I was thirteen.

In the cold, dark room, I froze. I wanted to yell stop. I wanted to run. I wanted him to stop. But I froze. I held my breath until it was over. I went to bed that night to wake up and never be the same.

In my cold room, dark from the gloomy rainy day outside, I felt like throwing up. I felt like crying. I felt alone. After hours of agonizing I sent one text…”he touched me.”

“I told you he was bad news.”

I tucked the secret away and told no one. I should have known, he was bad news. I asked for it. It’s my fault. I never told anyone.

I was twenty seven.

I sat in the chair across from my counselor rattling off my hurt from a childhood of parents never noticing, never asking, never giving me a safe place to run to. In my rambling I recalled that night and brushed right over it. But my counselor stopped. She caught it. She heard the cry of a little girl with a big secret. She gently pulled that little girl out of hiding.

Months and months and months of gently pulling, until she exposed the secret hidden deep within.

I was sexually abused at thirteen. I told no one. It forever changed my life.

Trauma has this way of impacting your life in such toxic ways. It’s like a poison that slowly absorbs into the crevices of your life, hiding where it can’t be seen, but infecting everything it touches. In some instances, we are so good at hiding it that it goes undetected. But even in its ability to keep us blind, it’s effecting the way we respond to various situations, most of the time, without us even knowing. But it’s there impacting our life, our decisions, our responses, and so much more.

My sexual abuse was exposed, and the weight was almost unbearable.

I distinctly remember the weight of emotions that overcame my body at this moment in time. It’s the same amount of emotion that overcame me when I realized the abuse and trauma I endured from my parents as a child. The uncontrollable sobbing that causes you to be unable to stand. The uncontrollable pain that makes you want to throw up. The pain that overtakes you physically where you just want to run and never look back.

The moment sexual abuse is exposed, the weight is exposed with it.

Abuse is a heavy thing to carry. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. The moment that those secrets, that hidden poison, that thing I tucked away was given the label…abuse. The weight I carried my entire life was exposed with it. And things started making sense. The little girl who once had no voice was slowly finding her words. Slowly she was claiming back what was stolen. Slowly the pieces were being put back together. Slowly she was beginning to feel the weight lift.

I never knew the weight, until I felt the freedom.*

As my journey of recovery from physical, emotional, and sexual abuse has continued, the freedom that has been brought into many areas of my life has left me in tears countless times. I never knew the weight of what I was carrying around, until I began to experience the freedom. I never knew just how much poison had sunk it’s way into my heart until I began to taste the freedom that was awaiting me.

But now, I’ve tasted freedom.

And I’m determined not to ever look back. I have given that little girl a voice and I’ve seen her chase freedom. I’ve seen her hope. I’ve seen her dance. I’ve seen her trust. I’ve seen her question. I’ve seen her cry. I’ve seen her discover. And I know it’s just beginning. God isn’t finished with her story just yet.

Me Too.

In a day where everywhere you turn there is another girl speaking up and saying “me too.” I want you to take a moment and consider the weight. I want you to put everything else aside and think about what she’s been carrying for so long and the courage it took her to say “Me too.” Despite the motives, despite what finally made her speak up, despite what everyone else is saying her courage cost more than you can ever imagine. Her courage cost more than you can ever come close to experiencing. Her courage was felt in her body, in her emotions, in her entire being. Me too was never said lightly or without a high price to pay.

Remember her cost of freedom.

Remember her cost of freedom, and tell her she’s worth it. She’s worth fighting for. She’s worth believing. She’s worth more. She’s worth more than what was taken from her. She’s worth more than abuse. She’s worth more than the dark part of her story.

She is more.

You are more.

I am more.