Help Teresa Survive: A Broken Survivor’s Cry for Mercy – Please Don’t Let Me Lose Everything Tonight

Dear kind souls,

My name is Teresa Mercer, and at 59, I’m on my knees begging for your help through tears I can’t hold back anymore. I’m a spiritually driven woman who clings to the Divine with every aching breath, but right now the darkness feels heavier than I can bear alone.

Sixteen years. Sixteen terrifying years trapped in domestic violence that stole my safety, my dignity, and finally forced me to flee for my life with nothing but a 35-pound suitcase and a shattered ankle—broken so badly I could barely limp, yet I dragged myself away because staying meant death. That ankle later required major surgery: two of the three bones had to be deliberately rebroken and realigned, held together with nine screws and a couple of pins—just enough to keep going.

I moved to that city to start work in healthcare, answering a burning calling to heal others, but through Divine grace, in the very same week I found healthcare work and a bed at a shelter—my ankle fully healed like a thunderbolt miracle, letting me dive straight into on-call shifts 24/7. The previous wildfires had already raged like hell unleashed, leaving refugees who lost everything saturating the rental market—every room, every apartment, every spare corner claimed, leaving no place for a penniless newcomer like me.

I endured three heartbreaking months in the shelter, treasuring a simple bed, a hot shower, and meager meals that fueled my fight—working those relentless on-call shifts amid the post-fire chaos and rising needs, rain or shine, heart heavy but spirit unbreakable, still penniless yet persevering relentlessly, saving every hard-earned penny for a fresh beginning. The Divine whispered strength into those exhausting steps; they became my moving meditations, my silent pleas for better days.

Those prayers were heard. After exactly three months of working and saving with nothing but grit and grace, I secured my humble one-bedroom apartment in 2019 (never a late rent payment—until this crisis), filled with cherished secondhand warmth, and my trusty car has carried me faithfully for over five years.

As a frontline warrior through the chaos of COVID, everything changed the day I lunged to catch a falling patient—shattering my back in the process. Multiple bulging and herniated discs, sciatica blazing like wildfire down both legs… the agony was relentless. Seeking any chance at relief, I made the heartbreaking decision to leave the West Coast behind and relocate to a more affordable state where costs wouldn’t crush me completely. There, still searching for healing, I finally underwent three grueling back surgeries. My neurologist had recommended a fourth all along, and now the last surgery is wearing off exactly as the doctor warned it would—the pain creeping back fiercer than ever, stealing my sleep, my peace, and my strength. Over a year ago, after exhausting every penny of my savings and maxing out my credit just to survive, I had to find work desperately—and gig work became my desperate answer. It let me push through the pain: work intensely, stop to collapse in rest when my body screamed, then force myself up to work again, even if it turned my days into brutal 19-hour marathons with barely any sleep or relief. Grinning through gritted teeth on rideshare runs, food deliveries, and grocery hauls for strangers—because animals and people still ignite pure joy in my spirit. I cherish every pawed creature the Universe gifted us and pour kindness into every community interaction.

Prior to healthcare, I had been a self-employed cleaning powerhouse for 12 years, transforming dusty new construction sites into sparkling homes with grit, pride, and a genuine smile for every client.

But now? Twelve days stranded without my car—unknowingly parked beside a fire hydrant completely hidden by tall bushes, it was towed cruelly from my own spot. Impound fees devour like flames. Eviction papers glare. Utilities loom next. Car note overdue. Empty fridge—I survive on scraps between gigs. Insurance gone. I’m trembling, isolated, the physical torment dwarfed by soul-crushing fear.

I’ve battled too fiercely to seek aid. I’ve been the riser from ashes—the one who fled on a shattered ankle rebuilt with nine screws and pins, who in one miraculous week secured healthcare work, a shelter bed, and full ankle healing to launch into 24/7 on-call shifts amid a wildfire-ravaged city with zero rentals, yet kept saving until that precious apartment key was finally in my hand in 2019. Tonight, I’m shattered, imploring: Will you shine as the light I need? On FreeFunder, every dollar reaches me 100%—no fees stolen—directly fueling:

• Rescuing my apartment from eviction + late fees

• Liberating my car from impound + payment/tires/maintenance

• Health insurance to unlock that fourth surgery

• Utilities, food, raw survival

I won’t surrender. With your compassion, I’ll mend, drive once more, nurture others and animals, and multiply this grace exponentially. If my journey stirs your spirit, please share, give $5, $10, a whisper of prayer. You could rescue a fire-tested survivor who still dares to hope.

From my soul’s depths, thank you. Infinite blessings for truly seeing me.

In tears and hope,

Teresa Mercer 🙏❤️🐾