Content Warning

This piece contains personal reflections on childhood sexual abuse, trauma, and post-traumatic stress. The experiences are shared thoughtfully and without graphic detail. Please read at your own pace and take care of yourself however you need.

Reclaiming My Voice

A few hours ago, a hike with Aspen felt like exactly what I needed. Now, the sadness has quietly moved back in.

I sit down to write, knowing it won’t be easy. This writing is one of the ways I continue to reclaim my life. I am facing those who caused harm, even though they no longer walk this earth. Still, I woke this morning feeling strong. The sun shimmered, the air felt warm—almost teasing, considering it’s winter in Colorado.

I am taking my time with these words, staying present and prepared for whatever feelings rise to the surface.

I am not rushing this.

The Beginning

The sexual abuse began when I was three years old. Soon after, my mother forced my father out of our home.

By the time I was eleven, I was living on Covington Road in Los Altos, California. By twelve, my father was involved in exploiting and trafficking me.

I am now seventy-two years old, divorced three times, and the mother of one daughter.

My father died in 1988, yet his presence still feels close—almost tangible.

We were undeniably a dysfunctional family. I grew up surrounded by shame.

Even after all these years, I can still recall the fear my father inspired—in me and in others.

What Lingers

As I write, my ears ring. I know in my mind that my father cannot hurt me anymore, and yet I remain shadowed by his memory. Even as a child, I avoided drawing attention to myself.

I learned to wrap my pain inward, carrying the turmoil in my chest rather than risk greater danger by crying out. So I stayed quiet, trying to calm myself. I take one careful step, then another. My stomach churns, but I continue to write.

“I can do this,” I tell myself—a mantra I have returned to again and again.

The Nature of Trauma

Trauma is a master of disguise. Those of us who survive it are often surprised by how quickly it seems to loosen its grip—at least in the beginning. Once safety is reached, the visible injuries—bruises, cuts—begin to heal and fade. Even the mind appears to recover. I think of the time I nearly drowned as a child—pulled from the water, gasping, somehow alive, eyes opening again.

But survivors know this is not the end of the story.

Trauma waits quietly, lingering at the edges. Years can pass. Therapists can come and go. And still, without warning, it can surface. A song drifting from a radio. The scent of a stranger’s cologne. There is no predicting what will call it back.

Given all of this, post-traumatic stress disorder has been an inevitable part of my life.

Why I Speak Now

I speak now because silence was never consent—it was survival.

I am not an angel, but I have lived long enough to know that truth carries its own responsibility.

My father tried to silence me and others. He threatened my aunts and grandparents, and his second wife.

I have long believed that my mother’s death may have been connected to what she knew. Fear closed in, and silence took hold. As a child, I had no voice.

Long ago, I made a vow to myself: that whatever years remained to me would be lived in truth, and that my voice would no longer be negotiable.

Closing Reflection

I share this not to shock, but to tell the truth. For many years, silence felt safer than speech. Writing these words is part of how I continue to choose life, presence, and integrity.

If something here resonates with you, know that you are not alone—and that your story, too, deserves care and respect.

May these words serve as a reminder that even long after harm has ended, healing remains possible. Voice can return. Strength can grow quietly. And dignity, once claimed, cannot be taken away.