Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault
At 13, I was a goofy, chubby tomboy, thriving in sports and friendships while rocking my unibrow. Awkward? Sure. But hey, it helped shape my fun-loving and kind personality. Boys weren’t exactly clamoring for my attention. Well, sort of—they mostly lined up to ask me to pass notes to my petite blonde best friend.
Fast forward to high school, and I began to realize I was, in fact, a girl. I shed some weight but remained flat-chested. Despite this, I started feeling the desire for attention from boys. After some cringeworthy attempts at flirting, someone finally noticed me. Not the best candidate, but attention was attention, right? He became my boyfriend at 15, and we shared long phone calls and sweet kisses—it was all so thrilling.
On New Year’s Eve, while his parents were out, he invited friends over. I descended into his basement, where he offered me a bottle of Bacardi O. Never having tasted alcohol, I was curious, as most teens are when faced with something forbidden. The drink was a mix of 3/4 Bacardi and 1/4 orange soda, and it tasted terrible. But peer pressure, right?
So, I drank. And then I had another cup of that awful concoction. I remember making silly references to Keenan & Kel and feeling the world spin. Before I knew it, he led me upstairs, where I sat on his bed, feeling nauseous. I asked for water, but instead, he laughed and began unbuttoning my pants. The room spun out of control, and I tried to escape, but he pinned me down and told me it was what people in love do. When I said I was going to be sick, he covered my mouth, insisting I just relax.
That’s the last clear memory I have until I woke up, face pressed against a garbage can, makeup smeared and hair a mess. Alone in the basement, I felt my first true self-loathing wash over me. While the party continued upstairs, he vanished, and somehow my sister found me. I sat silently in the backseat of her car, tears streaming down my face as I stared at the moon, wishing I could erase what had just happened.
We never spoke again, and he transferred to a different school the following year. So, I buried that night deep within me, convincing myself it didn’t count because he was my boyfriend, and I had chosen to drink. I began my sexual history at age 17, completely ignoring that night. I told myself, “Boyfriends can’t rape you, right?”
Now in my 30s, I look back and realize, oh wow, that was textbook rape. I’ve since sought help, attended counseling, practiced yoga, and immersed myself in TED talks about emotional wellness. I’m in a better place now, but I share my story to encourage other women to confront their own painful experiences. We all have stories that need to be heard, and it’s a part of being a woman in this world.
I want to create a space where women feel safe to voice their experiences, no matter how painful. Many of us carry hidden stories, either because we don’t comprehend what happened or because others didn’t believe us. If I struggled to articulate my experience for 15 years, I know there are countless others who remain silent.
To those women, I urge you not to bottle your story up inside—it will fester and harm you. You deserve to heal. Write your truth down, share it with someone you trust, or even burn those painful words in a campfire. Let it out. Acknowledge it, then begin the process of letting go.
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Summary
At 13, I was a chubby tomboy, navigating awkward relationships and eventually experiencing a traumatic event at 15 that I buried for years. It wasn’t until my 30s that I recognized it as rape and began the healing process. Sharing my story is my way of encouraging others to confront their own experiences and find healing, reminding everyone that they are not alone.