An Open Message to All Survivors: Stand Up, Speak Out, and Be Heard

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I have a story that needs to be shared — a truth that must be spoken, and I refuse to hide. This is a tale that echoes through countless lives, one that unfolds each day.

My journey began at the tender age of 14, when my first encounter with intimacy became an assault. There were three perpetrators involved, one of whom was an adult. I won’t delve into the depths of the devastation I faced in the aftermath of that fateful night; many of you reading this already understand that pain without further explanation. You have your own stories of trauma.

For a long time, I told no one — except my best friend, who was just a child herself. She comforted me while I wept, unsure of how to help. I carried my pain alone, expressing it through self-harm and hidden scars. My mind replayed the horror repeatedly, but it always led back to the same dark conclusion.

Eventually, I grew weary of the battlefield inscribed upon my skin and the chaos raging in my mind. I grew tired of his vile words echoing in my ears: “Don’t worry. We do this all the time.” And then, I transformed my anger into courage. I was determined to ensure they never shattered another life.

So, I shared my story. I spoke to a male school counselor, a male police officer, a male district attorney, and a male defense attorney. I recounted my experience to a jury dominated by men. Do you know what they told me? They instructed me to document every detail and scrutinized my account for inconsistencies. They questioned my attire as if my gray hoodie and jeans invited violation. They asked why I didn’t scream, fight back, or run away. Yet, not one of them thought to ask why my attackers did not respect me or why they chose to invade my life.

But I was no longer afraid. I stood tall and declared my truth to those unfamiliar faces. And their collective response? “We don’t believe you.”

All three of my assailants walked free. Can you imagine the impact of that verdict on a young girl with a shattered spirit and a wounded body? It instilled in her the belief that she didn’t matter — that she never had and never would. And so, she lived her life shrouded in shadows and shame.

She shared her story with a male psychiatrist after a suicide attempt, with each man she sought love from, with another male therapist who crossed boundaries, and with a man who physically abused her while claiming it was love. She recounted her tale to herself countless times each day, each iteration leading to the same conclusion. But still, she persisted.

With perseverance and grit, she kindles a tiny flame within her. A flicker of light that nobody could extinguish. She continues on, often alone, working tirelessly to heal, riding the waves of recovery that come and go.

And in an unexpected twist, she finds herself telling her story to a man who takes her hands and says, “I see you. I love you. You did not deserve this.” Some days, she believes him, while other days, the shadows return. Because even one strong voice cannot drown out the cacophony of past trauma.

With claws and grit, through love and grace, she grows. She becomes a mother of sons, raising them to change the narrative of the world. She later becomes a mother of a daughter, and suddenly, all the past pain resurfaces, igniting every wound. The beautiful girl in her arms mirrors the girl she once was, still trapped in a broken heart.

How will I protect her? How will I prevent her from inheriting this story? The truth is, I’m uncertain. I navigate a world that often feels hopeless.

We are survivors, mothers, and daughters living in a society that allows men to harm and walk away unscathed. We exist in a world where men can grope, issue half-hearted apologies, and even ascend to power despite multiple allegations of vile acts. What does this say to women carrying broken hearts? Although we may have grown, the message remains: It doesn’t matter. It never did. It never will.

So, what can we do with our silent, terrible stories? I believe we must share them. We must raise our voices — louder and louder — until we are heard. Stand up. Scream. Shout. We must ensure they know we refuse to remain silent.

We need to support one another, hand in hand, raising our chins higher, reminding one another: You who were not honored. You who faced disbelief. You who were denied justice. You with scars and crushed self-worth. You who persisted and kept a flicker of light alive. You with daughters and endless worries.

You are not alone in your struggle to rebuild yourself and reclaim your peace. You are not alone in this unjust world. You are not alone in your story. You are not alone in your healing. You are not alone in your rise.

Because you never deserved to be beaten down, but you have always deserved to rise. I will continue to tell this story in countless ways, until they see me and hear me. I will take your hand and listen to you, until you are seen and heard. I will hold my daughter close — not out of fear, but in solidarity as we rise together.

Perhaps we cannot change our stories, but we can ensure our experiences transform the world. If you’re looking for more ways to take charge of your life, consider exploring options like the at-home insemination kit here. For more insights on pregnancy, visit this excellent resource.

In summary, we must unite as survivors, share our truths, and uplift each other in our journeys toward healing and empowerment.