Content note: sexual assault, trauma triggers.

I was just living my life today—working, checking off tasks, feeling steady. It’s been 23 years since the night my attacker broke into my home and violently assaulted me. I have done so much healing since then. I’ve built a family, a career, a purpose. Most days, I carry it with grace.

Then I opened my personal email.

There it was: a message from the New Jersey State Police notifying me, as the victim, that my offender had changed his address. One subject line—and my body knew before my brain could catch up. Heart racing. Stomach dropping. Every feeling I’ve worked so hard to regulate rushing back in like a tide I didn’t see coming.

Triggered. Not because I’m weak, but because trauma has a long memory.

In that moment, it hit me (again) that being a victim can feel like a life sentence. Not a sentence handed down by a court, but the kind you serve in your body and your nervous system. You can do all the right things—therapy, boundaries, faith, community, purpose—and still get yanked back by a simple notification. Healing is real. So are triggers.

Here’s what I did next—sharing in case it helps someone else:

• Breathed on purpose. In for four, out for six, until my heart slowed down enough to think clearly.
• Named it. “This is a trigger. It makes sense that I feel this way.” No shame, just truth.
• Grounded. Feet on the floor, eyes on five real things in the room, hands holding something solid.
• Reached out. A quick text to someone who gets it: “I’m okay, just triggered. Can you check in?”
• Wrote. Because writing is how I process. Putting words around the chaos gives me back some control.

I won’t pretend this is neat or easy. It isn’t. But here’s the part I’m claiming for myself: if there’s a life sentence here, I’m also serving a life sentence of resilience. I survived. I am still here. I get to build a life that makes the trigger smaller every time it tries to swallow me.

To anyone reading this who’s been there: you are not alone, and you are not failing because your body still remembers. Your healing is not erased by a hard moment. The fact that you’re still showing up—breathing, naming it, reaching out, writing it down—that is victory.

Today, an email tried to drag me back to a place I’ve fought hard to leave. I felt it. I honored it. And then I chose, again, to keep going.