Yes, I have withdrawn from people, from intimacy, from the world itself. I found safety in small rituals and long hours of familiar television. But I will not let fear decide the shape of my life. I face it with strength forged through survival, grounding myself in what I already know I can withstand.

I am a grown woman now, and I know what monsters are. My childhood was defined by abuse and silence, and my adolescence by betrayal.

Once I went to live with Al and Dotti in Los Altos, my life entered a period of sustained abuse: incest, molestation, parental neglect, severe corporal punishment, and rape.

As a teenager, I was sexually trafficked by my father.

During our years on Covington Road in Los Altos, California, he exploited me repeatedly, lending me out while I was humiliated and unprotected. Shortly after my sixteenth birthday, I met someone who seemed to care.

I took that chance, and at seventeen, I married Dennis H.

Some parts of my story cannot be reduced without becoming untrue. They are not here for shock or disclosure, but because they explain the shape of a life. As a writer and survivor, I know what can be implied, what must be named, and when a reader has earned the right to hear more.

I am not silencing myself. I am telling the truth.

I have lived a life marked by a freedom I once could not imagine, and I am grateful for it.

There were many turning points, but none more profound than becoming a parent—unexpectedly.

I had not planned to have children. Still, I became Wendy’s mother. When she was born in 1986, something shifted inside me. Given my past, I understood what was at risk.

For many years, I tried to understand what factors contributed to my situation—chance, adoption, or the weight of family secrecy.

These questions never had simple answers. What I do know is that human trafficking is not confined to distant places. It exists in every state in this country. In recent decades, digital platforms have made children more accessible to those who seek to harm them.

During the COVID-19 pandemic alone, reports of suspected child exploitation increased by 106 percent in a single year, according to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

My point is this: while my father is long gone, the crimes he committed did not disappear with him.

Around the world, children and vulnerable adults are still being exploited in the same ways.

Many victims attempt to escape multiple times—often three to seven—before they succeed.

I ran away three times.

Once, while in juvenile hall, I asked to be placed in foster care rather than return home. I was laughed at.

My father was respected, a man of standing, and no one could imagine why a child would not want to be his.

Another time, I stayed in a shelter for homeless teens, but parents were required to be notified.

Dotti arrived, tearful and convincing, insisting I was loved and cared for—just a troubled teenager acting out.

She knew what was happening and remained silent. I was sent back again.

No adult intervened. Not a teacher. Not a neighbor. Not the police.

At the time, there were no law enforcement units dedicated to identifying human trafficking. And because my father served as a veterinarian for local police departments, no one believed me.

Even today, in the United States, only a small fraction of law enforcement—about four percent—is dedicated to investigating human trafficking.

Most victims are left to survive on instinct, persistence, and luck.

Too many abusers are never held accountable, while survivors are left to carry the consequences.

Research suggests that most survivors of childhood sexual abuse do not disclose until midlife or later. I was fifty-five the first time I attempted to speak about my own experiences in therapy, though signs of trauma were recognized decades earlier by Dr. Clay Wislon, PhD.

This is why solidarity among survivors matters. We are not meant to carry this alone.

For years, I shared fragments of my story with people I trusted. More often than not, the silence that followed taught me to stop speaking. Until now, I have never told the whole story.

Survivors are too often abandoned by those who claim to love them. I share mine in the hope that truth can interrupt that pattern.

Trauma leaves traces. I live with anxiety, panic, and doubt, and I may always carry them. But I am resilient. I am still here.

And when I write, I often find myself thriving.

My hope is that this work brings light to what once lived in shadow—and makes silence impossible.

I was silent for years. I have found my voice.

I carry the strength of a warrior—and a story worth telling.