Trigger Warning: Content Warning: This post discusses experiences of sexual assault. It’s important to me that I am precise, as I’ve spent years trying to minimize these moments as merely ‘awkward’ or ‘uncomfortable’. Today, I am publicly naming them for what they were: actions with clear sexual connotations. They were violations of my autonomy, and they were never my burden to carry.
For most of my life, I’ve carried things I didn’t recognize as trauma.
Not because I didn’t remember them — but because I didn’t believe they were allowed to hurt. I told myself they weren’t bad enough, that I was fine, that other women had it worse. It was easier to make myself small than to face what really happened.
Maybe that was my brain’s way of protecting me. Perhaps it was my body’s way of saying, You’re not ready to look at this yet.
The wall
During my sophomore year of high school, a boy shoved me up against a wall in the middle of a busy hallway, pinned my arms, and aggressively kissed me.
I didn’t want it.
But I froze.
I didn’t know then that freezing is a survival reflex, not a choice. And afterward, I told myself it wasn’t assault. It was simply a teenage boy acting as one does. That I should be flattered, maybe even grateful to be getting attention from a boy. I laughed it off when my friends teased me about it. I swallowed the discomfort because the language for consent hadn’t been given to me yet. No one had told me that not wanting it was reason enough for it to be wrong.
So I buried it.
Now I know it wasn’t a misunderstanding or an impulsive crush. There was a deliberate calculation in the way he pinned my arms, a deliberate choice to seek his own sexual gratification at the total expense of my well-being-being and consent.
The nursing home
A few years later, I entered the healthcare field as a CNA. At eighteen, I was navigating the profound responsibilities of a caregiver, tasked with the dignity and daily survival of the elderly. Here is where the violation became repetitive, almost rhythmic. Elderly men frequently targeted me, their hands finding my body as I leaned over to provide aid, turning a moment of service into an act of entitlement on their end.
In this professional setting, the gaslighting was systemic. When I sought validation for my discomfort, I was met with a chorus of institutional excuses. “They have dementia”, “They’re just confused,” “It’s part of the job.” This narrative created a dangerous dissonance between my professional role and my personal reality. I was conditioned to believe my empathy required the total sacrifice of my boundaries.
I see now that any medical diagnosis is not a license for sexual assault. Being told to ‘ignore it’ ignored the reality of the situation: these weren’t accidental grazes. They were intentional acts of sexual entitlement. My body was being treated as a tool for someone else’s gratification, while my humanity was treated as an afterthought.
Minimizing is a survival skill
It has taken me almost a decade to understand that minimizing my experiences was not a character flaw or a sign of weakness. It was a profound act of psychological survival. My brain utilized minimization as a protective filter, allowing me to continue moving through a world that felt increasingly unsafe. I developed a scripted internal monologue designed to neutralize the pain:
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“I’m fine.”
“It didn’t count.”
“Others have it worse.”
These phrases weren’t just lies; they were armor. They served as a necessary buffer, insulating my psyche until I reached a place of internal and external safety where I could finally afford to take the armor off. For years, I mistook my silence for recovery. I realize now that I wasn’t healed, I was expertly shielded.
And now, for the first time, I am safe enough to stand without it.
What healing looks like
Healing has looked like sitting with my younger self and telling her, “You were right to feel uncomfortable.” It looks like naming what happened instead of trying to downplay it. It looks like understanding that my body remembers everything my mind tries to forget.
Sometimes healing feels quiet — a journal entry, a prayer, a breath.
Other times it’s messy — grieving a girl who didn’t know she deserved better.
But it’s all movement towards truth.
It counted
I used to think only the worst stories counted. That, unless it left bruises, broken bones, or made headlines, it wasn’t “real.” But trauma isn’t ranked. No scale decides who’s allowed to hurt. What happened to me wasn’t any less wrong just because it didn’t look like someone else’s pain.
Every time my “no” or my silence was ignored, it counted.
Every time my body was touched without permission, it counted.
Every time I convinced myself I was fine, I was just trying to survive.
What I know now
Now I know that naming what happened doesn’t make me weak — it sets me free.
I can honor both truths at once: that others have suffered in ways I can’t imagine, and that what I experienced was still wrong.
I can hold compassion for the girl who didn’t understand.
And I can thank her for getting me here — still tender, still healing, but finally honest.
Being honest means acknowledging how the hallway and the nursing home aren’t the whole book. They are chapters combined with childhood trauma that, for a long time, left me with a deep mistrust of men—naming that has made me observant. It’s the truth of how I got here, and it’s the reason I’m so determined to build a world where safety isn’t a luxury.
Turning pain into purpose
Maybe that’s why I’ve become so drawn to advocacy — why I can’t shake this quiet, steady longing to work in a space that protects others from what I went through.
When I look back, I see how easily young women — especially those who are kind, eager to help, and just trying to do the right thing — can be conditioned to silence their instincts. To doubt their own discomfort. To believe they have to endure things that break their boundaries to get by.
That realization lit something in me. It’s what fuels my passion to learn about sexual assault and child abuse advocacy, and to one day be part of that work that brings safety, justice, and restoration to others.
I don’t want another 18-year-old girl to believe that her pain doesn’t count.
If my story can do anything, I hope it reminds someone else that their experience matters. That healing isn’t comparing wounds—it’s about acknowledging your own.
And that there’s always life on the other side of naming the truth.
Because it counted.
It all counted.
And now, I’m using it for good.
`Resources
National Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN): Call 800-656-HOPE or visit online.rainn.org.
Sexual Assault Center (Nashville): Visit sacenter.org or call the Crisis Line at 1-800-879-1999.
Joyful Heart Foundation: Learn about their mission to heal, educate, and empower at joyfulheartfoundation.org and see the progress on the backlog at endthebacklog.org.