Founder of JMMF, on the 16th Anniversary of Losing Jessica Martel
The Day Jessica Died
Jessica was a beautiful young woman with a soul full of music and stories. A devoted mother to three small children, she filled their lives with lullabies and bedtime tales spun from her heart. Her laughter could light up a room, and everyone who knew her loved her for her gentle spirit and her fierce love for her kids. She was my daughter. And she was taken from us by someone who was supposed to love her.
Her partner didn’t want her to be happy. He isolated her, controlled her every move, forbade her from writing or singing — things that were once her joy. He tore at her spirit piece by piece, until fear became her constant companion. She was afraid to leave; afraid he would kill her—and he told her he would. He told her if she ever came to us, he would hurt our family too.
In our small town, there were no shelters, no safe places to run. We tried everything. We researched how to create a safety plan. We had a plan. A place for her and the children to hide. A way out.
The day we chose for her to leave, I couldn’t focus. I had this awful feeling that it wouldn’t go away. I tried calling her throughout the day — no answer. Then, around 5 p.m., I heard her voice in my head so clearly, it stopped me cold. “Mom,” she said, just once. I knew something was wrong.
When my husband called and told me to come to her house, but wouldn’t say why, my world began to crumble. I arrived to flashing lights. Police tape. Officers everywhere. I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t move. But then I saw my husband, and the look in his eyes told me everything.
“Jessica is dead.”
My daughter — gone. Just like that. I tried to get to her, but they wouldn’t let me in. I screamed for her. I screamed for her children. I thought they were gone too.
They had watched it happen. He had beaten and strangled her in front of them—ages six, three, and just nine months old.
We took them home. We became their guardians, their only safe place. But trauma doesn’t end when violence does. Her children — our grandchildren — have suffered immensely. Nightmares, PTSD, fear, depression, suicidal thoughts. Sixteen years later, the pain still echoes through every part of their lives. And ours.
Our dreams of retirement are gone. Our energy is drained. We work to survive — for them. To give them the life she wanted them to have.
Turning Grief into Purpose
I didn’t know what to do with the pain I was suffering. I had also lived through abuse in my first marriage, and Jessica and I had often talked—when she was finally free—about building a safe haven for other families living in fear. A place where people could go and feel safe, protected, and believed.
After her death, I shared that dream with others. I didn’t know what it would become—just that I needed to do something. People began encouraging me to pursue it, and one day, a group of women showed up at my door, ready to help make it real.
In January 2012, the Jessica Martel Memorial Foundation was born.
It wasn’t easy. It meant telling Jessica’s story again and again, and each time I did, it broke my heart all over. I worried what sharing it would do to her children — if it would reopen wounds or deepen their pain. But they are incredible. They allowed me to tell it. They wanted others to hear it, if it meant saving even one life. Their courage has inspired me more than I can say.
And through that courage — through advocacy, resilience, and the support of our community—we raised enough money to build something we once only dreamed of.
In May of 2020, Jessie’s House opened its doors: a 35-bed emergency shelter for people of all genders fleeing domestic violence. Jessica’s portrait hangs inside, watching over every family that enters. Many clients say they feel her presence there — it brings them comfort, a sense of safety.
Then, in April of 2024, we opened a second-stage shelter called Eileen’s Place, a space for families to continue their healing after leaving crisis.
Since opening, we have helped and saved hundreds of women, men, and children. And while I still wake up every day wishing Jessica was here, there is comfort in knowing that her legacy is saving lives.
Reflections and Lessons
This journey has taught me more than I ever imagined I could endure or understand. I’ve learned that grief is not something you move on from — it becomes part of who you are. It lives in you, beside you, and shapes the way you see the world. But I’ve also learned that love — real, unconditional love — doesn’t die. It just finds new ways to express itself.
I’ve learned that we are stronger than we think. That healing is not linear. That some days will feel impossible, and some days will surprise you with light. I’ve learned that children, even those who have seen the darkest things, have a capacity for resilience and love that can move mountains.
And I’ve learned that telling the truth — even when it hurts — is what moves the world forward.
The Power of Community
Nothing we have done—not Jessie’s House, not Eileen’s Place, not the Foundation—would exist without community. When Jessica was killed, I felt alone. Isolated. Like we were the only ones in the world carrying this pain. But when I started to speak, people started to show up. With casseroles. With donations. With tears and stories of their own.
It was women who came to my door first, but soon it was everyone—neighbors, friends, strangers, even survivors who had never told their stories before. People came forward to say, “You are not alone. This matters.”
That’s how change begins. Not in grand speeches, but in one person reaching out to another and saying, “I believe you. I will help you.”
That’s how we built Jessie’s House. That’s how we opened Eileen’s Place. That’s how we will continue—together.
To Those Still Living in Fear
If you’re reading this and you’re afraid — if someone is hurting you, controlling you, silencing you — please know: you are not alone. There is a way out, even when it feels impossible. There are people who will help you, people who believe you, people who care.
I know how hard it is to leave. I know how dangerous it is. And I know the fear that comes with taking that first step. But I also know this: you are worth saving. You deserve a life free from fear. You deserve to be safe. To sing. To write. To be who you truly are.
For Jessica
Jessica, my beautiful girl, not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. Your laugh. Your voice. The way you held your babies and how fiercely you loved them. You were taken from us too soon. Brutally. Unfairly. But your light has not gone out.
Every time a woman walks through the doors of Jessie’s House and feels hope…
Every time a child sleeps soundly, without fear…
Every time someone says, “Because of your story, I found the strength to leave,”—
That is you.
Your name is spoken with love. Your story is changing lives. Your legacy is saving them.
You are not forgotten. You never will be.
We are still here, Jess. Loving you. Fighting for you. And making sure that no one else has to suffer in silence again.
