It was just another ordinary day of my childhood in the Carver Terrace Projects, where I had lived since birth.

The jump-out boys had made their second appearance this month, clad in bulletproof vests, armed with guns, wearing undercover masks, and equipped with tools to kick in someone’s door. My friends and I, along with the rest of the onlookers, sat on the stairs across the way, watching as three men and one woman were led out in handcuffs and loaded into police vehicles. Shortly after, life in the neighborhood resumed as usual, and we went back to our game of freeze tag.

Growing up, I was just like any other young girl with hopes and dreams of one day becoming a successful, confident woman who would give her children the world. Unfortunately, I had no idea what lay ahead for me in the years to come.

I was born in Port Arthur, Texas, to Hervin Champs and Dianna Jackson, who, at the time, were two loving parents doing all they could to make us happy.

Carver Terrace consisted of approximately ten rows of light brick buildings, with a small street separating each row. Each building housed eight apartment units, clustered in sections of four, with one set of green steel stairs providing access. Behind each building were clotheslines where residents hung their laundry to dry. Across the street, visible from the sidewalk outside our apartment, was a small store called Thornton’s, that sat directly across the street from that we could see by standing on the sidewalk outside of our apartment.

In front of the complex, there was a park, and right next to it stood St. John Baptist Church. No matter the time, day or night, the projects were alive with activity. Groups of people sat on cars, smoking; others walked down the street or along the sidewalks, radios perched on their shoulders as they danced to music. Barefoot kids dashed through the bushes or raced in the streets, while neighbors boiled crawfish on their porches. And, of course, there were moments when we all gathered to watch the jump-out boys raid someone’s place.

The police were a near-daily presence, and the drug-fueled lifestyle surrounding us was something we grew accustomed to. Carver Terrace was a world of its own—a bustling community that many of my relatives and friends called home.

My maternal grandmother, affectionately known as Granny, lived upstairs in the building directly across the sidewalk from us. My godmother, Karen, lived in a building just across the way. Granny used to call me Motor Mouth Bessie because I was always talking, unable to control the words tumbling from my mouth.

My parents were hardworking and very involved with my siblings and me. My dad was tall and lean, with a light complexion, almost albino, and curly hair that fell just to his shoulders. He wore glasses that made his eyes look tiny, and without them, he couldn’t see a thing. My mom, on the other hand, was average height, curvy, and full of life. Her almond-toned skin and radiant smile could brighten any room. She often wore her hair in an afro until the jerry curl era arrived. People called her Lady Di because she was such a beauty—a real fox!

David, my oldest brother and the eldest sibling, didn’t share the same dad as the rest of us. He fancied himself a ladies’ man, and his hazel eyes only added to his charm. He often found himself in trouble and spent a lot of time living with his father. Ebony, my older sister, was tall and stunning but constantly reminded me that she was the oldest. She had sandy red hair and rarely smiled, often acting like a second mother when our parents weren’t around. Though she could be a bully, she always had my back.

Chris, my younger brother at the time, was my little heartbeat. An albino with reddish-orange hair and a matching skin tone, Chris had a big wheel tricycle that he rode faster than I ever thought possible. Every time my mom left the house, Chris would bolt outside, grab his big wheel, and race down the sidewalk after her.

I also had another sibling, Orrin, who lived with his mother during this period, and later, two additional brothers, Erick and Derrick, were born into our family.

My parents were hardworking and very hands-on with my siblings and me. My mom would wake up early in the mornings to cook eggs and bacon. However, without fail, she always burned the bacon. She took pride in dressing my sister and me neatly, like baby dolls, whether it was a holiday or just another day for us to play outside with the other kids. She would style our hair in multiple pigtails, adorning them with colorful bows.

I attended Booker T. Washington Elementary School, which was within walking distance from the projects. On school mornings, after carefully combing my hair, my mom would generously apply Vaseline to my face and slick down my baby hairs on my forehead. I went to school shiny and clean as a whistle! During recess, grease would drip down my face from my hair and cheeks, but my mom never let up with the Vaseline.

After school, we walked home together with a group of other kids from the projects. It was never a dull moment. When it rained, we would wait for the downpour to lighten or catch a ride with a neighbor since my mom didn’t know how to drive, and my dad worked late.

One rainy afternoon, while waiting for the rain to let up, my sister and I noticed a car driving very slowly, constantly braking every few seconds. As the car approached, the driver rolled down the window and yelled, Ebony, Esha, and Chris, come on here! It was our mom.

We were so embarrassed, but we ran to the car anyway. All of us jumped into the back seat and exchanged glances. Even though I was only in kindergarten, I had enough sense to know this wasn’t okay. My mom had pulled the driver’s seat so far up to the steering wheel that I couldn’t even see it.

She started driving slowly, braking every five seconds, and Chris and I couldn’t stop laughing. Ebony finally asked, Mama, what are you doing?

Shut up, everybody! I’m nervous as hell, she snapped.

To make matters worse, she didn’t even have the windshield wipers on. Thank God we survived that trip! Every day after school, my mom would help us with our homework before letting us go outside to play. She cooked dinner daily. Although our cabinets were stocked with groceries, my mom’s go-to meal was roast with pork-n-beans and rice, or sometimes beans and wieners. We ate this at least three times a week unless my dad cooked for the week. When he did, we had more variety in our meals.

During the summer, we took a few road trips. We often visited my Uncle Walter Bell—whom we called Uncle Brother—my dad’s brother, who was in prison. My mom and dad would wake us up at 5:00 a.m. to get us dressed. After helping my mom get us ready, my dad would head outside to warm up the car. He had a white Toyota hatchback, and once we were all set, we’d hit the road!

It took us hours to get to the prison, but I loved those visits. Uncle Brother always called me Oreo Cookie, and he still does in his letters to this day. We’d visit for about two hours before heading back home since my mom had to work early the next day.

She worked at a nursing home as a certified nursing assistant and absolutely loved her job. My dad was a plant worker, but at that time, he was out of work. Still, he did everything he could to ease the load for my mom.

My dad was extremely neat. While my mom was at work, he cleaned the house, washed clothes, ran errands, and took care of us. One vivid memory I have is when he would sit my sister and me on the side of the tub to do our hair. Back then, we had jerry curls, so he’d grease our faces with Vaseline, pick out our hair, and add a generous amount of curl activator. After that, he’d slick it back and secure it with little pink hair combs on the side.

Finally, he’d pat it gently with both hands and proudly say, See, Daddy knows how to get his babies right.

There would be curl juice dripping everywhere! After finishing our hair, he’d dress us and take us to pick up my mom from work. When she turned around and saw us in the back seat—with our greasy faces, dripping hair, and matching outfits—she’d break into the biggest smile. Moments like that absolutely made her day.

When they were at their best, my mom and dad took great care of us. However, when I was about six years old, my parents—like many others—fell victim to the 90s crack epidemic, and a lot changed for our family. I’m sure there were other great moments and happier times before the trauma, as I’ve been told by family and friends. However, I was too young to recall any of those memories myself.

As things unraveled, my dad became physically abusive toward my mom. I vividly remember one particular argument between them. My siblings and I sat quietly on the couch, watching as it escalated. Suddenly, my dad picked my mom up and threw her to the floor. She began to cry. We cried too, begging them to stop, but our pleas were ignored—just as they were during other arguments.

Eventually, my parents went their separate ways, and we spent most of our time living with my mom. Despite no longer living together, my dad remained very active in our lives. He began a new relationship with my stepmom, Michelle, and together they gave us a baby brother, Erick.

There was a time, however, when my dad couldn’t see us because he was legally prohibited from being around my mom. Even then, he found a way to stay connected. At night, while my mom was asleep, he would come by our bedroom window, knock softly, and have long conversations with us through the window screen. My siblings—Ebony, Chris—and I shared that room, and those late-night talks with our dad are etched in my memory.

Our environment changed drastically during those years, leaving a lasting impact on us all.

2

The Chaos Begins

Over the next few years, my parents’ drug addiction worsened, and others began to notice changes in our appearance and home environment. We lived in a three-bedroom apartment in the projects, with no carpet and a bare, unkempt feel to the space.

One room belonged to my mom, another was shared by the three of us children, and the third room was consumed by chaos—a mountain of clothes scattered across the floor. These piles were a mix of clean and dirty clothes, indistinguishable from one another. My siblings and I would simply go in, pick something to wear, and toss it back into the pile when we were done. We had no way of knowing what was clean and what wasn’t.

After a few months, the piles of clothes were moved to the closet, and some were thrown away. Our beds were relocated to that room for reasons I didn’t understand at the time—and honestly, I didn’t care. Ebony, Chris, and I would sleep soundly in that room, blissfully unaware of the chaos unfolding around us.

Some nights, strangers gathered in what had once been our bedroom, now an empty space across the hall. My mom would shut the door to keep us from seeing what was going on, but my sister and I often cracked it open to peek inside. We would see a group of people sitting in a circle, passing around what looked like an empty baby food jar with a small, straw-like pipe sticking out of it and a piece of brillo pad nearby.

I had noticed my mom buying jars of baby food recently, but there weren’t any babies in the house. I thought maybe she couldn’t chew properly with her back teeth—but I was wrong. Each person would light the brillo pad with a lighter, inhale through the straw-like pipe, and pass the jar to the next person, who mimicked the same process. When the jar was empty, they’d sit around with wide, glassy eyes, picking at their faces, pacing the room, or humming softly.

Eventually, one of them would leave, only to return a short time later, restarting the cycle. Sometimes, the person leaving was my mom, leaving us alone in our room with strangers just across the hall. Ebony, always the protector, would reassure us, saying, Just put the cover over your head and go to sleep. I’ll stay up.

Later, I learned they were using a homemade crack pipe to get high. These gatherings would last all night, leaving my siblings and me restless the next morning. Ebony, only seven or eight years old at the time, often had to get us ready for school because my mom was either out all night or too exhausted to help. On some mornings, Granny would step in to help, despite her old age.

I actually loved going to school. The classroom felt like a safe haven, and I dreaded the sound of the dismissal bell because it meant returning home to uncertainty. Some days, we came home to nothing but a gallon of water and a box of baking soda in the refrigerator. Although my mom received government assistance, her addiction often led her to sell her food stamps, leaving us with very little to eat.

Eventually, I moved in with my Godmother, who took wonderful care of me. She would comb my hair into pretty little pigtails, and her son, Lionel, would pinch me just to annoy me. We went shopping every other month, and she took great pride in treating me as though I were her biological daughter.

After a few