“I need to ask you some questions about your experience, Jessica. There’s a camera recording this in the next room. Just relax and share your truth. What you say here will be taken seriously as evidence.”
Why does he keep emphasizing the need for honesty? Who would fabricate such a serious accusation?
The room felt stifling, but I requested a blanket. “Do you happen to have a stuffed animal or something?”
At that moment, I felt utterly foolish. Yet, as soon as the words escaped my lips, a child advocate named Linda entered with a cuddly bear and a warm blanket. She settled next to me, took my hand, and said, “Sweetheart, the hardest part is behind you. You are safe now. All you need to do is share your story. Hold this bear, and let it out, alright?”
“I can do that,” I replied, curling up against a pile of cushions.
“Just remember,” Linda continued, “No matter what happens, it’s crucial for you to know this: We believe you, Jess. We believe you.”
Those three words gave me the strength to proceed.
Through grueling sessions and intense cross-examinations, I remained resolute. Because they believed me.
When the defense attempted to tarnish my reputation, painting me as someone immoral, I held my ground. Because they believed me.
Three years later, when my abuser was found guilty and local media cast doubt on his culpability, I simply changed the channel and stood tall. Because they believed me.
From the moment I reported my experience, I was surrounded by individuals who validated my narrative—people who believed me. That belief served as my lifeboat amidst the chaos.
It pains me to recognize how fortunate I was.
Growing up in Alabama, a place now embroiled in political scandal, Roy Moore, a white evangelical figure, faces allegations of sexually abusing at least eight minors. Yes, you read that correctly—eight.
One by one, these brave women have stepped forward to share their experiences, yet they face relentless public scrutiny.
The vitriolic discourse surrounding Moore’s accusers is revolting. As a survivor of similar trauma and a CASA (court-appointed special advocate), I am acutely aware that substantial data supports the likelihood that these women are recounting the truth.
For instance, did you know that in 98% of child abuse cases reported to authorities, the victims’ claims are substantiated? (NSW Child Protection Council, cited in Dympna House 1998)
Sadly, despite the truthfulness of their accounts, 73% of victims remain silent for over a year, and 55% never disclose their abuse, often waiting more than five years to speak out. (I waited eight years). (Broman-Fulks et al, 2007).
This delay in reporting presents significant challenges for prosecution. We wonder why these women struggle to come forward? Even when they do, achieving justice is rare. For every 1,000 rapes reported, fewer than six perpetrators face incarceration. The rest remain unpunished.
Even more troubling, some of these individuals find their way into public office.
People, do you understand what I’m saying? When someone confides in you about their abuse, past or present, there are only three words you should respond with:
I. Believe. You.
It doesn’t matter who the accused is. Whether it’s a close friend, a mentor, or even a public figure, your allegiance should lie with the truth.
What should concern you far more than allegations against someone you admire is the reality of child abuse itself.
I’m done with the trolls, the skeptics, and the morally bankrupt individuals who criticize these women for telling their stories. We already know that statistically, they are likely telling the truth. Moreover, we also understand that countless others remain silent, terrified to come forward. We can support victims while still ensuring due process for the accused.
After everything, it should be clear why we must change our approach. Don’t contribute to the fear that silences victims.
Today, it may be a 55-year-old stranger’s story in the headlines, but tomorrow it could easily involve someone you love. How would you want the world to react?
I hope for a champion like my advocate, Linda, who would take my child’s hand, look them in the eye, and without hesitation say, “I believe you.”
That should be our response to these narratives. The only appropriate response.
Say it with me now: We believe you.
To Roy Moore’s accusers: We believe you.
To the victims whose stories remain untold: We believe you.
The statistics are staggering. Children are being abused, often waiting years to speak about it, or sometimes never disclosing at all.
When they finally muster the courage to speak, I refuse to let them be met with shame or disbelief. I will be the one who extends a lifeline, affirming their truth and believing them.
I urge you all to do the same.
For more insights on fertility journeys, check out this post on artificial insemination kits. To learn more about the resources available for those facing fertility challenges, visit Johns Hopkins Medicine.
In summary, we must stand united in our support of survivors, affirming their experiences with the unwavering response: “We believe you.”