
Michelle Horton told the story of her sister’s experience surviving domestic violence and subsequent incarceration at Scoville Memorial Library on March 27.
Natalia Zuckerman
Michelle Horton told the story of her sister’s experience surviving domestic violence and subsequent incarceration at Scoville Memorial Library on March 27.
SALISBURY — “Nikki’s lifelong belief that she had to hide is rooted in a cultural truth that, in fact, your truth is not always safe, and you’re not always going to be believed.” said author Michelle Horton of her sister, Nikki Addimando, a survivor of years of domestic violence who was ultimately incarcerated for killing her abuser.
Horton was presenting her new book, “Dear Sister: A Memoir of Secrets, Survival, and Unbreakable Bonds,” at an event at The Scoville Library on Wednesday, March 27.
It was put on in conjunction with Project SAGE, a community-focused organization dedicated to supporting and advocating for victims of relationship violence, and the Nicole Addimando Community Defense Committee, a collective of Addimando’s friends and advocates who built a national grassroots movement to repeal, repair and ultimately end the harms of criminalizing domestic abuse survivors.
Nicole Addimando is the central figure of Horton’s book, a breathtaking account of the high-profile case in which Addimando was sentenced to life for the killing of her long-time abuser.
Overnight, Horton became the caregiver for Addimando’s two small children, Ben and Faye, while also raising her own son, Noah, as she embarked on the battle of a lifetime against the criminal justice system.
In September 2017, Addimando shot and killed her domestic partner, Christopher Grover in an act of self-defense. In April 2019, Addimando was convicted of second-degree murder and gun possession.
Despite an abundance of evidence to corroborate the years of abuse Addimando endured, the prosecution instead relied on harmful fallacies, domestic violence myths, character assassination, victim blaming and unsubstantiated claims to make their case.
But perhaps most disturbingly, prior to Addimando’s sentencing, New York passed the Domestic Violence Survivors Justice Act, which specifically authorized reductions in sentences for domestic-violence survivors when the abuse they suffered “was a significant contributing factor to the defendant’s criminal behavior.”
Judge Edward McLoughlin, an elected judge still serving on Dutchess County’s Supreme and County Courts, presided in Addimando’s case, and ruled instead that the case did not meet the requirements of a reduced sentence because she “could have left her abuser.”
On February 11, 2020, Judge McLoughlin sentenced Addimando to 19-years-to-life, plus 15 years, plus 5 years post supervision.
After a year of advocacy, in June 2021, an appeals court struck down the ruling, and Addimando’s sentence was reduced to 7.5 years. She was released from prison in January 2024 and is currently on parole and living with her sister in Poughkeepsie.
The bigger picture
In the US, three women die every day at the hands of a current or former intimate partner, and the myth of “just leaving” is not possible. A commonly referenced statistic among domestic violence advocates is that victims make an average of seven attempts to leave an abusive relationship.
Leaving isn’t a single event; rather, it’s a complex process that necessitates meticulous preparation and groundwork. Decades of research, including a groundbreaking femicide study from 2003, by Jacquelyn Campbell, and a three-country study from 1993, by Margo Wilson and Martin Daly, shows that the most dangerous time for a victim is when she is leaving the relationship.
After Horton’s reading of a moving passage from the book which underscored the trauma experienced by Addimando and her family, an audience member expressed shock that Addimando was “hiding in plain sight to most of her family and friends.”
The audience member then went on to ask what could be done to “encourage people to be more courageous in seeing and helping victims and what can be done to encourage victims to reach out to broader support?”
Virginia Gold, director of client services at Project Sage responded by noting that the current social environment emphasizes enabling the victim to make different choices.
She explained that this was a way of blaming or putting the onus on the victim of domestic violence, which “creates a context in which someone hears the unspoken messages that they are the one who has to fix this thing happening to them, as opposed to the idea that we are responsible for shifting our assumptions about how relationships should work.”
She said, “one of the reasons that we talk about social change [is that this] erases the responsibility that we need to hold for perpetrators and the conversation that we need to have that identifies the kinds of behaviors that are condoned, ignored, rationalized, or allowed to continue.
The justice system
“How do we go about getting this judge off the bench?” asked another audience member to applause, referring to Judge McLoughlin.
Horton responded, “We need voters in Dutchess County to spread the word because he will be up for reelection in 2025.
“It’s an elected position so we can vote him out of power. It is possible.”
Judge McLoughlin is also a professor of criminal law at Marist College, where some students are petitioning to terminate his role due to his handling of Addimando’s case.
Among the list of grievances against the judge is perpetuation of harmful myths about domestic violence. “How can the college claim to ‘foster a safe living and learning environment for all’ when someone with such a fundamental, well-documented lack of understanding about domestic violence is allowed to shape the minds of young people?” the petition asks.
There are currently 812 signatures on the petition. Marist declined to comment.
A staff member of Judge McLoughlin’s chambers said that because the case is still considered pending, McLoughlin is not able to comment on the case at this time.
Aftermath
“I never had any illusion that Nikki coming home was going to be a happy ending, but I think she’s in a much better position than most,” Horton said, referring to the fact that Addimando has resources, community and family support, something the majority of incarcerated women do not.
Horton said that the family is working to heal from this trauma.
“We’re all looking forward to the future but it’s challenging at different points because, you know, healing is hard,” she said.
Jan. 27 marked the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau. I traveled to Poland as part of a delegation for the commemoration and spent a few days before the event with my father and sister learning, remembering and gathering information.
My dad’s parents, Miriam and Yehuda, of blessed memory, were deported to Auschwitz -Birkenau from the Lódz Ghetto. They both had families that perished and met each other after the camp was liberated.
The gate at Auschwitz. Natalia Zukerman
I put my feet in the train tracks where they would have arrived, ran my hands across the walls of the horrible gas chambers, the broken wood of the crowded bunks, gathered dirt in my shoes where they would have walked, and made sure to touch the trunks of the trees along the path—innocent witnesses.
My father’s parents survived. How did they do it? Miriam was quickly sent to a work camp on the Czech border, and Yehuda played violin in the Auschwitz orchestra (aka the Death Orchestra). Music saved him. A million miracles saved them both.
Many members of our extended family did not survive.
Suitcases taken from prisoners at Auschwitz.Natalia Zukerman
Cuikerman was the original Polish spelling of our name. We poured over page after page of our name in the Book of Names. I can’t explain it, but as I read the names—aloud and quietly—I felt some of their spirits finally release.
Innocent witnesses.
I never wanted to come to Auschwitz-Birkenau. I grew up in the shadow of the Holocaust. It was part of our dark story. From the time I was very little, I saw all the images, watched the movies, read the books. I’ve had nightmares my whole life. I remember the tattoo on my grandmother’s forearm. This was enough.
But until you stand in the field the size of a city and look out at the expanse of crematoria, gas chambers, bunkers, the enormity and scale is just a story, words on a page. Now I have metabolized it in a different way. Now it is part of my DNA on a deeper level. Now I am changed.
A crematorium at Auschwitz.Natalia Zukerman
On Holocaust Remembrance Day, world leaders from fifty countries—including King Charles, Volodymyr Zelenskyy, Emmanuel Macron, Justin Trudeau and so many more— gathered with survivors and their families, musicians, friends and patrons of the organization in an enormous tent at the entrance to Birkenau. A freight train stood in front of the main gate. The car, from Germany, honors the 420,000 Hungarian Jews deported in 1944. Its conservation was funded by Frank Lowy, whose father, Hugo, was killed in the camp.
It radiated with horror in almost theatrical lighting, its now silenced whistle audible in the memories of all who gathered.
I listened to survivor after survivor speak. I watched as each world leader lit candles in remembrance. I said Kaddish (the Jewish prayer for the dead) with the several thousand people present.
But I only heard one person, 99-year-old Polish-born Swedish-Jewish doctor Leon Weintraub, utter any words that made sense to me, to my very fragile and shaken heart. He became a doctor after the war and told the group gathered the one absolute truth: there is only one race—the human race. He talked about the fact that under the skin, we are the same, words that were beyond powerful. In the very place where the most evil “experiments” were conducted to prove the supremacy of the Aryan race, this man stood there in all his beautiful bravery and told the truth. He was able, for a moment, to remove a hierarchy of care and replace it with an expansive, human appeal. He brought the memory of all the people killed, not just the Jews when he said, “be sensitive to all manifestations of intolerance and dislike of those who differ in terms of skin color, religion or sexual orientation.” He widened the conversation, lest we also forget the Romani, queer, disabled, dissidents and more that were also victims of the Nazis. Lest we forget the lesson of Gandhi when he said, “intolerance itself is a form of violence.”
Weintraub ended by saying, “allowing the memory of millions of innocent victims to fade would be equivalent to robbing them of their lives a second time.”
Shoes taken from prisoners.Natalia Zukerman
There are multiple genocides on planet earth right now. There are humans in actual concentration camps as I write this. There are whole populations being murdered.
After this experience, more than ever, I vow to speak the truth as loudly and as often as I can.
Speaking up, questioning and protesting is not only not antisemitism, it defines the core principles of what it means to be Jewish.
A beautiful Jewish human named Albert Einstein said, “Our task must be to free ourselves by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty.”
This must and will be my task. Nothing else makes any sense.
Prisoners slept four to a bunk at Birkenau.Natalia Zukerman
Dina La Fonte
The “sober curious” movement has gained momentum in recent years, encouraging individuals to explore life without alcohol—whether for health reasons, personal growth, or simple curiosity. Dina La Fonte, a certified recovery coach, is theSenior Business Affairs Associate at Mountainside, an alcohol and drug addiction treatment center with a holistic approach to wellness that has several locations, including the one in Canaan, Connecticut. With nearly five years of sobriety, La Fonte blends professional expertise with lived experience, making her a powerful advocate for recovery.
Like many, La Fonte’s path to recovery was not just about removing alcohol; it was about rediscovering herself. “Once you get sober from a substance, whether it’s alcohol, drugs, gambling or what have you, emotional aspects of change come into place,” she explained. “It’s not a hard stop; it’s a continued process of integration and struggle.” Her own journey has led her to a career in recovery coaching, allowing her to help others find their own path.
“What I love about my work at Mountainside is that it allows me to be who I am without forcing me into a mold,” she said. “In recovery, we identify our authentic voice, establish boundaries, and clarify what we truly want.”
La Fonte explained that the rise of the “sober curious” movement may reflect a cultural shift in how we approach alcohol and self-care. La Fonte attributes this change to open conversations that break down stigma. “Even five or six years ago, admitting you had a problem came with embarrassment,” she said. “Now, the more we discuss it, the more people realize they’re not alone.” This newfound openness has perhaps made it easier for some individuals to explore sobriety and even do so without the pressure of a lifelong commitment.
Beyond emotional well-being, La Fonte also noted the physical benefits of sobriety. “It wasn’t immediate, but after a year, I noticed my skin clearing up, my energy improving, and my confidence growing,” she recalled. “Casual drinking dehydrates the skin, affects sleep, and contributes to inflammation. When people realize how much better they feel without alcohol, they want to hold onto that.”
In her role at Mountainside, La Fonte has expanded beyond coaching to influence organization-wide initiatives. “I still work directly with clients, but now I also help evolve how we support them,” she said. “Mountainside takes a holistic approach—integrating yoga, grief therapy, sound baths, and more. It’s not about pushing people through a system; it’s about meeting them where they are.”
La Fonte uses her social media platform as a “micro-influencer” to promote sober living and wellness. “I focus on positivity in sobriety—whether it’s skincare, self-care, or mental health. I test vegan and cruelty-free products, but I only promote what aligns with my values.”
For those exploring sobriety, La Fonte’s message is simple: “I’m not here to judge. I’m here to help.” She encourages open conversations and meeting people where they are. “If you’re curious about sobriety, let’s talk. I don’t need to know you to be proud of you. I don’t need to know you to love you. I already love you.Just reaching out is a huge step.”
With voices like La Fonte’s leading the conversation, perhaps the sober curious movement is more than a trend—it’s a cultural shift redefining what it means to live fully and authentically.
To contact Dina La Fonte, email her at dina.lafonte@mountainside.com, explore the Mountainside website at mountainside.com, or follow La Fonte on Instagram @dinalafonte