“You’re Doing What?” — Breaking 50 Years of Silence
I was 59 the last time I posted here. Today, I’m 63, recovering from my fifth major surgery in 18 months. It’s long past time to share the rest of my story—the one I’ve carried in silence for over 50 years.
For too long, I feared that letting go of the pain would hurt those around me. But the truth is, holding on to trauma doesn’t protect anyone—it only traps us. I’m sharing now not out of bitterness, but out of hope. I want to inspire change. We've all lived through difficult times. What we do with those times—that’s where transformation begins.
Some of my family might wish I’d stay silent. But I can’t do that anymore.
In early 2019, I told my mother I planned to start the In Her Name Foundation to honor my sister Carla. Her response? “You’re doing what???” She made it clear—my silence served her. For decades, her version of our story was the only one that was allowed. She twisted facts to fit her own pain, wearing her suffering like a badge of honor. Any truth that contradicted hers was seen as betrayal.
There were moments I wanted to scream, “Carla wouldn’t want this!” Carla would want me to speak. And once I began—through the foundation, and later through the podcast—my heart started to heal in ways I never imagined.
Here are the facts, my version:
June 30, 1976 — My older sister Carla went for an evening bike ride and never came home.
82 days later — We learned she had lost her life to the same man who murdered five people over two years.
Our family shattered.
My parents’ rocky marriage spiraled into a bitter divorce.
My older brother moved away and began to distance himself.
I was a teenager, stuck in the middle, forced to choose between two broken parents.
My mother threatened suicide. I had no real choice.
My grandfather collected every newspaper article, showing them off like trophies until his death in 1989.
In the midst of this storm, I found something of my own.
August 1976 — I made the Hays High School tennis team, starting at #18 of 24.
September 22, 1976 — Coach Donna Cooper wrapped her arms around me, lifted me up, and taught me to believe in myself.
1978 — 5A Girls Singles State Runner-Up
1979 — 5A Girls Singles State Champion—the first girl at Hays High to win a state singles title.
1980 — Accepted a Division 1 tennis scholarship to Wichita State—the first female athlete from Hays High to do so in any sport.
Tennis saved me. It gave me purpose when everything else felt chaotic. Coach Cooper’s mentorship left an indelible mark on my soul. My mom, meanwhile, stayed at the center of a storm—controlling, guilt-tripping, spinning stories. Her dramatics were suffocating. Her threats of suicide lasted until she entered a nursing home in 2020 with advanced dementia.
I learned silence as a survival skill. I was told, “A few hard knocks will make you stronger.” But silence doesn’t make us strong. It keeps us small.
My dad, though loving, drowned his pain in alcohol. My brother escaped to the Pacific Northwest and eventually to Thailand. I chose a different path: I chose to speak.
In 2019, I founded the In Her Name Foundation. In 2022, I launched the “Do I Need My Racket?” podcast—named after something I asked every time I stepped onto the court.
What we've accomplished so far:
Raised $45,000 in cash and in-kind donations
Created the Carla J. Baker Legacy Scholarship at Hays High School
Donated 250 basketballs, 60 soccer balls, 42 tennis rackets, and 300 t-shirts to youth in Lansing, Michigan
Sponsored free swim lessons for students in Title 1 schools
Reached 2,500 podcast listeners across 38 states and 22 countries
Released 25 episodes, including a deeply special one in March 2025 featuring Coach Donna Cooper: “A Friend Forever”
This list will grow. Because the more I speak, the more I heal—and the more I realize I’m not alone. Others want to share. Others want to listen. If I can lead by example, then I will.
It’s never too late to speak. Take it as a challenge. Set your heart free.
“You’re doing what?” no longer echoes in my head.
Now, I hear my sister Carla’s voice, full of love and mischief:
“’Bout damn time you started talking.”
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