What was my why — my reason for writing my story?
At first, it was just for me. To let it out. To free myself from the weight of my thoughts.
I didn’t believe my story could help anyone. I didn’t think it was bad enough. Others had suffered more, held deeper wounds, darker trauma.
My heart ached for them. I felt like an impostor. Like my pain didn’t count. Maybe I was just being dramatic. Maybe it was my fault.
After all, I wasn’t a small child. I was 13. Then 15… 16… 17.
Old enough to know better, right? Old enough to speak up… to walk away.
But I didn’t.
Because I couldn’t.
And now I know — that story matters.
Because if just one person hears it and feels less alone,
If one girl hears it and finds her voice…
Then that’s enough.
So close your eyes…
Imagine that girl — the one in your mind who needs you right now.
If she were real, would you still care about rejection? About looking silly?
No. You’d only care about helping her, about making a difference.
And if you can do it for one…
You can do it for many.
So why stay silent?
What if someone had spoken up for you as a child?
Would you have felt less afraid? Less alone?
Would you have understood what was really happening?
This is why your voice matters.
This is why we must stop looking away.
Speak.
Show up.
Reach back to that child you once were and say:
“Take my hand. I’ve got you now.”
———
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