“Single Mom Knocked Unconscious in Shocking Cincinnati Mob Attack Speaks Out: ‘I Have Very Bad Brain Trauma’—And She’s Still Not Back on Her Feet”
I never expected a Friday night out to become the scariest moment of my life. I wasn’t looking for trouble—I was just waiting for an Uber after celebrating a friend’s birthday. But then, everything changed.
They say violence can come out of nowhere, and I believe it now with every damaged nerve in my body. I remember celebrating, when suddenly I found myself pinned down on the pavement, blood pouring from my mouth like some wild night scene from a horror film. My name is Holly, and I live with the fallout of that night—physically, mentally, emotionally.
Since that night on July 26 in downtown Cincinnati, I’ve felt like a ghost in my own life. My face still carries the marks—the bruises, the purple swollen eye that seemed to last forever—and the doctors tell me there’s more damage inside. Yes, I have a concussion, but worse, they say there’s brain trauma too. Some days my head feels like it’s wrapped in fog, like every thought is slowed down, too hard to reach. I’ve had panic attacks, trouble sleeping, and waves of fear that sweep over me even when everything seems calm.
I’ve received an outpouring of support that has kept me going. Over $350,000 has been donated through a fund created for my recovery, and each message, each gift of love helps me believe again—in humanity, in kindness. It’s in those moments of deep gratitude that I feel that maybe…maybe I’ll get through this.
But there’s another side to this story that’s harder to share—the part that doesn’t feel healing. I’ve been criticized, framed, blamed. My attacker’s family said this would never have been a thing if the victim had been someone else. They say the justice system jumped on it because the victim was white. Yet I’m not here to fuel division. I keep saying: “Don’t see us as race, Republican, or Democrat—see us as human beings.”
Some of the suspects have claimed they were called racial slurs first. That may or may not be true. I can’t speak to their truth—my truth is the fall I felt when I hit the concrete, the helpless panic of my blood pooling underneath me, the soft darkness when I hit the ground. The rest is speculation I cannot sink into.
Nobody from the police department or my city’s mayor reached out to me personally. That sting hurt something fierce—because beyond the physical pain, there’s a place I thought I belonged. And that silence from those who lead us felt like a betrayal. The police chief called it an “incident.” Incident. As though I’d tripped on a crack in the sidewalk. I called that word insulting. Attempted murder doesn’t sound like an incident to me.
All this time, I was being told to skip details while the investigation plays out. I still don’t get answers. I’m told only one person among a crowd of nearly a hundred called 911. A godsend—that one person. But the rest stood and watched as people pounded on us like animals. And that makes me question us all. What would make someone stay silent in the face of such violence?
Some of the suspects have been arrested—five now face serious charges. There’s “Holly’s Act” being introduced, legislation named after me, about tougher penalties for repeat offenders. I wish I didn’t need a law bearing my name, but if that stops one person from facing what I did—you take whatever good you can get.
These days, I’m staying hidden. I’ve had to go into a “super-secret spot” with security around me. Even after I survived, my life isn’t safe. Doctors say I’m lucky to be alive—that 25% of similar injuries kill someone immediately, and more fall into comas. Yet here I am living, broken but breathing.
I’m healing in pieces, repairing what I can. I’m still not okay—not naïve enough to believe I will ever be exactly who I was before. But I’m alive, and through every panic attack, every sleepless night, every ache, I hold on to support that lifted me. Faith isn’t something I carried before—I wasn’t ready for that kind of love. But now? Now’s the time I need it most.
If you saw that video and felt something, thank you. If you called 911 that night, thank God for you. If you donated to my fundraiser, know I owe you everything. Life tried to break me—but your hands helped keep me together.
