There are so many things I now understand about myself that I never had the chance to share with my late sister. Through her death, I embarked on a profound search for clarity.

Neither she nor I did anything to deserve the pain we endured. No human being—indeed, no being at all—deserves abuse. Our lives are shaped not only by what happens to us, but even more so by who we believe ourselves to be. As a child, I cried endlessly. Yet somehow, amid those tears, I discovered moments of genuine peace.

I remember the exact turning point with clarity. I was raised as a Jehovah’s Witness, and while I believe every religion contains both good and bad—good and bad beliefs, good and bad people—it is not our place to judge others. It is our responsibility to remain mindful and compassionate. I see great value in faith and spirituality. At its core, most religion calls us to look within ourselves rather than to condemn everyone else.

I was seven years old, sitting in one of the center rows of the Kingdom Hall. My heart felt heavy and empty. My young mind was desperately trying to make sense of the world. In that moment of deep despair, I prayed. Suddenly, the room fell completely silent. I felt utterly alone, yet enveloped in a gentle warmth—a soft, glowing presence. My mind grew quiet, and a profound peace settled over me.

As quickly as it had come, the serenity faded, and the noise and movement of the room returned. At just seven years old, I sensed that life held far more meaning than I could comprehend. In those brief moments, I felt loved. Afterward, I saw the world differently. The pain no longer consumed every moment or defined me.

Others may rationalize that experience in ways that fit their own beliefs. All I know is that from that day forward, I stopped asking, “Why me?” I simply knew I would be okay.

We all suffer in life, but we are not our suffering. That childhood moment remains deeply connected to who I am today. I had been standing on the edge of profound emptiness, yet I felt I was not defined or consumed by the evil done to me.

Strength resides within every survivor of abuse. Abuse destroys our sense of safety and worth. It tears at the very fabric of our soul. When we carry that pain as part of our identity, it retains its power over us. I cannot erase the sexual, emotional, and physical abuse I endured, but I can refuse to let it define me.

The first step is to bring that pain into the light—to voice it, to separate it from who we are. It is not us. It never was.

I always believed Amy was stronger than me. In hindsight, I think the only way I might have helped save her was to encourage her to do the same: to pull out her pain, to speak the truth of what had been done to her, and to realize none of it was her fault. Instead, she spent her life trying to make everyone else comfortable. She hid her truth.

Imagine experiencing something horrific—perhaps losing someone you love—and being denied the right to grieve. Imagine your pain being dismissed, ignored, or blamed on you. Family members shun you. Others whisper judgments. Now imagine you are a child when all of this happens. This is the reality for far too many victims of sexual abuse.

How can a child understand that adults cannot bear to face their pain? How does a child heal when their suffering is treated as an inconvenience? Children are meant to be discovering who they are and learning to love themselves. When that process is fractured by dismissal and shame, the soul breaks in ways that can last a lifetime.

The path to healing begins with this: Let them talk. Let them share. Let them cry. Hold them. Love them. In time, their soul can begin to mend. We owe this to every broken child. They are in no way at fault.

Through positivity, compassion, and courageous love, I believe we can change how the world views child abuse—and, more importantly, help spare countless souls from lives filled with unnecessary pain.