Abi Provence’s life could have hardened her. Instead, it taught her how to serve.
It’s not often I walk away from an interview utterly stumped on what to write. Or how. Usually, even the most tangled stories eventually reveal a thread I can follow. A beginning. A middle. An ending. Some neat little narrative bow to tie it all together.
Not here.
Because how exactly do you summarize a woman who has survived abuse, homelessness, sickness, assault, heartbreak, near death, and disappointment — yet somehow still wakes up every morning wanting to serve other people?
How do you write about someone whose story feels less like a straight line and more like a thousand shattered pieces somehow glued back together with faith, grit, and stubborn hope?
You don’t really. You just try your best to tell people she exists.
Her name is Abi Provence of Mission Haven Rediemed Foundation, a nonprofit organization quietly doing good in places most people never notice.
And “quietly” is an important word here. Provence isn’t loud about what she does. She doesn’t carry herself like someone trying to build a brand or collect applause. In fact, during our conversation, she kept redirecting attention away from herself and back toward serving others.
Toward the girls who need prom dresses. Toward the hungry children in Honduras. Toward abused women trying to escape dangerous relationships. Toward scared teenage mothers in shelters. Toward anyone who feels forgotten.
Which is remarkable considering how often life tried to forget her first.
As a teenager, Provence transferred to Venture High School and attended night classes while working multiple jobs just to survive. She described a horrific home life. A pastor at St. Andrews Church helped provide food and support so she could keep going to school.
“It was all about survival,” she said.
She missed out on so much of the traditional high school experience. No prom. No senior celebrations. No carefree teenage memories most students take for granted.
Which is exactly why, years later, she started donating brand-new prom dresses to Bowie high school students. Not secondhand dresses tossed into a box and forgotten. Brand-new dresses. Because in her mind, students deserve excellence.
“They would say, ‘You gave us the best. You didn’t give us the off-brand,’” Provence said while talking about mission work overseas. “I said, ‘Why would I give you the off-brand?’”
That line stuck with me.
Because it explains almost everything about her.
Some people give because it checks a box. Others give because they remember exactly what it felt like to go without.
Provence eventually became a nurse practitioner, earned advanced degrees while raising children, and trying to rebuild her life. But even adulthood brought more pain. She spoke openly about surviving abusive relationships and living in shelters with her daughter.
And yet, somehow, she still talks about love more than bitterness. That’s the part I couldn’t shake after our interview. Most people would understand if she became hardened. Cynical. Angry at the world. Instead, she became softer.
Then came COVID.
She contracted the virus during the first wave and developed bilateral pneumonia and cardiomyopathy. She spent two and a half years on oxygen. There were moments when she genuinely thought she might die.
But lying on the floor one night, weak and exhausted, she realized something surprising. She missed mission work. Not because she felt obligated. Not because she thought God owed her healing. She simply missed serving people. So, once she recovered, she went back.
Again and again.
Honduras. Belize. Mountain villages with no running water. Shelters full of pregnant teenagers. Churches needing supplies. Families needing food. Women needing someone — anyone — to tell them they still mattered.
And maybe that’s why this column was so difficult to write.
Because Addy Provence doesn’t fit neatly into one story. She’s not simply a survivor. She’s not simply a woman of faith. She’s not simply a philanthropist or nurse or nonprofit founder.
She’s someone who has stared directly into some of life’s ugliest moments and still decided love was worth offering anyway. That kind of person is rare. And honestly, in a world that often feels fueled by outrage, performance, and cruelty, maybe that’s the story that matters most.
Not perfection.
Not having all the answers.
Just choosing, over and over again, to become the kind of person you once desperately needed yourself.
Kenneth Perkins has been a contributing writer for Arlington Today for more than a decade. He is a freelance writer, editor and photographer, and teaches Journalism and Writing at Bowie High School.
