Ana saw the women. Sitting. Scared. Not knowing what to expect next. Not knowing if they wanted to be around for what was next.

"I know you are confused. I know you have questions," Ana said. "I know, because I, too, don't know what to expect. I don't know if I have the strength to be around for what will happen next."

Ana looked at the women. Made eye contact. With each woman in turn. Hoping to meet each of them before her words left.

"Hello," she said. "I am Ana and I am surviving domestic violence."

She wiped tears running for her cheeks, using both hands.

"You must be as nervous as I am," she said. "It's hard. Being out in public. For the whole, non understanding world to see. Out for the whole world to see, to see the face of vulnerability. To see what weak looks like - through me." Ana pressed her finger tips to her shoulders, folding her arms across each other.

"I never thought of myself as weak," she continued. Ana saw some of the women rocking in know of what she said. She realized she was rocking, too.

"I never knew I was weak until I regained consciousness on my living room floor. My son was shaking me. Funny how at that age, he knew something was wrong. We were. Some of us still are. Beat, cursed, forced numb in the pain. A pain we don't believe anyone else knows.

"We were. But we are not now weak. Not now. Maybe later tonight. When that drink is lonely. And I'm in the mood for company. Or, maybe next week when this," Ana forced out the word "man," continuing, "is leaving apologies on the machine. But not now. Not in this moment. Because we are here, admitting it."

Ana paused, before saying "You already know it. And, not that the details matter so much as the many, many lessons I've learned. But I'd still like to share my story with you, if it's alright."