Category: child abuse

“Her Last Waves: Grief, Courage, and the Fight for Justice”

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It is strange how you can release so much pain, only to feel it surge back like a raging twister. It is difficult to describe how far one can lean over the precipice, only to pull oneself back again. In those moments, the questions flood in: Why did I let such an evil person make me feel this way again?

Why are they allowed to drive past my home, make prank calls, and ridicule me to others? Why do otherwise good people cower in the presence of evil? Why can’t it simply fade away? Evil is a parasite—it can only survive by feeding on harm.

I have been deeply moved by the many survivors who have reached out to me. The stories they’ve shared and the love they’ve offered have helped me grow in ways I never expected. I wish with all my heart that I could heal every one of them. The truth is, none of us are alone. Together, we form an army of strength and resilience. We are not going away, and we will never forget what the monsters in our lives did to us.

How could we? The memories refuse to let go. They want us to feel their presence and their evil every single day. How do you make them leave you in peace?

Statistics reveal a painful reality: only 10% of sexually abused children are victimized by strangers. Most often, the abuser is a family member or close friend. And when the perpetrator is family, the survivor frequently faces an even more painful secondary wound—an entire family system in denial, unwilling to confront the truth because of what it might say about them. In reality, it says nothing about the family’s inherent worth. Every family has its darkness. What truly defines us is how we respond to it. If we choose to hide evil behind a cloak of “family loyalty,” we become complicit in it.

I still feel the urge to stand on the tallest mountain and scream for the whole world to hear. I know my late sister Amy would be with me in spirit, her hand in mine, lending me courage. She needed to scream, but the world silenced her. They extinguished her light so they wouldn’t have to face the reality of child abuse and rape. Now, some invent stories about how she died to preserve their comfortable illusions. I have her death certificate if anyone truly wants the truth. People should be ashamed to suggest any cause other than the one that took her. She refused to live in a fake world that protected adults at the expense of children. She never used illegal drugs. She did not die from them.

She wrote a suicide letter as she was dying. The handwriting in the final lines is barely legible—she continued writing even as consciousness slipped away. Her last words trail across the page like waves in an ocean, line after line. I wish I could beg everyone to leave her memory in peace. She does not deserve their lies, and they did not deserve the gift of her beauty. She told me how much pain she was in. I couldn’t save her from this world. She was only fifteen the first time she attempted suicide. It was hidden from everyone. She had her stomach pumped at a local hospital. No one could let the world know Amy had tried to die—because then they might have to ask why.

As children, we were taught that we had no value unless we made our parents happy. Our worth was whatever they declared it to be. How does one ever find peace with that as an adult?

What if families had been more supportive? What if child victims had never been forced to carry that unbearable weight? What if the molesters and rapists were the ones who felt the full force of accountability? What if the light was shone on the evil instead of leaving the innocent to battle the darkness alone?

Each of us carries an inner flame and a flashlight. The question is: Do we have the courage to use them? Will we stand up for the abused and shine that light on the monsters?

First blog post

This is the post excerpt.

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What do we truly learn from deep inner reflection? When we look within ourselves, do we uncover the experiences that shape who we are?

I never knew writing could be so therapeutic. I still cannot fully describe the profound feeling that washed over me the first time I put pen to paper, just a few months ago. In that moment, I took the courageous step of sharing the most personal and painful horrors of my life. I did so in the hope of no longer carrying their weight alone — to know that someone else understood, and that the monster’s mask could finally be removed.

My sister took her own life because she was broken. She was only 27 years old and had struggled with suicidal thoughts and attempts since the age of 15. I miss her every single day.

Child abuse exists in our communities, often lurking in the shadows. It hides in plain sight, and my deepest fear is that too many people fail to recognize the signs — or simply look away because the truth is too painful. Yet it is that very pain that can spark real change. If we cannot protect the most innocent among us, then who are we? And if those same children cannot safely share their stories and express their pain without fear of judgment, how can they ever begin to heal?

My hope in writing this is for you to see me — and others like me — in the children around you: the quiet little girl sitting next to your own child in school, the boy on your son’s baseball team, the one who is mocked for not fitting in, or the one wearing a constant fake smile. As an adult, I still see my own face reflected in so many children’s eyes — the masked pain, the fear of what might happen if they speak up or step out of line.

We had no shield to protect us, and that reality should haunt every adult who allowed it to continue. For some, these truths are unwelcome — mere secrets and whispers best left unspoken in the name of “family.” But my sister’s life mattered. I am finished with the darkness. I will share my story, and I hope that through the horror, you will also feel the deep love we were fortunate enough to share. In the end, she saved me.