Tag: assault

3 Key Benefits to Forgiving and Why I Thanked My Imperfect Parents

TRIGGER WARNING: This post mentions physical abuse and may be triggered to some people.

“Forgiveness is not always easy. At times, it feels more painful than the wound we suffered, to forgive the one that inflicted it. And yet, there is no peace without forgiveness.” ~Marianne Williamson

The subject of forgiveness comes up often in conversation, but I find that when it comes to the details of what that truly entails, what that process feels like is not actually talked about.

Over the years, I’ve heard the following statements most often from people when the subject of forgiving someone came up in discussions:

1. “What they’ve done is just wrong! I can never forgive them for that.”

2. “They haven’t earned my forgiveness. There’s no reason for me to forgive them.”

3. “Oh, I already forgave them and let it go. I haven’t told them because we aren’t talking. Why should I be the one to reach out first?”

In 2006, I attended a long weekend workshop with the late Dr. Lee Gibson, where he gifted us one of his brilliant Leeisms: “Forgiveness is erasing a debt you think someone owes you. That’s why forgiveness can feel like it’s costing you something.”

I was blown away.

Yes! I was beginning to understand why it was so hard for me to forgive my parents. I was stuck in the very same mentality of “Why should I?”, “They were clearly wrong!”, and “They haven’t earned it!”

Late one night when I was nineteen, I was assaulted by my father, who lost his temper and self-control. I thought I was going to die that night, because it certainly felt like he was trying to kill me. My younger brother eventually pulled him off me and kept him away long enough for us all to calm down.

I was terrified and didn’t sleep for three nights. I also told myself this was the last time I was going to allow this to happen. I started packing that night and moved out in three days. My parents and I didn’t have a relationship for the next ten years, as my mother stood by my father’s side.

During Lee’s workshop, with a mere group of six attendees that long weekend, we dove into the subject of family dysfunctions and forgiveness. It immediately hit a pain point for me, right in the core.

I fought with him for about forty minutes (I was told later by someone in the same class) in what felt to me like ten minutes—I was passionately immersed in that moment to prove my point and how wronged I was that time. I was at a standstill.

I asked him what about fairness and justice, and why must I be the bigger person here when they are the parents? Lee calmly asked, “How does it feel for you to be the bigger person? Is that okay?” Well, I thought, I suppose it is, but why must I always be that person?

Then he proposed an even more outlandish concept—thanking the people who had wronged us for all the things they’d done right.

I was stirred up a little more, but for some reason was curious to hear more. I needed to understand why he thought it was a good idea, and how exactly it would help me be at peace.

To be honest, I don’t remember all the deep wisdom he had shared as to why. All I remember is that it would create a shift within us if we were open and brave enough to try it, and he encouraged us to share our experience with him afterward.

No way, I thought. Never. Not gonna happen. Forgiveness is one thing, but thanking them was way beyond what I was willing to consider.

I was still stewing about all this a week after the workshop. But my adventurous heart wanted to know what it would feel like if I set aside all that my parents had done wrong and thanked them for all the things they had done right.

I started making a list of some of the things I thought they did right, such as struggling through the hardships of being first-generation immigrants and working day and night to put food on the table and a roof over our heads.

After much thought, with a racing heart and trembling voice, I did the unthinkable—I called my parents one night, out of the blue, to conduct this “social experiment.” I went down my list and thanked them for all the things they did right without mentioning anything that they’d done wrong. They reacted surprisingly well and acknowledged there was a lot they could have done better.

I’ll admit, I tried not to have any expectations, but a part of me was hoping they’d apologize for what they’d done wrong, and they didn’t. I felt surprisingly okay about that after we hung up.

I felt proud of myself for having done that. I felt bigger. I felt more grown up. I felt more empowered to be the bigger person. That was my first taste of offering compassion and gratitude from a place of empowerment rather than martyrdom.

I definitely experienced a shift.

It probably took another five years for me to fully understand and let go of the night of the assault and all the things I thought they could’ve done better. In hindsight, giving thanks was the first step to feeling more of an adult and less of a helpless child in their presence. Being able to give my own parents a pat on the back put me at the same level.

I no longer feel the need to be hopeful that they will treat me a certain way, give me the attention I felt I needed, or make up for what they’d done wrong. I felt more in a position to see them as they are—other human beings also dealing with their own suffering.

As each year goes by, I continue to get to know my parents as human beings and not just as my parents.

I have gradually taken them out of the parental role, as I no longer need them to be, and treat them like any other adult. I have established boundaries with them and began to respect their boundaries too, once I got to know their limitations. And I disengage whenever I feel like our interactions start to redirect toward an unhealthy dynamic.

I understood very well that, as an adult, it was my choice whether to have a relationship with my parents or not. And if I chose to, I would also be playing a part in what kind of relationship we would have. I wanted to have a good relationship with them, and the only way to do that was to forgive.

At some point in my life, I realized forgiveness is truly for my own benefit. Here’s why:

Good closure

The best closure is always amicable. How many relationships have left us feeling abandoned, confused, heartbroken, and questioning our self-worth? We were often not given a choice in those types of endings. But what if we could actively choose a better way to end a relationship with someone? (Or, like with my parents, begin a new relationship with them.)

While this is a two-way street, we have control over our side. This allows each of us to move on to better future relationships and the next chapter of our lives, without guilt or attachment. A bond with another formed by anger, guilt, or bitterness is an energetic constraint to our own heart and soul.

Personal growth and transformation

Whenever we hold onto the victim mentality, we keep ourselves small. When we refuse to forgive, we hold onto the fact that we have been wronged and that we are the victim in that scenario. It’s hard to grow beyond that mindset when we hold onto what hurts us and continue to hold that over those we feel have wronged us.

It may not feel like it right now (I know I certainly struggled with it for a long time), but the first step to feeling empowered is recognizing that we are in the position to forgive, and that is big. Much like extending gratitude, extending forgiveness comes from a higher place. A place where we have the knowledge that we are in a leadership position to forgive and break through the cage we have built for ourselves.

Soul freedom

In a way, we’re helping their hearts and souls to move on. We’re here on earth for a short period of time. As cliché as it sounds, the only things that we’ll think of in our last hours are how much we gave, loved, and lived, and what will haunt us is how much we didn’t.

I want to make sure I am free of such torment. And if I could free others of such torment in the process, then it would truly be a win-win, on a soul level.

—

Forgiveness not only frees us from being permanently tied to those we feel have wronged us; it also releases them from a debt we feel they owe us—a karmic tie I do not wish to adhere to. Only then will we all feel a deep sigh of relief with a freedom to move on to whatever awaits our souls next.

I sent my father a care package last year with a card attached, letting him know that I wish him happiness and health and he is loved and he is forgiven. And now I am at peace.

**I am not suggesting anyone else should thank their abuser. I personally found this helpful and healing, but everyone needs to make their own choice based on what’s best for them.

January 16, 2023
4 Things I Needed to Accept to Let Go and Heal After Trauma

TRIGGER WARNING: This post references sexual abuse and may be triggered to some people.

“The truth is, unless you let go, unless you forgive yourself, unless you forgive the situation, unless you realize that the situation is over, you cannot move forward.” ~Steve Maraboli

My family immigrated to the U.S. from India when I was sixteen. Being Indian, my traditional family expected me to have an arranged marriage.

At twenty-two, as a graduate music student, I fell in love with an American man. When my family found out about our secret relationship, they took me back to India and put me under house arrest. For a year.

That year of imprisonment and isolation was severely traumatizing. I shut down from my acute distress and pain. I dissociated from myself, my truth, my power, my body, my heart, and my sexuality.

Two years after they let me out, I escaped to the US but was emotionally imprisoned by my past. I lived dissociated, afraid, and ashamed for eighteen years. Eventually, I broke free from an abusive marriage and my family.

Since then, I have been on a path of healing and empowerment.

Beginning my healing journey was like walking through a long, dark tunnel. I was and felt like a victim but was determined to heal.

To heal from dissociation, I needed to feel again. I felt the bottomless grief, loss, and heartbreak of all that I didn’t get to experience and enjoy.

I faced and began to address my childhood history of sexual abuse.

I set boundaries with my family. I started therapy and studied psychology. I learned my mother is a narcissist and my father an enabler.

Coming from a traditional patriarchal, colonial culture, I had grown up with codes of obedience, sacrifice, and duty. I questioned and challenged my deep internalized beliefs of who I am, what I can do, and what is possible for me as a person of color.

I learned about my rights. Growing up in India, I had a very different understanding of my rights than those born in Western countries.

Therapy helped me reconnect with my body, with my needs, wants, and desires. I learned to identify and feel my sensations and emotions. I learned to discern who and what was safe and what wasn’t safe.

I learned to listen to and trust myself and become more embodied through my dance practice. This allowed me to dance out my rage, shame, grief, and everything I had disconnected from and suppressed. I came alive and opened to pleasure and passion.

I’ve struggled with low self-worth, people-pleasing, caretaking, perfectionism, fear, shame, guilt, and codependency. One of my most painful realizations was that my inner critic had become as severe as those who abused me. I continue to practice being kind and gentle to myself, loving myself and my inner child and encouraging my artistic self.

In relationships, it has been hard for me to discern whom to trust and not trust. I had an emotionally abusive marriage and have given my power away in relationships. In romantic relationships, I projected my goodness and integrity and supported my partners’ dreams instead of my own.

I have finally learned that I can choose myself and honor my needs, wants, desires, dreams, and goals. I continue to shed other people’s projections that I internalized. I am realizing that I am worthy of and can have, dream, aspire for, and achieve what white women can. And finally, I believe in my goodness, of others, and of life.

Having emerged from the long, dark tunnel of healing, every day is a triumph for my freedom and a priceless gift. Every day I have the opportunity to be true to myself, face a fear, shift a perspective, and love, encourage, and enjoy myself.

Acceptance

There are so many steps and milestones on the journey of healing. Of the five stages of grief, acceptance is the final one.

Acceptance is a choice and a practice. Acceptance is letting go, forgiving yourself and others, and honoring, claiming, and loving every twist and turn of your journey. Acceptance is treasuring all you have learned from your experience no matter how painful it was and how meaningless it seemed.

Here are some things I have learned to accept.

Accept the deep impact of trauma

Coming from a family and culture that valued perfectionism and purity, I wasn’t aware of and wanted to gloss over and hide my trauma, shadow, and coping behaviors. Because I could live a life that seemed relatively high-functioning, I was ashamed to admit and address my childhood sexual trauma to myself for years. I was afraid and ashamed to share my trauma with others because I didn’t want to be seen as broken, damaged, or crazy.

Once I acknowledged and faced my sexual trauma, I began my healing journey. Healing and acceptance mean seeing, claiming, and loving each and every part of ourselves, however broken or ashamed we feel. As we do that, we liberate ourselves from believing we needed to fit into other people’s ideas to be loved and accepted.

When we don’t admit and accept our traumas, we can cycle through life alive but not living, succeeding but not fulfilled, and live according to programs we’ve inherited but not from our truths. As a result, joy, pleasure, passion, and true power escape us.

Accepting that I didn’t get to have the life and dreams I expected

As a victim, I was stuck in grief, loss, anger, denial, disillusionment, blame, and resentment. Life seemed unfair.

These feelings are natural after trauma, especially extended severe trauma. But despite years of therapy and healing, I continued to cycle and swim in them and didn’t know how to not have those feelings.

I was fighting to accept what I had lost. I kept ruminating on who I might have been and what my life would have been like had it not been interrupted or derailed. It was how my subconscious mind tried to control and “correct” the past to have the outcome I desired and stay connected to my past dreams.

I was tightly holding on to what I had lost—to who I was then and my dreams. I was terrified that if I let go of what was most precious, I would be left with nothing.

But the reverse happened. When I decided to let go of my past dreams, regrets, and lost opportunities, I stepped into the river of life anew, afresh, and in the now. I opened to who I am now and what is possible now.

We don’t let go of trauma because, on a deep level, we believe we will condone what happened, and forget or lose what was so precious.

Not letting go keeps us stuck like a monkey clutching peanuts in a narrow-mouthed jar. We don’t want to let go of what we had then for fear that we will be left with nothing at all. It keeps us stuck in blame and resentment. It keeps us from joy, pleasure, and possibility.

But to live and breathe and come alive again, we need to unclench our past. By no means is this forgetting, or condoning, but allowing, receiving, and welcoming new, fresh beginnings, possibilities, and life.

Accepting the character, mental illness, and wounds of my abusers

Though my family had been brutal, my inner child wanted to believe in their goodness. I couldn’t accept that people I loved, who were supposed to love, care for, and protect me, could treat me that way.

I was in a trauma bond and in denial. I had to come to terms with and accept that my mother is a narcissist and my father an enabler. And that the rest of my family only looked the other way.

I had to let go of my illusion of my family, see through the fog of gaslighting, and accept the truth of who they are.

Acceptance is learning to see our abusers with clear eyes beyond our expectations, illusions, and stories of what we needed and desired from them, and who we want them to be.

No matter what was done to or happened to me, I am responsible for my life.

Staying stuck in a cycle of blame, resentment, and anger told me I wasn’t taking responsibility for myself.

After severe trauma, it’s painful and challenging to look at ourselves and realize that we played a part in it. Trauma is something that happens to us, but we are the ones who make conclusions about ourselves, others, and life because of it. My beliefs and perspectives about myself, especially about my self-worth, self-esteem, body, and sexuality, drastically changed after the trauma.

I had to take responsibility for creating my beliefs. I needed to accept every time I didn’t choose, value, and honor myself and my gifts. I realized that just as I had adopted others’ projections of myself, creating a negative self-perception, I could shift to regard myself in a positive light.

Accepting my part in my trauma set me free from blame and resentment. And it set me free from the power my abusers had over me and my connection to them.

Acknowledge what I don’t have control over

My inner child and I wanted to believe in the goodness, love, and protectiveness of my family and partners. But I have no control over who my parents, family, and culture are, or their mental health, values, and behaviors. I had no control over my culture’s beliefs and attitudes toward women and sexuality.

Because of deep shame from childhood abuse, I felt bad at my core and had a low sense of self-worth. Subconsciously, I tried to control how I was seen. I lived a life acceptable to my family and culture and followed what the world defined as successful, believing it would make me feel good about myself and be accepted and loved.

But my happiness, freedom, and success lie in my own truth. I learned to honor and follow that. I learned to mother and father myself. I learned about mental illness and mental health and reached out for support from therapists and friends.

As I let go of trying to please others, pursuing my own needs, talents, and interests, I found myself, my joy, and my purpose.

Forgive myself

Looking back, I see so many roads I could have taken but didn’t. I see many ways I could have taken help but didn’t. I was filled with regret for past choices and decisions. I was angry with and judged myself.

We can be our own harshest critics. I needed to forgive myself.

I learned to see and be compassionate with my inner child and younger self, steeped as she was in family binds and cultural beliefs. I learned to hold her with tenderness and love for all the ways she didn’t know how to protect and choose herself. And for all she wanted but didn’t know how to reach for and have, for what she wanted to say and do but couldn’t or didn’t.

As I held my younger selves with understanding, compassion, and love, and forgave them, they began to trust me and offer their gifts, which allowed me to open to joy, innocence, freedom, and play again.

November 27, 2022
After the Assault: What I Now Know About Repressed Trauma

TRIGGER WARNING: This article details an account of sexual assault and may be triggering to some people.

The small park down the street from my childhood home: friends and I spent many evenings there as teenagers. We’d watch movies on each other’s MP3 players and eat from a bag of microwave popcorn while owls hooted from the trees above.

Twigs lightly poked against our backs. Fallen leaves graced skin. Crickets hummed in the darkness. The stars shone bright through the branches of the redwoods.

Eight years later at a park in Montevideo, Uruguay, darkness again surrounded me. Leaves and twigs once more made contact with my skin. This time, though, I couldn’t hear the crickets or notice the stars. Details of nature were dimmed out, replaced by the internal clamor of a rapidly beating heart and shock flooding through me.

By day, Parque Rodo bustled with life. Later that year I would ride paddle boats there with my girlfriend of the time. I would feed crumbles of tortas fritas to the ducks alongside my Uruguayan housemate, while he shared with me his dream to become a dancer in New York City. I would do yoga on the grass with fellow English teacher friends. It would become a place of positive memories.

That night, though, it was anything but.

~~~

One week earlier, I’d moved to Montevideo to teach English and become fluent in Spanish.

My first week passed by in a whir of exploratory activity. I traversed cobblestone streets past colorful houses resembling Turkish delights; past pick-up soccer games in the middle of some roads; past teenagers walking large groups of varied species of dogs.

I learned Spanish tongue-twisters from native Uruguayans while drinking mate on the shores of the Rio de la Plata. I sand-boarded for the first time and became accustomed to answering the question “De donde sos?” (“Where are you from?”) in nearly every taxi I took and confiteria (pastry shop) I set foot in.

Now that it was the weekend, I wanted to experience the LGBTQ+ night life (which I’d heard positive things about). Located on the periphery of the expansive Parque Rodo, Il Tempo was one of Montevideo’s three gay clubs, catering mostly to lesbians.

I hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so my plan before heading in was to grab a chivito sandwich (one of Uruguay’s staple foods). Chiviterias abounded across Montevideo, present on nearly every corner, so I imagined I wouldn’t have to walk far to find one.

After taxi-ing from my hostel, I asked the bouncer if he could direct me to the closest chiviteria. Pointing down the street, he told me to walk for half a block. I’d then make a right and continue down 21de septiembre until reaching Bulevar General Artigas.

” Y alli encontrarás una” (“And there you will find one”), he said.

A few blocks didn’t sound like a lot, so off I went.

I walked for what felt like a while, without crossing paths with any other pedestrians.

Isn’t this supposed to be a major street? I wondered. Also, shouldn’t there be some streetlamps?

It was then that another pedestrian—a young man wearing a backward baseball cap—came into view.

He was walking briskly toward me from the opposite direction. Pretty much the minute I saw him, I knew my evening wouldn’t be playing out as I’d envisioned. A chivito was no longer on the table. I wouldn’t be dancing with a cute Spanish-speaking lesbian at Il Tempo.

“Adonde vas?” (“Where are you going?”) the man asked me as he got closer. Tension immediately took hold of my body, which I did my best to hide while quickly responding that I was on my way to a chivito spot.

Yo sé donde comprar un chivito” (“I know where to get a chivito”), he said, gesturing toward the park. “Te muestro” (“I’ll show you”).

My heart hammered, but I again tried to obscure any signs of fear. Maybe if I exuded only niceness and naivety, it would buy me more time—because the grim truth (that there was nowhere within eyesight to run to) was quickly becoming apparent. The foggy pull of disassociation came for me, wrapping its wispy arms around my heart and mind.

Similar to how Laurie Halse Anderson wrote in Shout: “The exits were blocked, so you wisely fled your skin when you smelled his intent.”

I chose not to run—because who knew how long it would be before I found a more populated road, or even a passing car? And how far could I flee before the man caught up? He’d likely become angry and violent if and when he did. Also, flip-flops make for pretty dismal running shoes…

Maybe if I kept walking with him, we’d cross paths with another person, went my reasoning at the time. No one else was present on that dimly lit street, but maybe in the park someone would be—a couple taking a late-night stroll, or a cluster of teenagers cutting through on their way to the next bar; or someone, anyone who could step in and become a buffer. Parque Rodo’s website had, after all, mentioned that many young people hang out there at night.

~~~

I don’t remember what the man and I talked about as we walked. I do remember a half-eaten chivito lying atop a trash can off to the side of the path; the sound of my flip-flops crunching against the gravel; that we continued to be the only pedestrians on our path; and that after a minute or two, the man announced, “We’ve almost made it to the chivito place.” I nodded in response, my appetite now completely nonexistent.

Part of me still hoped I could buy time. That I could pretend I didn’t know what was about to happen, for long enough so that someone, or something, could intervene—so that maybe it wouldn’t.

Nothing and no one did though. When the man finally grabbed me and pushed me against a tree, my feigned composure broke. Noticing the shift, he used both his hands to cover my mouth while whispering that he would kill me if I raised my voice (“Te mataré,” he repeated three times in a low hiss).

Over those next few minutes, I kept trying to hold eye contact in attempt to get through to his humanity. I desperately and naively hoped that at any moment he would awaken to what he was doing and feel ashamed enough to stop.

He didn’t though.

When he tried to take my shorts off, a disorienting sequence of imagined future scenarios swiped through my mind like sinister serpants.

They showed me dealing with an STD.

Taking a pregnancy test.

Getting an abortion.

Doing all of these things on my own in a country 6,000 miles from home and from everyone who knew me.

My fear of those imagined outcomes pushed me to speak up.

”You don’t want to go down there,” I warned, feigning concern for his well-being.

He reached for my shorts anyways.

And so I tried again, this time while looking him in the eye. Though I wouldn’t know the Spanish word for STD until years later when taking a medical interpreter certification course, I did have others at my disposal. Enough to explain that I’d once had “a bad experience” that left me with algo contagioso (something contagious).

If this man cared at all about his health, he’d stop what he was doing, I explained.

Maybe I was imagining it, but I thought I saw the slightest bit of uncertainty begin to share space with the vacancy in his eyes.

Whether or not he believed me, he stopped reaching down and settled on a non-penetrative compromise.

Afterwards he snatched up my shorts and emptied their pockets of the crumpled pesos inside them (the equivalent of about fifty U.S. dollars). Then after tossing them into a nearby bush, he ran off into the night.

~~~~

As I stood up a dizziness overtook me, my soul quavering and disoriented in its return from the air above to back inside my skin.

Still shaking, I found my way to the closest lighted path, walking quickly until I reached Il Tempo—the club I’d started at.

I asked the bouncer if I could use the bathroom.

Once inside I washed my mouth with soap—one time, two times, five then six. No number of times felt like enough.

After returning to my hostel, I fell asleep, telling not a single soul. I wouldn’t for another six months.

~~~

Part of it was that I didn’t want to bother anyone. What had happened was heavy, but it was over now. I was fine—and what was there to say about it? Telling people, this soon into the start of my year abroad, would just be needlessly burdening them. Not to mention disrupting the momentum of what I’d wanted to be a chapter of growth and new beginnings.

Another aspect of it was that I feared the questions people might ask, even if just in their own heads:

Why were you walking on your own at night? Why didn’t you take a taxi? Why were you wearing shorts? Why didn’t you run? Scream? Why did you follow him into the park? Why weren’t you carrying mace? Why didn’t you…?

I too had asked myself these questions. And I had answers to them.

I was walking on my own because I’d just moved here and didn’t know anyone; I didn’t take a taxi because I thought the walk would be quick, and taking one every time you need to walk even just a block or two gets expensive; I wore shorts because it was a hot summer night; I followed him into the park for the reasons outlined in my thought process above, and perhaps because fear was clouding and constricting my rational thinking.

Still, I couldn’t shake free from the shame.

The people I confessed to months later turned out to be wonderfully supportive. Looking back, I can see that though I’d worried about them judging me, I was the one judging myself—then projecting that self-judgment onto them.

Still, even though my support group didn’t, I was also aware that society does lean toward placing accountability on victims—even more so in the years before the Me Too movement. Often, even now, the knee-jerk reaction is to question victims.

After determining that the best way forward was to put the incident behind me, I then locked it away into a mental casket and began the burial process. I covered over it with mate and dulce-de-leche; with invigorating swims through the Rio de la Plata; with meeting lively souls in the months that followed.

Though unaddressed, at least safely buried the memory couldn’t harm me. Or so went my thinking at the time.

~~~

Following the assault, I began my teaching job at the English academy. I assimilated to Uruguayan culture as best as I could, all while providing positive updates to friends and family back home.

The pushed-down trauma manifested in other ways though—in stress, depression, and near constant irritation. As Tara Brach put it, “The pain and fear don’t go away. Rather, they lurk in the background and from time to time suddenly take over.”

I drank unhealthy amounts of alcohol (not just in groups, but also when alone). Many things overwhelmed me. Countless triggers seemed to set me off.

The Uruguayan girl I’d been dating even said to me once, “Te enojas por todo” (“You get irritated by everything”). I ended up getting banned from that lesbian club I’d gone to the night of the assault, after arguing with the bouncer one night.

Nightmares plagued me. I’d learned in my college psych class that one of the functions of sleep is to escape from predators. I wondered why, then, I came face to face with my predator every night in my dreams.

~~~

I’d had other traumatic experiences prior to this one—many of which I’d stuffed away.

The pain pile-up will level off, if only you just stop looking at it, I often tried to tell myself.

It didn’t level off though. I’d flown down to Uruguay with the pile still smoldering, my conscious mind numbed to the fumes (having been trained to forget they were there). Following the assault, the pile grew—and continued to grow well into my return to the U.S.

When we avoid processing, the traumas form a backlog in our hearts and minds, queuing up to be felt eventually. Numerous studies have found avoidance to be “the most significant factor that creates, prolongs, and intensifies trauma-reaction or PTSD symptoms.”

It was only when I began inching closer toward my pain that I began to slowly heal the parts I’d stuffed down for so long.

Healing took place when I began opening up to people. It took place in therapy and through getting a handle on my drinking. It took place when restructuring my network, prioritizing the friendships that were better for my soul, while trimming the ones that had served more of a distracting and numbing purpose.

It took place in redirecting care to my relationship with myself—spending more gentle one-on-one time with her, out in nature or in a quiet room.

Every time I run barefoot on a beach, my heart heals a little.

Every time I leave a meaningful interaction (with either a human or the planet), my soul inches closer toward realignment.

I practiced turning toward my truer self in all these ways—until eventually, as phrased beautifully by Carmen Maria Machado, “Time and space, creatures of infinite girth and tenderness, [had] stepped between the two of [the traumatic incident and me], and [were] keeping [me] safe as they were once unable to.”

Though I want this for everyone who’s survived an assault, or any other serious trauma, it’s only within judgment-free space that true healing is possible. This means letting go of self-judgment, and surrounding yourself with people who can validate you.

May the idea be wiped from our collective consciousness: that the choice to wear a particular item of clothing, or to consume a few drinks, or to seek out a snack late at night—basic things men can do without fearing for their safety—are responsible for what happened to survivors.

May the prevailing understanding become that what is responsible—100%—is a person’s decision to assault. Full stop.

May all of these things become true—because no survivor should have to experience shame alongside the pain that’s already so difficult to bear on its own. Because every survivor deserves a space to heal and reclaim what was taken from them: the ineffable sense of emotional safety that should be our birthright. We deserve a viscerally felt “you are okay” coursing through our veins. We deserve to feel completely at home inside our skin.

May we arrive there some day.

October 18, 2022
How I Overcame Shame from Sexual Assault and Began to Love Myself

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” ~Martin Luther King Jr.

It was Saturday, August 29th, 2020, when I admitted to myself, for the very first time, that I was a victim of sexual assault as a child.

Twenty-five years of complete denial that this ever happened, and suddenly all I could think of was the fact that my innocence was taken at the age of five. “Why now?” I wondered. “Why does it suddenly matter? Was I so resentful of my trauma that I denied its existence altogether?”

Between the ages of five and eight, I was repeatedly molested by a family member. Although I wasn’t sure what was happening, I knew two things: This felt pleasurable, and therefore, there was something inherently wrong with me.

I carried this shameful image of myself into adulthood, unaware of how it impacted my self-esteem, my sexuality, and my overall perception of myself as a woman.

As the sexual abuse eventually ended, so did any thoughts about it. No one knew that it had ever happened, and I planned for it to stay that way.

From the time I became sexually active, I struggled. I never felt safe while being intimate, even when I was with my ex-husband. I always carried this feeling of shame, and the more pleasure I felt from having intercourse, the more shame I experienced.

When I finally stopped denying that I was a victim of sexual assault, I knew there was no coming back. Once I became brave enough to admit the truth and accept the discomfort of it, I remembered all those times when the assault took place. It was terrifying and intimidating.

I felt disgusted, shameful, and angry. I was upset that this event was suddenly present in my life. My plans were to build my online business, make money, and have fun with friends, while making sure I consistently whitened my teeth and maintained my Florida tan.

Instead, I was forced to face my demons and address the truth I’d buried so well. All I could think of was “What’s wrong with me?”

For many victims of sexual assault, especially young children who can’t comprehend what’s happening, it’s easy to develop a belief that we are sick, dirty, undeserving, and not enough. We develop a strong survival mechanism where we pretend, guard up, in some cases become promiscuous while self-sabotaging any real connection with anyone else.

Our trauma supports the belief that we can’t trust anyone, everyone is out to get us, and that feeling any pleasure for ourselves is bad and sinful.

What I couldn’t wrap my head around, and what also brought unbearable shame, was the pleasure I felt when the assault happened. Logically, it didn’t make sense to me.

These were my thoughts: “I didn’t do anything about it, and there wasn’t any force or rebuttal present. I let it happen over and over, and in a sense, I enjoyed it. How can I ever say that I am a victim of sexual assault? If it was wrong, I would do something. Instead, I did nothing. There must be something wrong with me.”

What you just read is a common thought process for many victims of sexual assault. It is why we stay silent; why we let the shame grow each day and exercise self-hate full force. Many of us truly believe that there is something inherently wrong with us, and this is where speaking your truth and seeking help comes into play.

Shame was probably the most intense emotion I observed, but I wasn’t sure how to deal with it. So, as a master in denial, I let it go, again. Or so I thought.

A year went by, and nothing happened. I kept the truth hidden and didn’t talk about it too much while convincing myself that I’d already addressed it and all this messiness was behind me.

Then a few months ago one of my friends mentioned the nonprofit RAINN—the nation’s largest anti-sexual violence organization that helps survivors and victims of sexual assault heal and recover.

I knew this information showed up in my life for a reason. My shame was still present, and my sense of unworthiness wasn’t subsiding. It was time to call their hotline and get help.

I dialed and hung up four times before I was brave enough to stay on the phone. The process was easy, and I was able to get a counselor within a few days, at no cost.

It was time for my first session. I was nervous and guarded, but I clicked with my counselor, so it eventually became easier to open up and start sharing.

At first, we started addressing the elephant in the room: How could I feel pleasure while being sexually assaulted, and would my shame ever go away?

I learned in my recovery that arousal during a sexual assault is common. It is one of the best-kept secrets that prevent us from speaking up, sharing our trauma, and breaking the shame once and for all.

We are terrified that no one will understand us and will judge us instead. Considering the amount of judgment and shame we already exercise daily, the idea of criticism and more shame is just too much to bear. Therefore, we stay silent and often let the shame get out of control.

Although I am not a doctor and can’t impress you with some Ph.D. explanation, here is what I now understand:

Being aroused during any form of sexual assault doesn’t mean we want it, it doesn’t mean we consent, and it certainly doesn’t mean there is anything wrong with us. Physical pleasure is a natural bodily reaction, even during sexual assault.

As I progressed with my sessions, I was able to open up about things I never said out loud. Things like excessive masturbation during childhood or using self-pleasure and intercourse in my adult life to punish myself and feel disgusted. Without seeking help and getting a counselor, I might have never been able to overcome my self-destructive beliefs.

This is the best part about therapy: it provides a safe space to say the things you’ve kept inside. And that, in and of itself, provides healing.

During my therapy, I learned some powerful coping skills. Things like recognizing my triggers, soothing myself with compassion while drowning in self-hate, pausing, taking a step back, and reevaluating the situation before it gets out of control. These skills were especially useful when I spiraled into one of my shame attacks, wanted to punish myself, or felt overwhelmed by self-judgment.

I learned the importance of self-love in this process; how to approach myself when feeling defeated, sad, upset, or shameful. Mostly, I understood the universal truth every victim of sexual assault needs to understand and focus on: Recovery requires us to stop questioning what’s wrong with us and instead face what happened to us.

At the time of this writing, my therapy sessions are coming to an end. If I were asked what’s been the most impactful part of my recovery, I would say it’s the ability to speak up and share my story while exercising empathy and compassion for myself.

As Brené Brown said, the best way to break the shame is to speak about it with those who deserve to hear our story—people we trust, people who have been through the same or similar situations, and people who are educated enough to understand our trauma. People who aren’t afraid to offer empathy and hold space while withstanding the discomfort of the conversation.

Although my therapy is ending and the time to run solo is approaching, I know that to heal, I must commit and stay committed to my recovery. I understand now that healing is available to all of us, and all it takes sometimes is five minutes of courage to make a phone call and say, “I need help.”

As my recovery progresses, my hope for living a happier life grows each day. I am beginning to understand that no matter what I go through or how deep my trauma is, I can make different choices and live my life from the most empowering place that’s available to me—from within.

March 29, 2022
I Was a Bulimic Nutritionist, but I’m No Longer Ashamed or Hiding

“Shame derives its power from being unspeakable.” ~ Brené Brown

I felt like a hypocrite. I would tell my nutrition clients to eat a salad with vegetables, then I’d go home and scarf down an entire pizza. After guilt and shame set in, I would purge and throw it up.

I think I became a nutritionist partly so I could better control my relationship with food. If I learned the secrets behind eating I could biohack my way to putting the fork down, losing weight, and finally being happy. This was back when I thought thinness equaled happiness.

It’s taken me over ten years to recover from an eating disorder. Years filled with perfectionism, shame, and isolation as I untangled that my worth is not tied to my weight. I share my story in hopes that it sparks a deeper dive into your own relationship with food.

Growing up I was an over-achieving, people-pleasing perfectionist. Which by itself may have been fine but, paired with a sexual trauma I experienced in early University, it was the perfect storm for developing an eating disorder.

I used food as a coping mechanism for the trauma I’d endured. It was a way to dissociate from having to feel the shame of being assaulted. I assumed it was my fault this terrible thing happened, and while eating as much and as fast as possible, I could numb out from strong emotions.

For a short period of time, I was worry-free.

But then inevitably came the guilt and shame—ironic, since I was trying to numb the shame of my assault with food.

Why did I have to eat so much? Now I’ll gain weight, and if I gain weight no one will like me. Why don’t I have the discipline to control my food? To control myself? I am truly worthless.

Somehow my brain had built the association between looking a certain way and being accepted, worthy, and even safe. Having a sense of control over what I ate and how I looked made me feel powerful in a way. And maybe subconsciously it gave me a sense that I could also control what happened to me.

I knew I needed help in University when after purging for the third time one day I had a sharp pain in my chest. Bent over the toilet, clutching my heart, I realized things had gotten out of control.

Luckily, before I lost my nerve, I set up an appointment with a counselor. And there began my long and twisty road to recovery from bulimia. A word I would rarely utter in the coming years, instead referring to it as my “food issues,” downplaying the severity of my illness. Bulimia was something only celebrities developed, not something a straight-A student like me could encounter.

Wow, was I ever wrong! Along this journey I’ve met many others like me, and I discovered we had more similarities than differences. We put immense pressure on ourselves to be perfect, had an insane need to control everything, and we all felt deep shame about our behavior. Many others I met had also experienced trauma and used food to soothe.

In 2008, when I first sought treatment, I worked in secret on my recovery, only talking with a counselor and a doctor. I needed weekly blood tests to ensure my electrolytes were balanced. Turns out purging is very hard on the body, something my lack of tooth enamel will attest to.

It was years until I told friends and family, and even now many will be shocked reading this article. It was easy to hide from roommates, as I would binge alone in my room and come up with creative reasons to use the bathroom when needed. Sometimes even purging into bags in my room then disposing of it later.

In 2013, after a few weeks of some particularly painful binging sessions, a doctor told me I had lesions in my throat. I could barely swallow, having to sip smoothies through a straw. And my first thought was:

Yay, now I’ll definitely lose weight.

Thankfully, it was followed by a second thought.

This is dumb. I’m putting my health at serious risk here… to be thin? That makes no sense.

That’s when I knew I needed to kick my recovery into high gear. I started out-patient treatment in Toronto and attended support groups with others like me. I learned to sort through complicated emotions and release my need for everything to be perfect. In short, I was on a great track.

But here’s the thing no one tells you about recovery—it’s not linear. I was settling into my career as a nutritionist, my binging episodes reduced, then someone would make an off-hand comment…

Wow, you cleaned your plate, you must’ve been hungry!

And boom, I would spiral out and feel compelled to rid myself of the extra calories. Secretly hunched over the toilet once again, knowing I had failed.

I didn’t think people would trust my nutritional advice if I gained weight. I was also a yoga instructor at this point and convinced students wouldn’t return to my classes if I didn’t have a lean svelte yoga body.

I continued the ups and downs of recovery for years. Having to choose recovery every single day was exhausting. Over time, the periods between binges got longer.

For me, there was no silver bullet cure. It was a combination of using mindfulness to sit with difficult emotions and getting a whole lot of therapy to address the trauma. I never thought I’d get to this place, but eventually I learned to see myself as a worthy person—no matter my past, no matter my size.

I used to think having an eating disorder was a shameful secret. Now I see that struggle as the source of my strength. It takes an incredible amount of courage to address trauma, and working tirelessly on recovery has taught me how to bounce back over and over again.

I went through the ringer for many years, having to hide many of my behaviors, and thinking my weight was the most interesting part of me. I share my experience as part of the healing process, to take away the shame that hides in the shadows. I hope it encourages you to examine your relationship with food and your body—and how you might also be using food or another substance to avoid dealing with your own traumas.

We tend to judge what we’re eating and think of food as something to be controlled, but eating disorders aren’t just about food. They’re a reflection of how we judge ourselves and our need to regain control when we feel we’ve had none.

If we can come out of the shadows and face our pain and shame, we can start to heal, but it might not happen overnight. It might be two steps forward and one step back, sometimes one step forward and two steps back—and that’s okay. People who struggle with eating disorders are often perfectionists, but we need to accept that we can’t be perfect at healing. It’s a process, and as long as we stick with it, we will see progress over time.

Now that I’ve worked through the pain of my past, I can finally see that food is something to be enjoyed and celebrated, and I too deserve celebrating, no matter my size. I don’t need to be perfect to be worthy. And neither do you.

June 1, 2021
44 Things to Never Say to a Rape Survivor

“It was not your fault, even if you were drunk, even if you were wearing a low-cut mini-dress, even if you were out walking alone at night, even if you were on a date with the rapist and kind of liked him but didn’t want to have sex with him.” ~Joanna Connors

Child sexual abuse victims who speak up are incredibly brave and vulnerable. If a child comes to you for support, be mindful of your energy and reactions. If you need to ask them questions to get a better understanding, be mindful of your tone, body language, and intonation.

When I experienced sexual assault at the age of thirteen, I didn’t tell anyone because I was afraid that I would be punished.

I grew up in a home where I was trained to not show too much skin and to always avoid the male gaze. The day I was raped, I was wearing a skirt. I knew that, somehow, I would be blamed and punished, so I stayed quiet.

As an adult, I learned through spirituality that I needed to change how I viewed rape survivors and myself. None of us “asked for it.”

When addressing a rape survivor, it’s important to use consent-oriented etiquette and language. There are a variety of words and phrases you should never say.

Be gentle with sexual assault survivors. Rape is a delicate and triggering topic. If someone comes to you for help, ask them what they need and if there is anything you can do for them.

Listen. Check in on them.

Look past your judgments of the situation and just be there to support them as best you can. Be sure to take care of yourself and your energy while helping others.

Typically, I would only ask questions if you need to. Some people do not wish to share details of a traumatic experience. This is understandable.

If you are required to ask some of the following questions for an investigation, be sensitive to your tone. Avoid judgment and any phrases that sound judgmental.

It can even be helpful to say, “Rape is never the victim’s fault. I just need to ask you a few questions to get a better picture of what happened. Is that okay with you?”

Only say what needs to be said. Only ask what needs to be asked. You may want to dig deeper, but you might end up saying the wrong thing and retraumatizing them further.

Rape survivors need to be heard.

How would you want to be treated if you went to someone for help? Give them the most compassion and unconditional love you can channel from your innermost being. That’s the best way to support them.

To shift from our current rape culture and into a culture of consent, we must change the mindless, go-to reactions that we have toward victims of sexual abuse.

Why is it common to ask, “Was she drunk?” Why do people inquire about what someone was wearing at the time of a sexual assault?

It’s common because society has taught us to judge instead of love. In a culture of consent, the mindset is different.

In a culture of consent, we know that it doesn’t matter if someone was drinking. No one deserves rape.

In a culture of consent, there is less blame and more compassion. Compassion is key when it comes to creating a culture of consent.

Compassion in a culture of consent means extending unconditional love to sexual assault survivors. We can no longer live as we are as a society. The time for change is now.

To implement this cultural shift, we can only start with ourselves, our thoughts, and our reactions toward rape survivors.

I created the following list to help you take one major step in that direction.

44 Things to NEVER Say to a Rape Survivor

1. What were you wearing?

2. Were you drunk?

3. How did it happen? (Ask them if they are comfortable with sharing what happened. Listen mindfully and don’t oversteer their story. Respect how they share their story. Refrain from interrupting so they know they have the freedom to express themselves. This question is only necessary for law enforcement officials and healthcare professionals who are required to know the details in order to help the survivor.)

4. Did you scream?

5. Why didn’t you scream?

6. You really need to get a gun.

7. I know a self-defense class that you should go to.

8. Your outfit was very sexy.

9. How could that happen to you, again?

10. Did you say “no”?

11. Did you fight back?

12. You’ve already had sex, so, what’s the difference?

13. You’re a guy, you’re supposed to like it.

14. Rape is every guy’s dream. (A girl said this to me while I was making consent-based chalk art in NYC in 2015.)

15. How can a girl rape a boy?

16. Rape can’t happen during marriage.

17. There’s no use in crying about it.

18. You need to let go of your anger.

19. Are you sure it was rape?

20. Weren’t you dating?

21. Why didn’t you get a rape kit?

22. Have you had sex since?

23. You should have yelled “fire.”

24. Why haven’t you reported it?

25. I thought you liked him/her/them.

26. It’s your fault.

27. You shouldn’t have gone with them.

28. You were asking for it.

29. You attracted that.

30. You led them on.

31. That’s not rape.

32. That was sex. You could have avoided it.

33. You should have protected yourself.

34. You shouldn’t have been out late.

35. You shouldn’t have been drinking.

36. You shouldn’t have gone to that party.

37. That would never happen to me.

38. You’re smarter than that.

39. Stop putting yourself in situations like that.

40. It could be worse.

41. Get over it.

42. It’s not that big of a deal.

43. I hope you learned your lesson.

44. There are some things you could have done differently.

Instead of blaming or shaming someone who has been traumatized, hold back those thoughts. Focus only on how you can be a friend to them in their time of need. If they came to you for help, it means that they trusted you.

Spirituality helped me see my power and the importance of my voice. It taught me to have compassion for myself and fellow survivors. Sexual assault recovery can be catapulted when the rape survivor has a loving, supportive team of people who they can go to in times of need.

How can you create this type of safe space for the sexual assault survivors in your life? How can you create this safe space for yourself?

December 29, 2020
Speaking Your Truth Even When It Feels Painful and Shameful

“Vulnerability sounds like truth and feels like courage. Truth and courage aren’t always comfortable, but they’re never weakness.” ~Brené Brown

I was sexually assaulted during my senior year of college. Shortly after, I received a hefty check in the mail from the guy who did it as a “graduation gift.” I spent many nights tossing and turning, debating whether I should cash the check or burn it along with his pathetic graduation card wishing me “all the best” in my future.

I ended up cashing the check and pretending it didn’t happen.

This was four years ago, and I still cringe every time I think about what happened—and even worse, what didn’t. I lose sleep over all the things I didn’t say, the action I didn’t take, the people I didn’t talk to afterward. In the end, what didn’t happen is even worse than what did.

I visited my grandmother recently, and we were sharing stories about her career as an educator for many years. In the midst of our conversation, the “#metoo” topic came up, as it was all over the news at the time.

She shared with me that in all her years in a supervisory role in the school system, there were two occasions where students reported that their teacher sexually assaulted them.

After the investigations, my grandmother and her staff discharged these teachers from the school district but chose not to press charges against them. Maybe there wasn’t enough evidence to take legal action. Maybe the times were just different back then. But as she told me all of this, I couldn’t help but notice the subtle trace of regret in her eyes. She gazed out the kitchen window and said, “I wonder whatever happened to those teachers.”

It bothered me for weeks after our conversation. What had happened to the teachers that were dismissed, all those years ago? Did they get another job? Did they move to a new state? Did they ever start teaching again, this time in a different school district, with new students and a clear slate?

Were they guilty of what those students claimed? Did they, in fact, cross a line? Or were they simply being blamed for something that wasn’t their fault at all—a scapegoat for issues happening to the students outside their classroom?

Who knows? Who knows what might have happened, or how those two events that occurred so many years ago might have created a ripple effect out into the world today?

Every action has a consequence, no matter how big or small. But I couldn’t stop wondering, how did those students move forward from that point on? What beliefs did they adopt about themselves, about authority figures, about life in general, after an experience like that?

How did the accused teachers wake up in the morning, after such a wicked allegation? Did they tell their friends and family the truth? Did they work tirelessly to become better people, so as to avoid anything like that ever happening again? Or did they go on to assault more children in different schools?

The questions made my mind numb. The possibilities were so varying, so unknown, and yet, so impactful. I couldn’t understand why it was bothering me so much when I personally played no part in this story.

But now, I’m starting to see the correlation. I’m starting to understand how all of these stories are connected, how our human narratives string together to create significance and meaning, and how it’s so incredibly important to honor and speak our truth. Especially when it comes to things like sexual assault, violence, and power.

Looking back to my sexual assault experience, I recognize that I felt more guilt and shame about the action that I didn’t take than anything that did happen that night.

For years, I beat myself up over the fact that I accepted the gifted money as some weird form of apology instead of telling anyone about what happened that night or allowing myself to actually process the emotions behind the event. I simply pretended it didn’t happen and tried to ignore the problem because I didn’t want to deal with the consequences of what might happen if I did tell anyone about it.

It felt safer to ignore the issue than to bring it to the surface, as if by talking about it I’d somehow make it more real, and if I could just pretend it didn’t exist, it would go away on its own.

Four years later, I can confidently say that it did not go away. The pain, guilt, shame, and regret from that one night of my life has exponentially grown, and I am just now feeling strong and brave enough to release it.

I’m writing this because I want other people to know that it’s never okay to pretend a problem doesn’t exist. It’s never okay to let people mistreat, disrespect, or take advantage of you or others. It’s never okay to stand by the sidelines and watch as injustice takes place, to you or any other human being, and not say or do something.

The only way we can stop injustice is to call it by its name. The only way we can stop darkness is by shining a light on it. And the only way we can take responsibility for our own individual power is to honestly, bravely, and vulnerably share what needs to be said.

In several of his lectures and writings, psychologist Jordan Peterson references a children’s book that skillfully demonstrates the point I’m trying to make. It’s called There’s No Such Thing as a Dragon.

In this story, young Billy Bixbee finds a small dragon in his bedroom. When he tells his mother about it, she says, “There’s no such thing as a dragon!” and the two continue to ignore the dragon’s presence as it grows bigger and bigger and bigger.

Soon, the dragon takes up the entire house, but his mother continues to repeat, “There’s no such thing as a dragon!” She doesn’t acknowledge that the dragon exists until it gets so big that it carries their whole house away.

There are dragons in many houses all over the world. There are dragons in office buildings, restaurants, bars, shopping malls, street corners, song lyrics, movies, and on social media. There are dragons everywhere, and yet, so many of us continue to ignore they exist.

We pretend that problems like sexual assault, racism, bullying, and other injustices aren’t there, because it’s often so much easier to ignore them than to actually speak up about what we know to be true.

But the issue is that when we silence our truth or when we hold ourselves back from speaking up about these problems, we create an even larger, more harmful issue.

When you hold yourself back from speaking up about something that is wrong, you allow that thing to take on a life-force of its own. You give it more power. You let it continue to bully, rape, steal, lie, put down, hurt, torture, and commit painful acts, to you or to others.

That’s how evil spreads: through the subtle ignorance and repression of those who experience it first-hand.

That’s how people who commit sexual assault move from victim to victim undetected.

That’s how kids who are bullied over and over again show up one day on campus with a gun and massacre their classmates.

That’s how things like the Holocaust happened.

Because regular people, like you and me, decided to keep our mouths shut when we knew better.

I want you to know that no matter what happened to you, you are not alone. Terrible acts are committed every day, all around the world. There are dragons everywhere. That doesn’t take away from the fact that there is beauty and abundance and love everywhere, too. You just have to know where to look, and to constantly turn your attention toward the things that make you feel light.

I also want you to know that it wasn’t your fault. I blamed myself for a long time and felt like I was personally responsible for what my assaulter did to me, constantly questioning how things might have been different if I had made better choices that night.

The thing about the past is that everyone, including those who commit acts of violence or evil, is doing the best he/she can with the tools that he/she has available to them at the time. Does that make it right or wrong? No. It simply means that you can’t go back and change what happened in the past, so you have to find a way to forgive yourself for any blame or guilt you feel about it now.

Every action has a consequence. Part of being a conscious being includes taking the personal responsibility for those actions, which includes inaction.

When we ignore a problem or make excuses as to why someone’s behavior is acceptable, when deep down we know it’s not, we make a choice to allow it to happen again.

When we shove something under the carpet and pretend it doesn’t exist, we allow it to grow and gain power over us, until it becomes so big that many others get hurt.

But when we stand up and speak our truth, we can create true change. When we stand up and speak our truth, we liberate ourselves from the pain and the evil. We become free.

So start now. Start today. Look around your life and question, what injustices are taking place? What am I tolerating, from myself or others, that I know is harmful? What have I allowed to happen to me or others that isn’t deserved? What truth have I been keeping tucked away from the world? What can I do differently from this moment forward?

Our stories are connected. Our pain, and our healing, is one. The more we speak up and share what impacts us, the higher we all rise.

If I could go back to my senior-year college self, I’d sit her down and let her know that it’s okay. That none of it was her fault, that she didn’t do anything wrong. And then I’d give her a pen and a paper and I’d tell her to write, like the whole world’s healing depended on it.

June 19, 2018
We Are Victors, Not Victims

TRIGGER WARNING: This post deals with an account of assault and may be triggering to some people.

“You are not a victim. No matter what you have been through, you’re still here. You may have been challenged, hurt, betrayed, beaten, and discouraged, but nothing has defeated you. You are still here! You have been delayed but not denied. You are not a victim, you are a victor. You have a history of victory.” ~Steve Maraboli

I was about twenty years old. It was a beautiful summer day, and I decided to walk to my parents’ house.

I usually called them first to let them know I’d be coming, but that day I wanted it to be a surprise. It was a twenty-minute walk there, and I had two bridges to cross, then a small trail close to the woods to walk through and I’d be there.

I started feeling followed crossing the second bridge, but hey, anyone can take a walk on such a beautiful day, right? So, I continued on and entered the path close to the woods. I was almost there!

When trees were hiding us from all the passing cars on the road, I felt that the boy following me was getting closer and closer.

Suddenly, as a cat hunting a mouse, he jumped on me from behind and tackled me to the ground. He started kissing and groping me, and I tried to fight him and fidget my way out to no avail. He was much stronger than I was, even if he looked a bit younger than me.

I didn’t scream at all; I was subdued! I started to talk to him, plead with him to stop doing this to me. I lied and told him that my parents were waiting for me and would be worried if I didn’t show up soon, and they’d come find me. No reaction.

He kept abusing me and trying to take my clothes off while pinning me down. He didn’t speak a word. He never looked me in the eye.

Then, I thought I could talk him out of it by using the psychology I’d learned in college. I started telling him that he must be a good person inside, and that he would feel ashamed if he continued like this.

I told him that there was no reason to do this since he could certainly have the “real” thing with a consenting woman, and it would be so much more pleasurable than this ugly one-sided aggression.

Well, I’m not sure what worked. Was it the psychology stunt I pulled or did he just get bored of this stupid young woman who just wouldn’t shut up? He just got up, left me lying there dazed and confused, and ran off never to be seen again.

I picked myself up, tried to get the dirt off me as much as possible, and walked shakily to my parents’ house.

Google defines a victim as a person harmed, injured, or killed as a result of a crime, accident, or other event or action. Obviously, the casualties are the only victims that do not have to learn to live with the aftermath of the traumatic event. The others, however, are marked either physically or psychologically by what happened to them.

The six o’clock news is filled with stories of tragedies, big and small. These can take on so many different forms, but the end result is always the same: victims. They can be victims of Mother Nature’s wrath, victims of a horrific crime or injustice, or victims of some kind of accident.

So many people feel stuck in their lives after having lived through a traumatic experience. They are paralyzed for months, years, and even decades by the shock, hurt, and fear associated with what they’ve endured.

Some people have to live with physical reminders of this tragic event, and others have psychological repercussions that limit their ability to live a normal life.

After my aggression, I felt soiled, tainted. I remember taking shower after shower trying to get my aggressor’s smell off of me. But even when I was sure I was clean of any traces of him, my brain was stuck in the event.

How can one evolve from being a victim to being a survivor? Doesn’t the term “survivor” give more hope in tomorrow than “victim”? Seems to me that “victim” suggests ongoing pain and suffering, whereas “survivor” is someone who was able to leave the pain and suffering behind him and start living again.

“I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become.” ~Carl Jung

So the first step is to acknowledge that yes, you were a victim, but who you are and what happened to you are two very different things. You have to learn to establish a separation between the two if you ever wish to distance yourself from the victim you once were.

I was able to graduate from victim to survivor when I acknowledged that I had been violated—that I had been a victim. I had to work through the guilt of thinking I must have done something to deserve this. I kept re-living the scene over and over again in my mind, wondering where I went wrong and how I could have reacted differently.

I also felt guilty about the way I had resolved the situation. Why hadn’t I screamed, hit him, hurt him? The very questions that the policemen asked me when I reported the aggression.

Now I realize that the way I handled the situation (although it didn’t please the policemen) was my way of resolving this. I shouldn’t feel guilty since, in the end, it worked. When policemen are placed in difficult situations, they get to choose how they react. I had to do the same.

The next step is forgiveness—forgiving the person who hurt you or accepting the fact that nature acts up sometimes and people get stuck in the middle of it. In some instances, people just have to accept that accidents happen; there isn’t always someone to blame or lash out at.

“Forgiving someone doesn’t mean condoning their behavior. It doesn’t mean forgetting how they hurt you or giving that person room to hurt you again. Forgiving someone means making peace with what happened. It means acknowledging your wound, giving yourself permission to feel the pain, and recognizing why that pain no longer serves you. It means letting go of the hurt and resentment so that you can heal and move on.” ~Daniell Koepke

Obviously, this is easier said than done.

In my case, forgiving my aggressor was easier than letting go of my feelings of guilt. Even during the aggression, I felt that this boy was not well. It was clear to me that he was acting this way because he felt alone and unloved.

He decided that he was going to fill his need for contact and love even if it was in an inappropriate way; his need was just too strong. I’m not saying he was right to do what he did; I’m just saying that I understand and can forgive him.

But forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting. I believe that surviving a traumatic event changes you forever. You will not react to life the same way that you would have reacted before having lived through this.

I am more careful now of where I walk when I’m alone, and much less relaxed when being followed by someone.

Sometimes a situation can trigger me and transport me right back to that very moment to relive the whole thing yet again. Usually this happens when someone playfully restrains me with his hands to tickle me, touch me, or kiss me.

I will never be the naive and carefree girl that I was before my attack. I have my scars. They are not physical but psychological, yet they are very real.

However, I have learned not to let this event define me. I have decided that this is but one event among so many others (good and bad) that have helped shape me into the woman that I am today. I am now a “victor.” I have won!

I can live, I can smile, I can laugh. I can walk, I can run, I can soar. I am stronger than whatever happens to me. And so are you.

Free woman silhouette via Shutterstock

November 9, 2015