There was a time I lived quietly, not just in volume—but in presence. As a mom, a wife, a daughter, a friend, I wore smiles like well-tailored armor, managing the everyday chaos of motherhood with grace, laughter, and the occasional meltdown behind closed doors. But underneath that calm exterior was a heart still echoing from a night that changed everything. A night when time froze. When I died in my husband’s arms and was brought back to life.

Writing my first book, Heart of Hope, wasn’t just about putting words on paper. It was about giving a voice to the moments I once tried to forget, to the memories I buried in a corner of my mind because they hurt too much to revisit. It took years before I could even speak about it—about the sudden cardiac arrest, about seeing fear in my husband’s eyes, about the look on my daughter’s face that no child should ever wear.

Every time I sat to write, I found myself frozen at the keys, hands trembling—not because I didn’t know what to say, but because saying it meant I had to feel it all over again. I had to step back into that hotel room in Brazil, to the sound of chaos, to my mother screaming, to the silence that followed when my heart stopped. I had to confront the reality that I wasn’t just a survivor—I was a woman still healing, still learning to live again.

But something miraculous happened through the writing. I began to breathe differently. I began to cry—real, cleansing tears. Not just for what happened, but for everything I had locked away to protect my family. I cried for the guilt I carried as a mother—believing that my daughters had seen too much, felt too much. I cried for the shame I held as a wife—for needing to be rescued. And in the middle of it all, I found a version of myself I didn’t know existed.

I found strength.

Each chapter became a therapy session, each sentence a release of fear, shame, and unresolved trauma. With every word, I reclaimed a little more of my power. I realized that by hiding my pain, I wasn’t protecting my daughters—I was modeling silence. And that’s not the legacy I wanted to leave.

When I first stepped into the world of pageantry, I thought I was stepping outside my comfort zone. What I didn’t realize is that I was stepping into purpose. Wearing a crown didn’t mean I was pretending to be perfect—it meant I had accepted my scars and was choosing to shine anyway. Winning the title of Mrs. Florida American 2024 wasn’t about beauty. It was about bravery. It was the moment the quiet girl, the one who used to write letters to God in secret, stood on a stage and told the world: I survived. And I’m here to help others do the same.

Pageantry gave me a platform, yes. But more than that, it gave me connection. I met survivors, widows, nurses, daughters, and mothers who thanked me for sharing what I once thought would remain a private wound. Women who said, “I felt that too.” That’s the power of storytelling. It creates bridges between broken places. It invites healing in the very spaces we once feared to enter.

Writing Heart of Hope taught me that vulnerability is not weakness—it is the birthplace of strength. I learned that trauma doesn’t define us, but our response to it does. I learned that motherhood, with all its exhaustion and chaos, holds unmatched resilience. And I learned that the most profound healing happens not when we hide the pain, but when we offer it as a hand to someone else still lost in the dark.

To every quiet woman reading this—who’s carrying more than she lets on—know that there is beauty waiting in your story. And one day, your voice may be the one that gives someone else the courage to speak.

From the stillness of near-death to the spotlight of a stage, from guilt to grace, from silence to strength—this is my journey. And it’s only just beginning.

With all my heart,
Jana Bonassi
Author of Heart of Hope
Mrs. Florida American 2024
Survivor, Advocate, Mother, Voice of the Unspoken