The trauma no one wants to talk about.

There’s a kind of trauma people still whisper about if they talk about it at all.
The kind that makes others uncomfortable, that gets brushed aside with phrases like, “You’re strong,” or “That was so long ago.”
It’s the kind of trauma I lived through when I was sexually assaulted.

No one prepares you for the silence that follows.
Not just the silence in the room, but the silence of people you thought would show up for you. The ones who changed the subject when it got too heavy. The ones who looked away when you cried.

You start to wonder if maybe you are the problem—if maybe you should have stayed quiet, like they wanted.
That’s the kind of trauma no one wants to talk about.
The kind that lingers long after the bruises fade, that reshapes the way you see yourself, others, and the world.

For me, it showed up in small ways at first.
In how I flinched when someone touched my shoulder unexpectedly.
In how I apologized for everything—just to keep peace.
In how I smiled on the outside while replaying the moment I lost control on the inside.

It took me years to realize that I wasn’t broken—I was surviving.
That the shame never belonged to me.
That my silence was never consent.

Healing hasn’t been pretty. It’s been messy, raw, and full of moments where I wanted to quit.
But it’s also been sacred. Because each time I share my story, I take a little bit of that power back.
Every time another survivor tells me, “Me too,” the silence loses some of its grip.

We don’t talk enough about what it’s like to rebuild after sexual assault—to trust again, to love again, to believe that your body isn’t a battlefield but a home worth protecting.
We don’t talk about how you can be grateful for life and still grieve what was taken.
How you can advocate for others while still healing yourself.

So I’m talking about it.
Because I refuse to let shame win.
Because the trauma no one wants to talk about is the one that needs to be heard the most.
And because if you’re reading this and you’ve been there—whether you’ve spoken your truth out loud or are still finding the courage to—you’re not alone.

Your story matters.
Your pain is valid.
And your healing, no matter how long it takes, is holy work.

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