Many parts of my journey are still tender.
In America alone 1 out of 6 women are sexually abused or assaulted.

I have had days where I’ve cursed the ground till the sun came up. I’ve spent days asking God how He could leave me like that. I’ve asked Him where He was when their hands surrendered me to a side of myself I did not know existed. I’ve told Him in different ways I hate Him, as I rush back into His healing hand. I’ve asked Him why, as He sat by my side. I buried my face in the ground to find myself met with a new hope that I thought couldn’t be found. I tried to move cities and change my name, I wanted to disappear while His voice continued to call out, “I see you, Dear.” Come near.

I am no stranger to abuse and it took me years to begin to reconcile the truth of certain stories. I was always known as the one who sought out hope. But there came a time when my hope ran out. I couldn’t see the light, and I didn’t want to embrace another day. I wanted to become unknown and vanish as if I never existed. I found myself wrestling with the idea of this life, and if I was meant for it. I was left in the ruins of someone else’s decision that I did not choose but remembered in a way that would haunt me for months.

I was used to this, so when it happened at the hands of someone I thought loved me, I denied it. I dug deep and fought to hide the truth. I ignored the signs that were screaming at me. I started to die in a way I hadn’t before. It was a feeling that I couldn’t name but knew. I was familiar with this type of grief, but this time I couldn’t run from it. This time was different, this time it hurt more, and it felt more real. I had grown to love this person, I held their hand, I walked beside them, I kissed their forehead, I spent lazy afternoons in bed with them, I knew them and they knew me.

I have taken my time to unpack my story, I have sat with the truth of my side and their side, I have screamed at myself for not getting off the train, I have said to myself, “Maybe if I didn’t drink, maybe if I didn’t go.” Then this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if “I.” The echo of my self-blame called to me in the walls of my empty apartment night after night, until I finally collapsed. I stopped hiding and revealed myself to the light. The stories that had been suppressed for years began to float to the surface. The gazes of strangers, unwanted hands, and the silence I was forced into came rushing back. Opening that door was the release of a floodgate. It was the choice to dig up everything hidden and unearth what I had spent years burying. I remember the day I realized the truth something broke. The chain of my pride, the pride that I didn’t need God, the idea that I was okay. I remember the rage I felt, I wanted to kill them, I wanted to get revenge, I wanted to hurt them the way they hurt me. I tried to fight, but instead, I fell to my knees, I lifted my hands and said “God, help me.”

At that moment, something was lifted. I felt His hands pick my head up off the floor. I felt the light begin to seep into my wounds. Every time I ran God was waiting, waiting to catch me when I fell. He listened to me as I cursed His name and theirs as well. Letting me know I was held when no one else could. For months I held onto the idea, that it would get better. At first, it wasn’t easy, I would spend days in bed. I couldn’t turn to anyone else, but in those moments alone with God, I started to see the power of His truth. Even though it hurt it had set me free. I remember the days I sat with my Bible in my lap. I listened to the same worship song as my tears fell like rain from a storm that never seemed to end. I remember reading the book of Isaiah and learning about how much God loved the people of Israel and wanted to restore all that had been stolen from them. I remember reading the Psalms, learning about King David and the battles He faced, and reading about how Job lost everything. God showed up for every single one of them.

He never did the same thing, it was always different. It was always a new thing. The Lord says “Behold, I am doing a new thing, do you not see it as it springs forth?” Isaiah 43:19. I didn’t understand that for a long time, but when I finally started to my whole world changed. I began to believe in the promise of restoration that He gave others, and I started to trust that it could be for me too. I began to seek and return to the words of hope written before me. I began to trust God, I started to forgive them, I started to ask God to heal them, I started praying, I started asking for help every single day to get up, to get out of bed. I kept asking, I kept praying, and I kept trusting. I started to learn that I will never be defined by the hands of another person or the choices of harm made by someone else. I started to believe in myself again, I went outside, I began to write, I chose to create again, and I finally started to believe in God and trust that He is who He says He is. I found my healing in the nights when no one heard me because I knew God did. In letting go I have found peace, I found the strength to forgive myself. I found the reason to keep going.

There are moments when I find my feet sinking into the floor when the day, the thought, or the memory returns. There are moments when I find myself back on my knees begging for mercy, and in those God meets me. He carries me through, He reminds me of His promises. He sits with me while I weep, and comforts me. I discovered that He’s there. In every moment He’s there, and He was there.

SA is the assault of the Imago Dei. It is not just a body. It is not just one night. It is not nothing.

The brokenness of this sin against another human is not lost in defeat. Rather we can gain victory and heal with Christ Jesus. I am not sharing my story to perscribe a one size fits all solution. I’m sharing because I want to offer hope. I’ve walked through this valley, I have wept, I have pleaded and I have gotten really angry. All to be met with the freedom that comes with surrendering this pain.

The effects of sexual assault and abuse can be healed through Jesus. My experiences deeply fractured my sense of self, identity, and femininity for years, but over the past few years, I have gradually learned to trust again, recognize my worth in Christ, see my beauty, and love myself. To anyone who has endured this, remember: it was never your fault, and it never will be. It does not matter what you wore, what choice you made prior to the incident. It was never your fault, and there is a father in Heaven who grieves with you and for you.

To the one who lost their sense of identity.

Come to me all you who are weary

My Testimony