A Bow of Hope, A Life Saved

The following story is a first-hand account of a woman who found hope at our Anti-Human Trafficking Drop-In Center in Greater St. Louis. It was written by Anti-Human Trafficking Program Coordinator Katrina Smith who selflessy dedicates herself to the mission of The Salvation Army, and to restoring choice and freedom to survivors.

She first came through our doors carrying more than anyone could see.

She was emotionally fragile, exhausted from a healing journey that did not look the way she hoped it would. The trauma of trafficking still lived close to the surface—control, coercion, loss of choice—woven into her everyday thoughts. She didn’t come looking for answers at first. She came looking for help, for something to hold onto when everything felt like it was slipping away.

She came back again and again to The Salvation Army's Anti-Human Trafficking Drop-In Center. Through consistency and compassion, a relationship began to form. Trust doesn’t come easily for survivors of trafficking, but over time she began to believe that I was here for her—that even if the road ahead wasn’t easy, she wouldn’t have to walk it alone.

As Christmas approached, I thought about that trust. I knew her well enough to know that she might be willing to come early one day to help decorate, before the rest of the women arrived. There was a lot to do, and honestly, I’m not much of a Christmas decorator. But something told me this moment could matter.

And it did.

We laughed as we pulled out decorations, joking our way through tangled lights and ornaments. Even though decorating isn’t my favorite thing, that day felt different. As we worked side-by-side, I felt more connected—not just to her, but to the deeper meaning of Christmas and the mission of The Salvation Army. Hope felt tangible in that room.

At one point, we jokingly argued about who would make the bows she wanted to put on the tree. I made it clear that I am not a crafty person, and we both laughed as we decided she would take on the task. As she worked on the bow, I glanced over and saw tears quietly streaming down her face.

In that moment, time seemed to slow.

When I gently asked what was bringing the tears, she shared something sacred. She told me that she had been held captive for so long—controlled and coerced through trafficking—that Christmas was never something she got to experience. It wasn’t celebrated. It didn’t matter. Survival was the only priority.

She said that sitting there, making something as simple as a bow, had stirred something inside her she hadn’t felt in years—hope, joy, possibility. She shared that The Salvation Army had become a beacon of hope for her: a place of rest, a place to breathe, a place to begin imagining what might be next. For the first time in a long time, someone was walking alongside her.

Through tears, she said, “I know it sounds silly that I’m this emotional over a bow—but this bow means life or death for me. And right now, it means life. It means hope. It means joy. It means I have more to my story.”

That bow—placed gently on the tree—became a symbol. A reminder that her life is more than what was done to her. That healing is possible. That joy can be rediscovered. That freedom is real.

This is what The Salvation Army does. We create spaces where survivors are seen, valued, and reminded of their worth. We offer comfort in moments of deep need, and we walk with individuals as they rediscover hope—sometimes in the simplest, most unexpected ways.

That day, a bow became more than decoration. It became a declaration: "My story isn’t over."