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Joy Is Not Betrayal: Permission to Live While They Struggle

by | Nov 23, 2025 | From The Heart

For the mother who feels guilty every time she smiles: Joy Is Not Betrayal

Dear Mama,

I know what you’re thinking.

“How can I possibly feel joy when my child is suffering?”

“How can I laugh when they’re in such darkness?”

“How can I enjoy anything when they might not survive this?”

And underneath those questions is the belief that’s holding you hostage:

“If I’m happy while they’re hurting, I’m a bad mother.”

So you’ve made an unspoken vow: I will only be well when they are well.

You’ve tied your emotional state to theirs.
Your peace to their healing.
Your joy to their survival.

And in doing so, you’ve given their illness complete control over your life.

The Lie of Joy Guilt

There’s a name for what you’re experiencing: joy guilt.

It’s the toxic belief that your happiness betrays their pain.

It sounds noble. It sounds sacrificial. It sounds like love.

But it’s a lie.

And it’s destroying you.

Because here’s the truth:

Your suffering does NOT reduce theirs.
Your misery does NOT ease their burden.
Your joylessness does NOT heal their brain.
Your constant worry does NOT keep them safer.

All it does is ensure that TWO people are drowning instead of one.

What You’re Really Saying

When you refuse to allow yourself moments of joy, here’s what you’re unconsciously communicating to your struggling child:

“Your existence is destroying me.”

“Life with pain is unbearable.”

“If you can’t be happy, neither can I.”

“You are a burden.”

I know that’s not what you mean. I know your heart is pure sacrifice and fierce love.

But that’s the message they receive when all they see is:

  • Your exhaustion
  • Your constant worry
  • Your lost smile
  • Your life consumed by their struggle
  • A woman who’s disappeared into their crisis

The Paradigm Shift: Joy as Love

Now, what if I told you that reclaiming your joy is actually one of the most loving things you can do for them?

Stay with me.

If your child could see you:

  • Finding moments of peace even while holding their pain
  • Laughing with your spouse
  • Pursuing a hobby
  • Resting
  • Enjoying small pleasures
  • Living fully even while they struggle

What message would that send?

It would say:

“Life can still have goodness in it, even in the valley.”

“Joy and pain can coexist.”

“Your suffering doesn’t have to consume everyone around you.”

“There is still hope. Look—Mom is proof.”

You wouldn’t be abandoning them. You’d be modeling resilience.

You wouldn’t be betraying them. You’d be witnessing to hope.

Biblical Permission to Rejoice

Maybe you need scriptural permission. Here it is:

Nehemiah 8:10
“The joy of the LORD is your strength.”

Not your worry.
Not your hypervigilance.
Not your sacrifice.

Your JOY is your strength.

Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4
“For everything there is a season… a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

Notice: You don’t have to STOP weeping to laugh.
You don’t have to STOP mourning to dance.

Both can happen in the same day. The same hour. The same heart.

Philippians 4:4
“Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice.”

Paul wrote that from PRISON.
While suffering.
While facing death.

He didn’t say “rejoice when everything is fixed.”

He said “rejoice ALWAYS.”

Even in the valley.
Even in the waiting.
Even when the outcome is unknown.

Because joy is not dependent on circumstances.

It’s an act of defiance against despair.

The Most Loving Thing You Can Do

Here’s what I want you to consider:

If you only had 6 months left with your child, how would you want to spend that time?

Consumed with terror?
Drowning in fear?
So anxious you can’t be present?

Or loving them well?

Being present (not perfect, not fixing, just THERE)?
Enjoying the time you have?
Showing them what peace looks like even in uncertainty?

Your peace might be the greatest gift you ever give them.

Not because it fixes their brain.

But because it shows them that life can still be good, even when it’s hard.

What Joy Looks Like in the Valley

I’m not talking about toxic positivity.
I’m not suggesting you pretend everything is fine.
I’m not saying “just be grateful and you’ll feel better.”

I’m talking about small, defiant acts of living:

  • Laughing at something funny, even while holding grief
  • Taking a walk and noticing the sky
  • Enjoying your coffee in the morning
  • Calling a friend
  • Pursuing a hobby you’ve abandoned
  • Resting without guilt
  • Dancing in your kitchen
  • Saying yes to an invitation
  • Letting yourself feel pleasure without immediately drowning it in shame

These aren’t betrayals.

These are survival strategies.

These are how you endure a marathon you never asked to run.

Talking Back to Joy Guilt

When you try to do something joyful and guilt shows up (and it will), here’s what you say:

“My joy doesn’t betray my child.”

“My peace doesn’t abandon them.”

“My laughter doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“I can grieve AND rejoice. Both can be true.”

“The joy of the Lord is my strength.”

“God didn’t give me this one precious life to spend it entirely consumed by someone else’s pain.”

“I am allowed to be a whole person, not just their worried mother.”

“I will love them fiercely AND care for myself. Both can be true.”

The Permission You Need

So here it is, mama:

You have permission to:

  • Sleep well tonight
  • Enjoy a meal
  • Laugh at a joke
  • Take a day off from worry
  • Pursue something that brings you pleasure
  • Feel happiness without guilt
  • Live fully even while they’re barely surviving

You have permission to be well even if they are not.

You have permission to survive this, no matter what happens to them.

Not because you love them less.

But because you are a human being with inherent worth, and your life matters too.

What They Would Want for You

One more thing:

If your child could see the full weight of how much you’re suffering FOR them—

The sleepless nights.
The lost joy.
The consumed existence.
The woman who’s disappeared.

What do you think they would want for you?

Would they want you to drown?

Or would they want you to find a way to breathe?

I’m guessing they’d want you to be okay.

Even if they can’t be okay right now.

So honor them by giving yourself permission to live.

Your Assignment

This week, do ONE thing that used to bring you joy.

Not because they’re healed.
Not because you’ve earned it.
Not because everything is okay.

But because you deserve to remember what it feels like to be YOU.

  • Call a friend
  • Go for a drive with the windows down
  • Read a book for pleasure
  • Walk in nature
  • Go to the movies
  • Sit in silence with coffee and watch the sunrise/sunset

Do it even if guilt comes.

Do it even if your brain screams “You shouldn’t be enjoying this.”

Do it anyway.

Because joy is not betrayal.

Joy is resistance.

Joy is hope.

Joy is the proof that darkness doesn’t get the last word.

You are allowed to live, mama.

Even now.

Even in this.

God wants you to.

 

The Science of Tears: Why Crying Can Be Deeply Healing

The Science of Tears: Why Crying Can Be Deeply Healing

by | Sep 14, 2025 | From The Heart

Is It Okay to Cry? Why I Can’t Stop Holding Back Tears

“Tears are the silent language of grief.” — Voltaire

I spent most of my life believing that crying meant I was losing control.

That if I let myself break down, I’d fall apart completely and never be able to put myself back together. That tears were something to hide, something to be ashamed of—evidence that I wasn’t strong enough, brave enough, healed enough.

So I held them back. For years. Decades, even.

My throat would get tight. My chest would ache. My eyes would burn. But I’d swallow it down, blink it back, hold it in. Because crying felt dangerous. Vulnerable. Weak.

Maybe you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Maybe you’ve been told your whole life that tears are a problem. That “real men don’t cry.” That you’re “too sensitive” or “too emotional.” That if you just toughen up, calm down, or get it together, you wouldn’t need to cry at all.

Here’s what I’ve learned, both in my own healing and in walking alongside others through theirs: crying isn’t a breakdown—it’s a breakthrough.

Those tears you’ve been holding back? They’re not weakness. They’re your body’s wisest response to being human.

Let me show you what’s really happening when we cry—and why those tears might be the most powerful healing tool you have.

What Society Got Wrong About Tears

Most of us grew up learning that tears are something to hide.

For men especially, the message was brutal: Real men don’t cry. Crying meant you were weak, too sensitive, out of control. Boys were told to “toughen up,” to “be a man,” to push feelings down and keep moving forward. Tears became something shameful—a sign you couldn’t handle pressure, couldn’t protect your family, couldn’t be trusted to lead.

And for women? Tears were dismissed as being “too emotional” or “overreacting.” Either you were crying too much or not crying at the “right” times. Your tears were inconvenient, manipulative, or proof you couldn’t handle things rationally.

The cost of these beliefs? Devastating.

Men carry stress in silence until it erupts as anger, addiction, or illness. They’ve been cut off from one of the body’s primary release valves. Depression, anxiety, heart disease—so much of what destroys men can be traced back to emotions that were never allowed to move.

Women learn to apologize for their tears, to minimize their pain, to perform strength even when they’re drowning inside.

And all of us—regardless of gender—end up carrying what was never meant to be carried alone.

Here’s the deeper truth: when we shame people for crying, we’re telling them their humanity is a problem. We’re saying connection, vulnerability, and emotional honesty are weaknesses instead of what they actually are—strengths.

The strongest people I know aren’t the ones who never cry. They’re the ones who’ve learned to feel fully, to let those emotions move through them, and to come out the other side more whole.

Not All Tears Are the Same

Here’s something fascinating: scientists have discovered we produce three different kinds of tears.

Basal tears keep our eyes lubricated and healthy.

Reflex tears flush out irritants like dust or smoke.

Emotional tears fall when your heart can’t hold anymore—grief, pain, overwhelm, even joy.

And here’s where it gets incredible: emotional tears have a completely different chemical composition. They carry stress hormones like cortisol out of your body. They contain natural painkillers like leucine enkephalin.

Your body is literally releasing what’s hurting you when you cry.

Think about that. The very thing we’ve been taught to suppress is actually designed to heal us.

God built this into your body. This isn’t a design flaw—it’s a design feature. Even Jesus wept. The shortest verse in the Bible—”Jesus wept”—is also one of the most powerful. He didn’t suppress His grief. He didn’t perform strength. He felt fully, and He let it show.

If the Son of God wasn’t too strong to cry, what makes us think we are?

What Really Happens When You Cry

When emotion finally breaks through, your entire body responds:

Your nervous system resets. Crying activates your parasympathetic nervous system—the part that helps you rest, digest, and recover from stress. It’s your body’s way of coming back home to safety after being in survival mode.

Your hormones rebalance. Through tears, you’re releasing cortisol and other stress chemicals that have been flooding your system. You’re literally detoxifying.

Your breathing changes. Those deep, shaky sobs? They’re therapeutic. That alternating pattern of inhale and exhale is bringing your body back into balance, just like breathwork or meditation.

Your muscles let go. Ever notice how tight your chest feels before you cry—and how much softer everything feels after? Tears release physical tension you didn’t even know you were carrying.

Crying is your body’s built-in reset button. It’s a full-body exhale after holding too much for too long.

If you’ve experienced trauma—especially if you survived by shutting down your emotions—your body might have forgotten how to cry. Or maybe you cry at unexpected times, and it feels out of control. Both responses make sense. Your nervous system is just trying to find its way back to safety. And sometimes, tears are how it gets there.

The Sacred Work of Tears

Beyond the biology, there’s something deeper happening.

Tears are the language your soul speaks when words aren’t enough. They’re how your body says, This matters. This hurts. This is real.

Crying helps your brain process what’s been stuck—grief that hasn’t moved, pain that hasn’t had permission, relief that couldn’t find its way out. That’s why you feel lighter afterward. Clearer. Like something shifted.

The Psalms are full of tears. David wept. Hannah wept. Jeremiah was called “the weeping prophet.” These weren’t weak people—they were people brave enough to feel the full weight of what they were carrying and honest enough to let it show.

And when you cry in front of someone safe? That’s when the real magic happens.

Tears invite connection. They say, See me. Hold space for this. That shared moment of raw honesty is healing all on its own.

We weren’t meant to carry everything alone. Tears remind us of that.

Why You Might Be Holding Back

If you find yourself unable to cry even when you want to, there are a few things that might be happening:

You learned it wasn’t safe. Maybe tears got you punished, mocked, or dismissed. Your body learned to shut them down to protect you.

You’re afraid of what will happen if you start. You worry that if you let yourself cry, you’ll never stop. That you’ll lose control. That you’ll be swallowed by the grief.

You’re still in survival mode. Trauma can freeze your emotions. When your nervous system is focused on just getting through the day, tears feel like a luxury you can’t afford.

You’re carrying shame. You’ve internalized the message that crying is weak, childish, or attention-seeking. So you hold it in to avoid judgment—even when you’re alone.

Here’s what I want you to know: those tears are still there. They’re just waiting for permission. Waiting for safety. Waiting for you to believe that it’s okay to feel what you feel.

And it is. It’s more than okay. It’s necessary.

How to Let Yourself Cry

If you’ve been holding back tears for years, letting them out might feel foreign. Here’s how to start:

Find a safe space. A quiet room. Your car. Even the shower. Somewhere you can let whatever’s inside move freely without worrying about being interrupted or judged.

Give yourself permission. Say it out loud if you need to: “It’s okay to cry. My tears are healing me.”

Don’t rush it. Let the tears come in waves. Let your body do what it needs to do. You might cry for five minutes or fifty. Both are okay.

Breathe afterward. Take a few slow, deep breaths. Notice how different your body feels—often softer, slower, lighter.

Be gentle with yourself. You just completed one of your body’s oldest healing rituals. You don’t need to analyze it or explain it. You just need to honor it.

And if you still can’t cry? That’s okay too. Sometimes our bodies need other forms of release first—movement, sound, art, writing. The tears will come when they’re ready.

A Word to the Men Reading This

Your tears don’t make you less of a man. They make you human. They make you brave.

The world doesn’t need you to be stone. It needs you to be whole.

I know you’ve been taught that crying is weakness. That men who feel too much can’t be trusted to lead, to protect, to provide. But that’s a lie designed to keep you isolated and hurting.

The truth is this: vulnerability is not the opposite of strength. It’s the foundation of it.

When you allow yourself to feel—really feel—you’re not losing control. You’re reclaiming it. You’re saying, “I’m not afraid of my humanity. I’m not ashamed of my heart.”

That takes more courage than any mask of toughness ever could.

So if you need to cry, cry. Let those tears do their holy work. And know that on the other side of them, you’ll be more of the man you were created to be—not less.

A Word to Anyone Who’s Been Told They’re “Too Emotional”

Your sensitivity is not a flaw. It’s a gift. It’s how you stay connected to what’s real.

You’re not broken for feeling deeply. You’re not too much. You’re not overreacting.

You’re just alive. Fully, beautifully, messily alive.

And those tears? They’re proof that your heart still works. That trauma didn’t destroy your capacity to feel. That you’re still here, still fighting, still becoming.

Don’t apologize for them. Don’t minimize them. Don’t let anyone convince you that feeling is weakness.

Your tears are doing holy work—cleansing, releasing, renewing, restoring.

Final Thought

So next time emotion rises up, don’t shove it down. Let it flow.

Your tears are not a sign of breaking. They’re a sign of breaking through.

They’re not evidence that you’re losing it. They’re evidence that you’re finding your way back to yourself.

Crying isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s healing. It’s your body’s way of saying, I’m still here. I’m still feeling. I’m still becoming whole.

And that? That’s the strongest thing you can do.

Breaking the Silence: How Do I Start Talking About Childhood Sexual Abuse?

Breaking the Silence: How Do I Start Talking About Childhood Sexual Abuse?

by | Sep 7, 2025 | From The Heart

How Do I Start Talking About Childhood Sexual Abuse?

There’s a specific kind of loneliness that comes with carrying a secret you were never meant to keep.

If you experienced childhood sexual abuse, you know exactly what I’m talking about. That weight sitting heavy in your chest. The shame whispering don’t tell anyone. The fear that if people knew what happened to you—or worse, what you had to do just to survive—they’d see you differently. They’d pull away. They’d blame you.

So you stayed quiet. Maybe for years. Maybe for decades.

But here’s what I’ve learned, both from my own healing and from walking alongside other survivors: the silence is what keeps you sick. The speaking is what sets you free.

I know breaking that silence feels terrifying. But it’s also one of the most powerful steps you can take toward actually healing.

Let me show you how to start.

Why Speaking About It Matters

First, let’s be real about why this is so hard.

Childhood sexual abuse doesn’t just wound you—it silences you. The abuser probably told you not to tell. Or they made you believe it was your fault. Or they convinced you that nobody would believe you anyway.

Even without those direct threats, shame did their work for them. Shame told you that what happened made you dirty, broken, unlovable. That speaking about it would only confirm what you already feared about yourself.

So you learned to hide it. You pushed it down into the shadows, hoping that if you didn’t look at it, didn’t talk about it, maybe it would just… disappear.

But trauma doesn’t work that way.

What you don’t speak about, you carry alone. And carrying it alone keeps you trapped in the very shame that’s destroying you.

When you finally break the silence—when you find the courage to say out loud what happened—something shifts. The secret loses its power. The shame starts to crack. And for the first time, you realize: this wasn’t my fault. I’m not alone. I can actually heal from this.

That’s why speaking matters. Not because talking magically fixes everything, but because silence keeps the wound festering. Speaking is how you let the light in.

There’s something deeply spiritual about this truth—that what we bring into the light loses its power to control us. It’s why Jesus said, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” Whether or not you share my faith, that principle holds: speaking truth is the beginning of freedom.

Finding Safe People to Tell

Here’s the most important thing I can tell you: not everyone deserves to hear your story.

You don’t owe your truth to people who can’t hold it with care. You don’t have to tell family members who might minimize it, blame you, or refuse to believe you. You don’t need to share with friends who aren’t emotionally equipped to sit with something this heavy.

Healing from sexual abuse requires safe people. And safe people have specific qualities.

A safe person:

  • Believes you without question. They don’t ask for proof or details that satisfy their curiosity. They take your word as truth.
  • Doesn’t minimize your experience. They don’t say things like “that happened to lots of people” or “at least it wasn’t worse.” They honor the gravity of what you went through.
  • Doesn’t make it about them. They don’t cry so hard you end up comforting them. They don’t get angry in ways that make you feel responsible for their emotions. They hold space for your experience.
  • Respects your pace. They don’t push you to share more than you’re ready to. They don’t rush your healing or tell you it’s time to “move on” or “just forgive and forget.”
  • Maintains confidentiality. Unless you’re in immediate danger, they don’t share your story with others without your explicit permission.
  • Affirms your worth. They remind you that what happened doesn’t define you. That you’re still lovable, still whole, still deserving of goodness.

Safe people might be:

  • A trauma-informed therapist or counselor (often the best first step)
  • A coach who specializes in trauma healing and survivor support
  • A trusted friend who’s proven they can hold heavy things
  • A support group for survivors of childhood sexual trauma
  • A pastor, spiritual director, or faith leader who understands trauma (not all do—choose wisely)
  • A partner who’s shown themselves to be emotionally mature and supportive

I should note: if you’re considering talking to someone in a faith community, make sure they’re actually trauma-informed. Unfortunately, I’ve seen too many survivors harmed by well-meaning religious leaders who offered spiritual platitudes instead of compassionate support. A safe faith leader will never pressure you to forgive before you’re ready, never suggest the abuse happened for a divine purpose, and never make you feel responsible for what was done to you.

Start with one person. You don’t need to tell everyone. You just need to tell someone who can help carry what you’ve been holding alone.

How to Actually Start the Conversation

Okay, so you’ve identified a safe person. Now comes the hardest part: actually saying it out loud.

Here’s the truth—there’s no perfect way to do this. No magic words that make it easy. But I can give you some conversation starters that might help you take that first step.

If you’re talking to a therapist or coach:

“I’m here because I experienced childhood sexual abuse, and I’m ready to start dealing with it.”

“There’s something from my childhood I’ve never really talked about, and I think it’s affecting me more than I realized.”

“I need help processing sexual trauma from when I was young. Can you help me with that?”

Therapists and trauma-informed coaches are trained for this. You don’t need to soften it or build up to it. Be direct. They can handle it.

If you’re talking to a trusted friend:

“There’s something I’ve been carrying for a long time, and I think I need to tell someone. Can I trust you with something heavy?”

“I experienced sexual abuse when I was a child, and I’m starting to work through it. I don’t need you to fix anything—I just need you to know.”

“I’m dealing with some trauma from my past, and it would help to have someone who knows. Are you in a place where you can hear something difficult?”

Notice how these give the person a chance to opt in. That’s important. You want to make sure they’re emotionally available and prepared.

If you’re talking to a partner:

“There’s something from my past that I haven’t told you about, but I think it’s important for you to know as we build our life together.”

“I experienced childhood sexual trauma, and sometimes it affects how I show up in our relationship. Can we talk about it?”

“I’m working on healing from sexual abuse I experienced as a child. I wanted to share that with you because you’re important to me.”

With partners, timing matters. Choose a moment when you’re both calm, not in the middle of conflict or stress.

If you’re talking to a pastor or faith leader:

“I’m struggling with something from my past—childhood sexual abuse—and I need spiritual support as I work through it.”

“I’ve experienced sexual trauma, and I’m looking for guidance on how to process this in light of my faith.”

“I need someone to walk with me through healing from abuse. Can you help, or can you recommend someone who specializes in trauma?”

If you’re talking in a support group:

“Hi, I’m [name], and I’m here because I’m healing from childhood sexual abuse.”

“This is my first time sharing about this, but I experienced sexual trauma as a child and I’m ready to stop carrying it alone.”

Support groups are often the easiest place to start because everyone there gets it. You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to justify. You just speak your truth, and they nod because they know.

What to Do If Someone Responds Badly

Let’s be real—not everyone will respond the way you need them to.

Some people will minimize. Some will make it about themselves. Some will say hurtful things out of their own discomfort or ignorance.

And sadly, some Christians will say things that sound spiritual but are actually deeply harmful—things like “you just need to forgive and move on” or “God allowed this for a reason” or “have you prayed about it?” These responses, however well-intentioned, dismiss your pain and can actually deepen your trauma.

If this happens, remember: their response is about them, not about you.

Your truth is still true, even if they can’t handle it. Your pain is still valid, even if they minimize it. You still deserve healing, even if they’re not the person who can support you through it.

Here’s what you do:

  • End the conversation. You don’t owe them more explanation or more of your story.
  • Protect yourself. Limit contact if you need to. You don’t have to keep unsafe people close, even if they go to your church or share your beliefs.
  • Find someone else. One bad response doesn’t mean no one will believe you. Keep looking for your safe person.
  • Don’t let it silence you again. This is the most important part. Don’t let one person’s inability to hold your truth convince you to bury it again.

You deserve to be believed. You deserve to be supported. And there are people out there who can do that for you.

What Happens After You Speak

Breaking the silence doesn’t fix everything overnight. But it does start something.

When you finally say out loud what happened—when you name childhood sexual abuse for what it was—you’re taking back power. You’re saying: this happened to me, but it doesn’t own me anymore.

You might feel relief. You might feel raw and vulnerable. You might feel scared. You might feel all of it at once.

That’s normal. That’s your body finally letting out what it’s been holding.

And here’s what comes next: the real work of healing.

Speaking is the beginning. But healing from sexual trauma requires more than just talking about it once. It requires:

  • Working with a trauma-informed therapist who can help you process what happened
  • Learning to regulate your nervous system so you’re not stuck in survival mode
  • Rebuilding your sense of safety in your body and in the world
  • Challenging the shame and lies that abuse planted in you
  • Developing healthy coping skills to replace destructive ones
  • Connecting with other survivors who understand

This is exactly the work I write about in Healing What Hides in the Shadows—the deep, often painful work of turning toward the wounds we’ve spent our lives running from. And it’s the work I do with my coaching clients—walking alongside survivors of childhood sexual abuse as they move from survival to wholeness.

My faith in Jesus is central to how I understand healing. I believe God grieves over what happened to you. I believe He doesn’t waste our pain but can transform it into purpose. I believe He walks with us through the valley of the shadow—not causing the shadow, but bringing light into it.

But I also know that healing requires more than faith alone. It requires practical tools, professional support, and the courage to do hard things. God gave us therapists, nervous systems that can be retrained, and communities that can hold us. Using these resources isn’t a lack of faith—it’s stewarding the life He gave you.

Because healing is possible, but it’s not something you have to figure out alone.

But you can’t do that work while you’re still pretending the wounds don’t exist.

Speaking is how you stop pretending. Speaking is how you start healing.

A Word About Timing

You don’t have to be “ready” to speak. You just have to be willing.

If you’re waiting until you feel strong enough, brave enough, healed enough—you might wait forever. Because the truth is, speaking is what makes you stronger. Speaking is what builds the courage. Speaking is what starts the healing.

You don’t have to have all the words. You don’t have to tell the whole story. You don’t have to do it perfectly.

You just have to start.

One conversation. One safe person. One moment of choosing truth over silence.

That’s enough.

Final Thought

If you experienced childhood sexual abuse, I want you to know something: what happened to you was not your fault. You didn’t cause it. You didn’t deserve it. And you are not defined by it.

The shame you’ve been carrying? It was never yours to carry. The silence you’ve been keeping? It was never yours to keep.

You have the right to speak. You have the right to be believed. You have the right to heal.

And on the other side of that speaking—on the other side of breaking the silence that’s been suffocating you—there’s freedom.

There’s connection. There’s peace. There’s a version of you who isn’t carrying that secret anymore.

So find your safe person. Take a deep breath. And speak.

Because healing what hides in the shadows begins the moment you’re brave enough to turn on the light.

If you need support:

  • National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 (RAINN)
  • Childhelp National Child Abuse Hotline: 1-800-422-4453
  • Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741

You’re not alone. Help is available. Healing is possible.