In a narrow hallway lined with young women clad in black T-shirts and jeans, I stood among them not just as a curious visitor but also as a knowing survivor. As a person who’d felt similar pain.
I was on a tour of the Los Angeles campus of the Dream Center, a volunteer organization that meets the physical and spiritual needs of the community through nearly three hundred programs including a local and a mobile food bank, a mobile medical clinic, a rehab center for recovering addicts, and even a shelter for sex trafficking victims. Think of any need in the Los Angeles area, and the Dream Center probably has a program to fill it. Pastor Matthew Barnett, the founder of the organization and now a good friend of mine, calls it a twenty-four-hour spiritual hospital. To those who go there, it’s a lifeline.
A few days earlier, I had visited Pastor Matthew’s church. Lesley, one of my best friends, attends there and is involved in a few of their many outreach programs. She had told me great things about the Dream Center and the church, and I was curious to visit.
Matthew spoke that day. I’ll never forget what he said: “It’s great to gather together for church on Sunday, but real church starts Monday morning.” His message touched on some of the work that was being done through the Dream Center. I was intrigued and couldn’t wait for Lesley to show me around the nine-acre campus after church. I wanted to get a taste of what the headquarters of such an incredibly bighearted and mission-oriented organization looks like.
As we drove, Lesley talked about the various programs. I didn’t say much but soaked in the experience. My eyes were drawn to a group of women wearing the same clothes and walking in unison. They looked like an army battalion, moving with purpose and carrying themselves with pride. Lesley told me they were part of the women’s program. “They’re here for a second chance,” she said. I was deeply touched, moved by their courage to step out and be a part of the Dream Center ministry.
Tears streamed down my face as we continued to drive past large brick buildings with simple but neatly manicured lawns. “There’s the food bank where they process over one million pounds of donated groceries a month.” My mouth dropped. That’s a lot of food. “And there’s the teen unit, and over there is the men’s unit. The next one down is the women’s unit. There are over five hundred people living here at one time.” Lesley also showed me the renovated ambulances that drove around impoverished neighborhoods providing free medical care. We ended our drive passing by a diner that had servers, menus, and a wide selection of delicious food—all for free.
Seeing firsthand this amazingly orchestrated mission at work left me speechless. That night I tweeted, “Matthew Barnett is my new hero. He is truly the hands and feet of Jesus.” He tweeted back, “If you ever want a tour, let me know.”
One morning not long after, Matthew drove me around the campus showing me every facet of this incredible ministry. He had also arranged for a handful of men, women, and teens from different programs to share with me why they were at the Dream Center and how their lives had changed.
When we arrived at the women’s division, my heart was full of anticipation. I stood in front of them and wondered what brought these women, some as young as nineteen, to a place of so desperately needing help. Matthew introduced three of them who would share their testimonies with me. I listened as they unfolded the tapestries of their lives—tattered, worn, and miraculously beautiful. Their stories were heartbreaking.
I heard a former porn actress tell how she ran away from home, got involved with drugs and the wrong crowd, and met a young man who convinced her she’d make a great escort. Her sexual escapades eventually led her to star in pornographic films. Unable to cope with reality, she numbed her pain with her meth addiction.
Another woman shared about her physically abusive relationship, how she overdosed on drugs and was left for dead in a coma, and the fifteen-year prison sentence she faced at the mere age of twenty.
I watched the last young woman fight back tears as she told a tale of abandonment. Her stepfather sexually abused her repeatedly. While on a family vacation in Los Angeles, he beat her almost to the point of death. She woke up in a hospital and was told by a police officer that her parents had left her. She became a ward of the state, bouncing from foster home to foster home until she was lost in the system. Using drugs was an escape from being unwanted; selling them bought her escape.
Hearing their stories, I felt a familiar blow to my gut. I could relate. I wanted these young women to know I understood both their pain and their triumph. So when they thanked me for allowing them to share a piece of their hearts with me, I asked if they were willing to hear my story. They agreed.
Earlier, Matthew had simply introduced me as Pattie, one of his friends taking a tour of the Dream Center. He didn’t mention who my son is. I shared with these precious women the trauma of the day my dad walked out. I told them about how sexual abuse had left me vulnerable and afraid over the years. About how pain and emptiness drove me to drink, abuse drugs, and attempt suicide. I walked them through finding myself pregnant and alone at eighteen, admitting that I hadn’t been ready to be a mom.
But I didn’t stop there. I also told them about the grace in my story. About second (and third and fourth) chances. I wanted to remind them to keep going, to not give up, to keep believing their lives could stay turned around, not just for a little while but for the rest of their lives. Only when I came to the end of this story of a broken heart made whole, of a life restored, and of love found did I reveal one last piece of the puzzle. “And now here I stand before you as Justin Bieber’s mom,” I said with a grin.
The crowd of young women gasped. Some of them were even crying. They were astonished that the roads we had traveled were so similar and that we had something in common—we all found hope. We didn’t want to spend the rest of our lives muddling through the murky, subterranean parts of our journey. Though we had certainly not arrived yet, we had found our way up.
Don’t mistake their moved emotions as coming from excitement simply because I am the mother of a world-renowned pop star. Don’t think for one minute that they were inspired only because of who I was. Understand this: it didn’t have much to do with me. It was about seeing the evidence that things can change for the better, that “all things work together for the good of those who love God” (Rom. 8:28). They knew this, of course, based on their personal experiences. But my story offered further proof that you don’t have to stay stuck in abuse, in addiction, in despair.
Though I have experienced pain, shame, fear, and abandonment, I have also experienced hope, promise, peace, and joy. I am overwhelmed at how God has lavished me with His love and His grace. How in spite of my past, my mistakes, and even my unfaithfulness, I have intimately experienced the goodness of His mercy. I love the verse in Psalms that says, “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed” (34:18 NLT). It’s my testament. I wouldn’t trade my pain away, for I know how deep my faith has grown as a result.
As Justin’s career took off, I continued my healing journey. I had begun to face my demons and my past, unearthing deep wounds. It’s an ongoing process. As I continued to struggle with anxiety and depression, they were indicators I had more healing to do.
I confess my healing has been—and continues to be—a long process. I don’t make any claims that I’ve arrived at the final destination of emotional wholeness, but I am so much further than I ever imagined I could be. I am so much freer, full of life and peace in so many areas in my life.
When I began my journey of healing—of seeking out the broken places shattered by rejection, abandonment, and sexual abuse—I never realized how many layers of pain I would have to work through. And I never knew how hard it would be.
At times I thought I was going to break under the pressure. I would remind myself of the Scripture that shares how God “will not crush the weakest reed or put out a flickering candle” (Isa. 42:3 NLT). It told me that God understood my brokenness and would be gentle wit
h me. He wouldn’t be impatient when I didn’t get it together immediately. He wouldn’t push me past my breaking point. He wouldn’t stretch me further than my capacity. He would take His time with me, not rushing the healing process.
My healing has taken so long, perhaps, because of the core lies I had believed since I was a little girl. Those untruths that shaped me in harmful ways were communicated to me by circumstances, people in my life, and even myself. It’s taken me years to not only identify them but also replace them with truth. That was a challenge. Even though I knew certain things were true, they didn’t always connect with the deepest part of me. Knowing something in your head and believing it in your heart are two different things. Once I was able to really grasp and embrace certain truths (many of which are found in Scripture), I was finally able to combat the lies and reclaim my identity.
For instance, I used to believe the lie that I was unlovable; now I know the truth that I am loved (Rom. 8:39). I used to believe I was full of shame; now I know I am forgiven (Rom. 8:1). I used to believe I was worthless; now I know I am valuable (Ps. 139:14). I used to believe there was no point to my existence; now I know the future is full of hope (Jer. 29:11). I used to feel rejected; now I know I am a daughter of God and my Father looks at me with eyes of approval (Zeph. 3:17). I used to believe I was a mistake; now I know I’m chosen (1 Pet. 2:9).
Whenever I felt depressed or anxious, I hammered these truths into me (I still do when I need to). I didn’t allow myself to get caught up in old feelings that only served to reinforce emotional damage. I focused on hope. I focused on healing. I focused on truth. The truth really does set you free.
My healing from the sexual abuse I’d suffered over the years needed to take place on multiple levels. It wasn’t just a matter of dealing with the actual acts that caused me emotional damage. I also had to deal with what happened to me as a result. The abuse had created in me shame, anxiety, and fear. It had also skewed my view of love and sex. I believe so much of my brokenness stemmed from the fact that I didn’t value or respect my sexuality.
After I lost my virginity, nothing about my sexuality seemed sacred to me. Having sex never felt wrong; it was part of my lifestyle. Something I did. Something I was expected to do. But when I was twenty-one, I started to feel like that part of my life was being challenged.
As a Christian, I knew sex was supposed to be reserved for marriage. But a few years after I gave my life to God, I was still struggling in that area. At that time a youth pastor invited me to a True Love Waits conference. The timing was perfect. I had no idea how to redeem or purify my sexuality. Frankly, I didn’t think it was possible. As I listened to the message, my stomach was in knots. The more I heard the speaker talk about his tainted sexual past and how he reclaimed that part of his life, the more I so desperately wanted my own purity restored.
Even before the speaker had uttered the last word of his message, I realized this was my opportunity. This was my time. This was my way of taking back the part of my life that had been mutilated and destroyed. After the service, I signed a pledge—with my friend Kevin signing as a witness—not to have sex before I was married. My hand shook as I penned my name. Pattie Mallette—the girl who knew about sex at the same age she played with Cabbage Patch dolls. The girl who could finally have restored what had been so painfully broken.
I’ve never looked back. Yes, it’s really hard. The temptation has been great at times. But I made a vow to God, something I take very seriously. It may seem prudish or old-fashioned in this day and age, but I’ve committed to honoring God by saving myself for marriage. I have no intention of reneging on that promise. (And yes, at the time of this writing, I’m still single.)
As I sought healing from my sexual abuse, my counselors guided me down a winding road of challenges. It started with a decision. I had to first admit my victimization and second refuse to be a victim. Yes, I was abused; no, I’m not going to live the rest of my life feeling sorry for myself. Healing would never fully find its way into my heart without me giving up a victim mentality. This didn’t mean, however, I didn’t mourn my pain. I had to love myself enough to grieve what I needed to grieve. I had to value myself enough to sift through the emotional wounds but not stay there.
I also would never be emotionally whole without learning to forgive others and, most importantly, myself. When I recently read the diary I had written during my teen years, I cringed. Drinking and smoking this much on that night. Getting wasted at a family get-together. Calling my mom every name in the book. A myriad of emotions surfaced.
I shook my head in disbelief. I was ashamed and embarrassed of the person I once was, someone so different from who I am today. I dropped the book on the floor, not wanting to ever pick it back up. I was even tempted to burn it. To remove it from existence.
Suddenly, I remembered the words, Those who are hardest to love need it the most.
I love that statement. I say it all the time to remind myself to handle certain people with care. I say it to my parents. I say it to my friends. I say it to Justin. Now I couldn’t get the saying out of my mind. Then the thought came to me, You apply this statement to everyone in your life, so why can’t you accept it for yourself? Why can’t you love you? The truth was shocking. It wasn’t the adult Pattie I didn’t love. It was the teenage Pattie. I couldn’t stand the hardened, rebellious, defiant teenager I used to be.
Days later, I revisited my thoughts with a counselor. I was finally able to sift through the discomfort. Faced head-on with the question and working through it with someone I trusted, I had an awakening. I started releasing the hatred I had for myself as a teenager, for the terrible decisions I had made, for the stupid things I had said and done.
I started to remember how my previous therapists had tried to get me to look in a mirror and say, “I love you.” It was almost impossible. I tried it once or twice, but I hated it. It made me feel weird, strange. Even like an imposter. But if I don’t love myself, how can I love others? And if I can’t receive love, how can I give love? All the commandments can be summed up into two: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind,” and “Love your neighbor as you love yourself” (see Matt. 22:36–40). I can’t love others if I don’t love myself, so I’m learning how to love myself.
I wasn’t the only person I needed to forgive. There were a lot of people in my life to whom I needed to extend the same grace—my dad, my mom, my abusers, Jeremy. Sometimes it felt never-ending. As I continued the healing process, I started realizing that forgiveness is not a one-shot deal. Simply saying “I forgive you” doesn’t take away the pain, the hurt, or the injustice that was done. I had to continually live from a place of forgiving. Sometimes daily, sometimes even hourly.
There were times it seemed impossible. During my moments of struggle, I had to ask God for help. I figured if He was willing to send His only Son to die on a cross so I could be forgiven, surely He would be willing to help me forgive others. Though it didn’t always happen instantaneously, I’ve found myself able to forgive through His grace alone. (I’ve also prayed for help when I needed to love others or be patient but didn’t have the tools to do so.)
I love the saying, “Unforgiveness is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.” The fact was, if I didn’t reach out and forgive, I’d be the one ultimately hurt. I would be held hostage by bitterness. My unforgiveness could even extend outward; it could affect me not just emotionally but in many areas such as my relationships or even physical health. Several medical studies have linked unforgiveness with sickness, disease, and depression.
One definition of forgiving is letting go of your right to get even. It doesn’t mean the injustice was okay. While I didn’t have a choice in how I was hurt or broken, I had a choice to forgive. I had a choice to let the pain define me or to heal from its wounds. I made the choice to heal. I made the choice to move on without those wounds crippling my journey. I made the choice to live. To reall
y live. It has not been easy, but it has been worth it.
As I continue to focus on becoming emotionally whole, I’m excited to see what’s in store. This certainly isn’t the end of my story. It’s only the beginning.
There’s more to me than just being the mother of Justin Bieber. For the last eighteen years, I have dedicated my heart and soul to raising my son the best way I know how. Writing this book not only has been healing but is the first step into a new chapter of my life. I’m launching into my own destiny. A part of that means defining myself apart from my son as he transitions to adulthood (I’m sure any mom can relate). It also means further defining and expanding my purpose and my mission in life.
The amazing platform God has given my son has also opened doors for me to share my story, just like I did with the women at the Dream Center. I recently had the opportunity to visit the Bethesda Centre and talk to the girls there.
Though much of the building had been renovated and the rooms were rearranged, I felt a rush of memories. I could imagine myself as a scared teenager, trying to sort through a million questions and tame a flurry of overpowering emotions. Though I was the mom of an almost (at the time) eighteen-year-old son, I felt the anxiety of being pregnant as if it were yesterday. I felt the worry. The wonder. The pain.
As some of the staff showed me around the facility, we made a pit stop at a classroom where six girls who were either pregnant or new teen moms sat around a table. I smiled at their sweet faces. They looked so young and some of them so tired. I knew exactly what they must have been feeling in that moment—whether they were scared of the impending pain of giving birth, exhausted from lack of sleep from taking care of a newborn, or wondering what would happen to them after their time at Bethesda was over and they had to create a new life on their own.
The girls talked loudly and giggled nonstop, bombarding me with all kinds of questions about (who else?) Justin, like if he still had a girlfriend and what it’s like being the mom of a famous pop star. It wasn’t long, however, before their cute probing became more serious. The silly questions turned into honest statements that unmasked emotions and exposed insecurities.
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