Life Is Filled With Stories

Some we don't remember - but they all shape us.
This is Mine
Spoiler Alert... I survived!

Let Me Introduce Myself

Hi, I’m Deshina.

I’ll tell you about what I’ve accomplished and where I am today, although that’s not really the point. But for context—here’s a bit about me.

I went from being a single mom living in my rusty $300 car and abused women and homeless shelters to becoming the CEO of two tech companies and living abroad in Africa.

I’m a mother of six, with kids ranging from 27 to 5. I’m a devoted student of Ancient Biblical Hebrew and Trauma Studies—not for credentials, but because I’m deeply invested in understanding how humans work. Oh, and I used to be an ordained minister.

I love to learn—and sometimes, let’s be honest, I needed the student loans to pay the bills. I’ve earned 3.5 degrees:

  • A BBA from Northwestern State University

  • Half an MBA with a focus on Organizational Leadership from SNHU

  • I restarted, full MBA with a concentration in Data Analytics from LSU

  • And a Bachelors in Divinity from a non-traditional metaphysical university—because I needed answers traditional schools weren’t offering.

Now, What Brought Me Here...

According to the clippings

The Public Version of My Life

“She was born to Herman and Patricia Babineaux on March 29…”
“She made the honor roll alongside her classmates…”
“She had her first son in 1998…”
“She opened a charter school…”
“She was a fugitive…”

Was I A Fugitive?

The Truth

Beneath these soundbites are deeper stories — of wounds and wonders, trauma and triumph. For example, I wasn’t a fugitive in the way headlines suggest. My ex-husband refused to pay child support. I had to schedule a court appearance. But when the day came, I had no transportation, no money, and no one to help with my kids. I missed court.

Then one morning, U.S. Marshals kicked in my door. They beat me and dragged me down the steps in front of my children — it was their first day of school. Later, when I did manage to get to court, the judge didn’t even acknowledge my presence.

These are the parts they don’t print. The moments that leave scars — not just from violence, but from being invisible. From not being seen, not being heard, not being valued.

That Was My Morgage payment!

The Peices We Forget

When I found those clippings in 2019, it was like meeting younger versions of myself I had forgotten. I made connections I couldn’t see at the time. I realized I’d mentally quarantined parts of my story — separating the pain from the progress, the past from the present.

Even now, as I revisit these memories to build this page, I’m uncovering more: old emotions, new insights, unanswered questions.

  • He was supposed to be going to pay my mortgage. Instead he used my money to buy drugs and put my younger brother's life at risk in the process. And I lost and had to find the money to pay my mortgage... again. The police department didn't care when I requested the money back. According to them it was seized ill-gotten funds, but I know it was my hard earned money. He was broke, that's why he stole it!

    Still invisible... He stabbed me in the back and the system twisted the knife.
Becuase It's SAfe To Be me Now.

So… Why Do I Need You to Know Me?

Because I’ve lived with the weight of not being known — even by those closest to me.
Because no one seemed to notice when I did well.
Because my effort, my struggle, my pain were too often ignored.
Because I was making honor roll while battling bullying, sexual abuse, isolation, and raising children as a single mom.
Because everything I’ve ever done has been in spite of, not in the absence of adversity.

And I know I’m not alone in that.

 

  • The first time I challendged myself to do something that terrified me... Be the center of attention, dress like a girl, and act like I believed I was beautiful, when I most definitely did not.

    I remember when the time came to walk in this court, my mom had put so much effort into getting me ready, more than I'd ever seen. But when she did my hair, I told her I hated it and that it looked like a mushroom. I broke her heart. And what brought me the most guilt was how humbly she responded - humble is not how I'd describe my mom. She didn't get angry or frustrated, instead she tried to assure me that I was beautiful but I could see the hurt in her eyes and couldn't believe her words.

    I haven't been able to tell stylists when I don't like my hair ever since.. I just smile and nod, then go home, wash it out, and redo it myself.

The Point...

This is more than my story. It’s a mirror.

I believe in the power of being seen — fully. Not selectively. Not edited for comfort.
When we embrace the whole of who we are — past and present — we begin to heal.
So maybe, by knowing me, you’ll also feel the safety and permission to know yourself.
To remember. To grow. To change. To say:

“This is what shaped me, I can change what no longer serves me, and it’s safe to be me even while  change is still a work in progress.”

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That Time When I...

Created something Hung out with family Savored the moment Supported others