What They Didn’t See: A Trafficking Survivor’s Truth

What They Didn’t See: A Trafficking Survivor’s Truth

By Kayce Underhill

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Some nights, the quiet is too loud.

I lie in bed, tracing over old scars only I can see — not because I miss it, but because forgetting feels like betrayal.

I’m 32 years old now, a mother to two beautiful children. My baby girl is only two months old. I look at her sleeping so peacefully and I pray — fiercely, deeply — that she never has to endure what her mother did.

Because what they didn’t see was the truth. My truth.

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The Beginning: A Lie Disguised as Freedom

From the moment I met Chanel, I believed I had some control. She said, “Don’t worry, you don’t have to have sex with these men, that’s not really what they’re expecting.” And young, naive me believed her.

I stayed with Chanel for nearly three years before realizing she had no real power over me. But by then, I’d already brought her more money than I ever want to think about.

I walked away — but not without bruises, black eyes, and once again, nothing to my name.

But I knew I had more in me. I wanted to fight.

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The Illusion of Safety

After leaving Chanel, I was still in Charlotte, North Carolina. No home. Nowhere to go.

I met a man who seemed kind. We had a son together — he’s 10 now. He didn’t know the truth about Chanel. I told him she was just someone I worked with at a strip club. And he was okay with that. He didn’t mind that I “danced.”

But the truth is, it wasn’t dancing. It was surviving.

Eventually, I lost custody of my son to my father when he was nine months old. My father knew something wasn’t right. As painful as that was, I’m forever grateful. My son never had to witness the pain I was still enduring.

Now at 10, he asks questions. He wants to know why I wasn’t there. One day, I’ll tell him.

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California: Addiction in Disguise

I moved to California to escape. My baby’s father had turned to selling drugs, and I had gone back to what I thought was my only skill: making money with my body.

When he started catching on, he’d threaten me. Hit me. I had no money. No peace. No respect.

Eventually, we both spiraled into heroin addiction after losing custody of our son. It was hell.

I stayed in California for two years. I got sober. But even in sober living, many girls were making money online — sugar daddies, selling pics. I told myself it wasn’t as bad. I only did it a few times.

Still surviving. Still stuck.

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Relapse and the Road to Atlanta

I had absconded probation for smuggling drugs into a prison. By grace, I didn’t end up incarcerated — just on probation. I came back to South Carolina sober, but the sober living here was a run-down trap compared to California.

I relapsed within four months.

That relapse pushed me into the hands of new men — new pimps, new trauma. My dad let me stay with him for a few days around Christmas to be with my son. But then I had to go. My choices?

1. Go with my “best friend” to Atlanta to make money (she said it would be just us, fun).

2. Live with a stalker who’d make me trade sex for a roof.

I chose Atlanta.

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Nitty: The Devil in Designer

The moment we hit the highway, I knew something was wrong. Her conversations revealed everything — this was no girl’s trip. I ended up in the hands of one of Atlanta’s most notorious traffickers. He called himself a “manager.” He was a monster.

I made upwards of $6,000 a night. He took every dollar.

I’d sneak cash and hide it — but if Candace found out, she’d tell him. She hated me for “stealing clients.” But we were both in hell.

Nitty had control over my phone, my schedule, my life. He’d try to force disgusting things on me and justify it as “part of the game.” One day, I reached out to my dad. “I’m being trafficked,” I told him. He didn’t know what to do. How could he?

I finally escaped — but not without a brutal beating. I thought I was going to die.

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The Beginning of Healing

March 2021 was the start of something new.

I entered a 30-day rehab in Columbia, South Carolina. Then came Shalom House Ministries in Anderson. That led me to Switch, an organization in Greenville that helps survivors of trafficking. They connected me with a program in Washington State.

I packed my bags and flew across the country, finally feeling free.

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Washington: A New Life

I spent 15 months in that program in a small town called Lynden. I was sober, loved, safe.

For the first time, I was surrounded by people who got it — other survivors, and women who opened their homes and hearts to me with no strings attached.

That time will forever be sacred to me.

I was supposed to move home to South Carolina to live with my dad. But after a near-death car accident, I woke up in the ICU to an email saying I could no longer move in with him. I had to figure it out on my own.

So I did.

I entered a program in Seattle called R.E.S.T. (Real Escape from the Sex Trade) — and they’ve been part of my journey ever since. Angels on earth.

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Now: A Mother, A Survivor, A Voice

Piece by piece, I’ve rebuilt a life.

I met an amazing man who sees me — really sees me. No judgment. Only love.

In February 2024, we welcomed our baby girl into the world at just 33 weeks. She spent a month in the NICU, fighting. And she’s strong — just like her mama.

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Truth Bomb: Leaving Isn’t Simple

People think once you leave, it’s over. But on average, a woman goes back to her abuser seven times before she leaves for good.

It’s not weakness. It’s trauma. It’s survival. It’s the way we’re wired to believe maybe this time it won’t hurt as bad.

It applies to domestic violence.

It applies to trafficking.

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To Anyone Reading This…

I’m still healing.

But I’ve come a long way.

I tell my story not for sympathy, but for truth.

Because trafficking is real — and it doesn’t always look like the movies.

It can happen to anyone.

And sometimes, it looks like someone just trying to survive.

If this story reached you, moved you, or opened your eyes — please share it. You never know who might need it.

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— Kayce Underhill

Survivor. Mother. Advocate.