Advertise on podcast: Law and Porter

Dawn was eight years old when a friend pulled her aside and told her that what was happening in her own home wasn't normal. It would be years before her family said the words out loud, and even after her abuser's arrest, the family's response was to stay quiet and move on.   In this conversation, the trauma nurse and author of Nursing the Wounds talks about growing up in the same small Mississippi town as her abuser — a man who was also, ironically, her first introduction to church — and about separating the God she was taught from the man who taught her. She talks about founding Voice for the Silenced with a friend she didn't know shared her story, the ACEs research that shapes how she understands trauma as a nurse, and the forgiveness she found in an old Bible that changed how she carries her own history. She also opens up, for the first time publicly, about a road near where she grew up that still bears her abuser's name — and her fight to see it changed. Click here to purchase Dawn's book.  Connect with Dawn on Facebook.

Payton was twenty years old, a college student in Hattiesburg, when a relationship that started casually turned dangerous. He was charismatic and magnetic, the center of every room, and slowly, systematically, he isolated her from her friends and family and convinced her she was nothing without him, long before he ever raised a hand. In this episode, Payton tells the full story: the red flags she talked herself out of seeing, the night the abuse turned physical, the split-second decision that got her to a hospital, and the prosecution that followed. She's candid about going back more than once, about the friends who finally pulled her out for good, and about what it took to rebuild trust in herself and in love. Today Payton is a chiropractor, a wife, and a mother, and she's sharing her story so someone else might recognize the pattern sooner than she did. If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence: National Domestic Violence Hotline, 1-800-799-7233, text START to 88788, thehotline.org. Mississippi Coalition Against Domestic Violence statewide hotline, 1-800-898-3234, mcadv.org. Domestic Abuse Family Shelter, serving the Pine Belt and Hattiesburg area, 24-hour crisis line, 1-800-649-1092, dafs.ms.

What's actually inside your kid's phone, and why the old 'stranger danger' warnings don't cover it anymore. Lauren Street works in child advocacy, and for the past year she's led the tech safety program at Kids Hub Child Advocacy Center in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. In this conversation, she breaks down what's changed: the danger isn't outside anymore, it's inside the device already in your child's pocket. We talk through Discord and why it worries her, the 11-to-13 age window she recommends for a first smartphone, the 20-20-20 rule for balancing screen time, and the warning signs — sleep disruption, secrecy, sudden emotional shutdowns — that something online may have crossed a line. Lauren also gets specific about how early kids are encountering pornography now, and why she believes this is as much a parenting crisis as a tech one. She leaves parents with one real action step: have the conversation tonight, in the car if it's easier, and build a family tech agreement everyone actually helped write. If you're raising a kid with a phone, a tablet, or a gaming console, or you will be soon, this episode is required listening. Subscribe for more conversations on parenting, safety, and the people doing this work in our community. To find the resources mentioned in this episode, please visit kidshubms.com/resource-library and https://culturereframed.org/.

Alexis walked into her divorce carrying two decades of unhealed childhood trauma — the kind that teaches a person to survive rather than feel. As a Licensed Master Social Worker, she had the clinical language for what was happening to her clients every day. She didn't have it, yet, for herself.  In this conversation, Alexis traces the slow unraveling of a life built on management instead of healing: the friend who saw straight through her defenses, the prayer that cracked open old faith, the night she looked at the sky and asked God, simply, to help. Less than 24 hours later, she was calling an attorney. What follows isn't really about the legal process, though the process is in here too. It's about learning the difference between holding on out of fear and holding on out of love, about finding the people worth trusting with the highest stakes of your life, and about the strange grace of coming undone in front of someone who won't look away. Alexis and her attorney talk honestly about fear, faith, protection, and what it finally felt like to feel whole.

In November of 1999, Kelly got a 1:30 a.m. phone call that his wife hadn't survived a single-car accident — and in the disorientation of being shaken awake, all he could manage was, 'Would you repeat that again?' What follows isn't a tidy grief story. It's an unflinching account of raising three children alone, of a wife's addiction rooted in childhood trauma she'd warned him about from their first date, and of a line she said so many times before she died that he still calls her prophetic.   Kelly talks about the day he chose not to remarry, the biological father who gave up his own daughter rather than let her lose a sister, and the anger at God his own mother refused to let him wallow in. Twenty-five years later, three grown children and a career spent coaching, foster parenting, and mentoring, he's still working from the same instruction his mother gave him the week his wife died: get on that bad motor scooter and ride.

Rachel married young, certain she'd found a stable, devoted partner. Years later, she was a widow raising two children alone — but the story in between is what makes this conversation unforgettable. In this episode, Rachel walks through the slow, painful discovery of her husband's addiction: unpaid bills, missing prescriptions, doctor-hopping, and a pattern of denial she didn't recognize until it nearly cost her family everything. She talks candidly about the custody fears that kept her from leaving sooner, the faith crisis that brought her to her knees, and the night everything finally shifted — the moment she surrendered her marriage and her children in prayer and found the peace to file for divorce. Then, just months later, a phone call changed everything again. Rachel shares the eerie warning her husband received from a pastor weeks before his fatal car accident, and the impossible task of telling her young children their father was gone. This is a story about addiction, faith, single motherhood, and the particular grief of losing someone you'd already grieved once before. Rachel speaks with remarkable clarity about boundaries she wishes she'd set sooner, the family law realities of leaving a marriage with children involved, and how she rebuilt a life — and later grew her family again — after loss. If you're navigating addiction in a marriage, considering divorce with children in the picture, or grieving a complicated relationship, this conversation offers honesty without easy answers. Subscribe for more real stories of family, faith, and the legal and emotional realities of starting over.

At 26, Marlee had just started trying for a baby when a routine self-exam turned up something she wasn't expecting: breast cancer, the same disease her mother had been diagnosed with only months earlier. What followed was a whirlwind of treatment decisions that included accepting she may never carry a child — a loss she would eventually have to legally consent to before she could survive. In this conversation, Marlee walks through the specific grief of infertility timed against active cancer treatment, the isolation of a diagnosis with no peer group to turn to, and the eventual leap into adoption after nearly two years and over a hundred rejections. She's candid about the blame she carried, the well-meaning comments that stung more than they helped, and the moment she finally let go of control. The story lands somewhere she never expected: a daughter conceived, in the most literal sense, during the very week she was told she never could.

Reverend Susan Eaton has spent her life teaching other people how to talk to God. Then her father was dying, her teenage child fell into a depression so severe she sat with them through nights that felt like watching someone disappear, and a cancer diagnosis interrupted everything else — and she found she didn't actually know how to pray through any of it. In this conversation, Susan talks about the six years it took to write her new book, Even in Exile, and the theology she built out of crisis: that prayer isn't a transaction with a God who grants wishes, that lament is not a failure of faith but a legitimate complaint God can hold, and that the false narratives we tell ourselves — I'm unworthy, I'm alone — often surface only when something good happens and we can't explain why we don't trust it. She connects her own story to the prophet Ezekiel's exile in Babylon, where God shows up in the last place anyone expected him to. And she talks candidly about the parenting choice that shaped everything else: deciding to stay present with a suffering child even when there was nothing she could fix. You can learn more about Susan and her new book at revsusaneaton.com

Meet Grayson: the 9-year-old founder of Gray's Bake Co, a Mississippi bakery that started with a sourdough starter and a memory of Disney World. In this episode, Grayson talks about building a real business as a third grader — production schedules, pricing, hiring help, and the surprising amount of work that goes into a farm stand bakery.   He also opens up about the parts of entrepreneurship that don't make it into the highlight reel: the days he wants to quit, learning to ask his family for help, and the ongoing work of being proud of himself. Along the way, he shares his dream of a small storefront, his plan to donate profits to people in need, and — because he's still nine — exactly how many cookies he can eat without getting sick.   This is a conversation about grit, generosity, and what it looks like when a kid takes an idea seriously enough to turn it into something real.

At 21, Emily Rhodes got a phone call that split her life into before and after. In the chaos following Hurricane Katrina, her father was shot and killed on the wrong side of town — a case that was never solved. Months later, a minor car wreck led to a prescription for pain medication, and Emily discovered it numbed something the doctors hadn't been treating: the grief she had no idea how to carry.   What followed was years of addiction — first to prescription painkillers, then to street versions of the same relief — hidden from almost everyone who knew her, because, as she puts it, she was never supposed to be that person. This conversation traces that unraveling honestly, without shortcuts, alongside the slow work of recovery through her Catholic faith, a 12-step ministry called Catholic in Recovery, and a mother who refused to give up on her no matter how far it went.   Emily talks about rock bottom, about relapse, about the lies addiction tells you about who you are, and about her five-year-old daughter Lucy — deaf, hilarious, and her biggest cheerleader. It's a conversation about how grief and forgiveness can exist in the same body at the same time, and what it takes to believe you are more than your worst years.

Stephanie Johnson married her high school sweetheart in 1998. Eleven years later, six months after his leukemia diagnosis, she buried him. She was 32 years old, with three children under seven — the youngest born in the middle of his treatment.   In this conversation, Stephanie takes us back to the night before Jason's diagnosis was confirmed, when she says she fought a spiritual battle she couldn't yet name or explain to him. She describes the single practical conversation the two of them allowed themselves during six months of chemotherapy — a conversation neither of them wanted to finish. She talks about the hospital, the goodbye, and her three-year-old son showing up in rain boots on a clear day.   Most of the episode lives in what came after: the specific hour every evening that became the hardest part of young widowhood, the fear that her children's futures were already written by statistics she couldn't stop thinking about, and the slow, cautious, sometimes guilt-laden path back toward loving someone new. She talks about a friend's dream that gave her something like permission, about introducing her kids to the man who would become their stepfather one at a time, and about a four-year-old's silent gift of a ceramic cross that meant more than words could have.   The episode closes on the night her children — unprompted, on her wedding night — asked her new husband if they could call him dad.   This is not a tidy story about grief resolving on schedule. It's an honest account of what it actually looks like to keep going: the nights that don't get easier for a long time, the community that carries you when you can't carry yourself, and a family that ends up whole again in a shape nobody would have chosen but everybody is grateful for.   If you're walking through loss, remarriage, blended family life, or simply wondering whether faith holds up under real pressure, this conversation is for you.

Sara Hathorn was driving her kids to the dry cleaner in a life that looked, from the outside, entirely put together — until a Dixie Chicks cover of "Landslide" came on the radio at a red light and she broke. That moment marks the hinge of this episode: the point where Sara stopped trying to fit a life built to satisfy everyone but herself, and started rebuilding one from $300 in the bank, a mortgage, and two small children. She talks candidly about the years that followed — cleaning offices at night after a full day writing insurance, an air mattress on her parents' floor, and the small, specific indignities of poverty, a dumped can of ravioli among them. But this isn't only a hardship story. Sara walks through the five-year plan she wrote by hand, the mentors who told her the truth about her own worth before she could believe it herself, and the practical, unglamorous steps — not just motivation — that got her from that red light to where she is now.

Courtney was four and a half when she was removed from a house with no running water and a roof open to the rain. What was supposed to be rescue became years of abuse in a placement that should never have passed an inspection — and every time she tried to tell, she was punished for it.   This is the story of what she did next. Now sixteen, Courtney is interning in courtrooms, running a mentorship program for kids in foster care, and speaking at foster-parent recruitment events. In this conversation she walks through the early childhood she still remembers in detail, the failures of a CPS system that took a foster home's word over a child's, the adoptive family that finally gave her safety, and the day she decided to stop being a victim and start being a voice.   She is unflinching about the system, generous about the people who got it right, and clear-eyed about why the very things she was punished for — being loud, being sensitive, refusing to stay quiet — are exactly what got her and her sister out. If you work in child welfare, foster or adopt, or have ever felt written off, this one will stay with you.   If this conversation moves you, subscribe for more stories like it and share it with someone who needs to hear it.   foster care, adoption, CPS, child welfare, child abuse survivor, foster care system, kinship placement, trauma recovery, resilience, advocacy, survivor story, Mississippi, social work

Ashlie spent years as a trauma therapist before she became a foster parent — and she will tell you clearly that knowing the clinical language for something is not the same as living inside it. This conversation covers a lot of ground: the sibling group she and her husband took in days after being licensed, the daughter whose reactive attachment disorder meant cycling between calling Ashlie mommy and treating her like an enemy, and the two years of physical injury and emotional confusion before Ashlie finally stopped believing she could love the trauma out of her. It also covers what she figured out along the way. She talks about why she put her kids in outside therapy immediately — because being trauma-informed at home is not the same as being your child's therapist. She describes the bedtime ritual that started as therapy homework and became a non-negotiable her teenagers still do, guests included. She reflects on the legal complexity that kept her older daughters in limbo for years, and the biological father of her youngest who showed up to court sober, swore himself in, and asked the judge to let Ashlie and her husband adopt his daughter because he knew he never would. And she talks about Daniel — her son, her thirteenth placement, who she met as a client and eventually told: I am a great therapist but a pretty mediocre mom. He chose her anyway. Ashlie does not have a redemption arc where the hard parts get smoothed over. What she has is a family she built, the willingness to adapt when the textbook failed her, and a clear-eyed view of what it actually takes to parent a child whose earliest experiences taught them that the people who were supposed to love them were the ones they couldn't trust. This is one of the most honest conversations we've had about what foster care and adoption look like from the inside.

Haylie walked into a family law office at seventeen, a self-described divorce court ordered and mentally disordered child of the system she would spend the next few years watching up close. Now twenty, she sits down with her boss — a family law attorney — to look back at what it actually felt like to be a kid shuttled between households, living out of a duffel bag, bounced around like a pinball before she had words for any of it. This is not a damage narrative. It is a portrait of someone who learned early, paid forward, and is only now starting to give herself credit for it. The conversation moves from custody schedules and courtroom logic to depression diagnoses in middle school, from the two completely different households that built two completely different versions of Haylie, to what she would tell a judge making a joint custody call today. She is funny, self-aware, and occasionally undone. Which is exactly the point.