02/08/2026
This hits really hard. Really nail on the head. This is a big part of why I do what I do in so many ways and facets of my life. Not just professionally. Not at all.
And so, with that, I’ll share a blog post that you can find on my website that I also shared across my personal social media.
I'm sharing it because it's my story... It's what sparked my healing journey nearly 2 decades ago. It's not my only conduit for healing and change, but it's the biggest one. And one that is so taboo in our current world despite the staggering statistics around it. I think it's important to take our power back by facing it. By looking at the dark and taboo. By facing our fears.
My hope is that my story will help someone here feel seen or heard. Or brave enough to share their story if they are ready. Storytelling is massively healing. Feeling seen and heard is massively healing. Feeling supported through something that many do not share out of fear is massively healing. I could keep going but I'll stop. So here goes...
I was molested by a family member.
I have never shared this publicly and when I think about why, it’s fear of judgment. Fear of people judging me or calling my a liar. Did you know the majority of people don’t report s*xual assault because they don’t think they will be believed? It’s actually crazy when you think about it. Not to mention, it’s been made abundantly clear a large percentage of the population do not view child molestation or s*xual assault or any type as a big deal. I’ve witnessed this first hand. I’ve witnessed family members of children who have been molested try and brush it under the rug…. They don’t want to make a big deal out of it.
Why?
Fear they have to face the disgusting reality that 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys are s*xually abused before the age of 18. That 70% of all reported s*xual abuse happens to minors. Of kids who are s*xually abused, 40-50% are by family members and 40% are by older kids they know. Nearly 50% of women have experienced some type of s*xual violence over the course of their life. And let’s be real, these numbers are almost definitely higher (and note, different sources report different statistics, but they all generally land in the same ballpark).
Let me say this again, 40-50% of children s*xually assaulted are assaulted by family members.
A family member who was trusted is who did this to me. I was in elementary school, before anyone thinks I ‘asked for it.’ Which, side note, that narrative is sick and if you believe that, so are you. Anyways, I want to share my story and how it impacted my physical health, mental health, emotional health, and energetic health. How I’ve been healing this and the ripple effect from this for decades, and it still impacts my health, my reactions, and the ways I move throughout the world.
I was molested by a family member. I’m going to keep saying that until people understand. I buried one specific vivid memory super deep for a long time, and completely repressed others. I have spent my entire life wanting to crawl out of my skin and cry anytime someone tickled me. Why? Because this family member who s*xually assaulted me told me “What, all I did was tickle you.” Along with, “Don’t tell anyone.” On the bright side, this allowed my mind to convince myself it was just tickling, innocent tickling. Logic bypassed the demand to not to tell anyone. I was a kid. But this memory has always remained burned into my brain. Vividly. And my body. Adult reflection offers clarity I sometimes wish I didn’t have.
It was around this time I began to have physical health issues.
I had chronic nausea and bouts of vomiting. I was brought to every gastrointestinal doctor in the county. Some did tests that revealed inflammation with no known cause. Some looked at me dead in the face and told me I’m ‘too pretty to be sick', and brushed me off. I had ulcers forming in my stomach as a child.
A few years later, in middle school (a lovely time for a kid), lovely body dysmorphia set in hard.
I remember standing in line in gym class waiting to be weighed (why on earth did they do that). I remember a girl standing in front of me saying, “If you weigh over 110 lbs, you’re fat.” I stepped on the scale, 113 lbs. I responded by developing a strict exercise routine and diet. I was in 6th grade. My worth was so tied to my body and the perception of it by others.
Come high school time, depression set in strong.
I was brought to different therapists and psychiatrists. The psychiatrists medicated me, one drug after another, all the way to lithium. Because I was sad and uncomfortable in my body. Therapists brushed me off just like the GI doctors. In fact, one told me I have absolutely nothing to be sad about. I was told I’m pretty so I shouldn’t have these issues. Not a single one considered there was trauma or abuse underneath it. The signs were all there, but no one saw it... Or they didn't want to see it.
They all gaslit me instead.
I internalized everything. I believed I was broken, I was the problem in every relationship. My friends distanced themselves from my because I was no longer the fun, bubbly girl they knew, and I didn’t blame them. I was left out of social gatherings. I lived in a very, very dark space inside my mind.
I was deemed crazy more times than I can count.
The medications continued to make everything worse. I already had such horrible chronic physical health issues, and the side effects for many of these medications increased the nausea and vomiting. I technically should not have been allowed to graduate high school because of the number of missed days due to sickness and depression.
Around age 19 I lost hope.
I was always sick, physically. I was emotionally broken. My mind spiraled constantly. Every system set up to help me either gaslit me, or shrugged their shoulders in confusion and sent me on my way. I hit rock bottom. My entire life was a struggle and no one could help. I tried to help myself, and nothing seemed to work.
I didn’t believe I was worthy of love. I didn’t believe I was pretty enough to be loved. My relationship with my body and s*x was extremely toxic. I believed I had to be perfect to be loved. My reactions were explosive. Tears were always flowing. I hated myself. I hated being alive.
I didn’t understand why I was so broken.
At 19 I took the bottle of pills that made my depression worse and I went to my favorite place… Pecks Falls. I downed the entire bottle. I was ready for it all to end. I didn’t think anyone would care. I truly believed I was doing people a favor. I thought I was a burden. A hopeless, helpless burden.
I survived because of love, because someone truly loved me. They found me and they saved me. Which sounds beautiful… But that guilt, shame, and regret still eats me alive to this day. A guilt I'm reminded about, force fed into allowing it to continue consuming me, almost 2 decades later by some people in my life who refuse to let it go. Hurting others is quite possibly the worst experience of it all.
Because of this, I had the pleasure of spending some time on the crazy floor of the hospital.
The place where they don’t allow you shoelaces, or food from the outside world. Where you don’t get to be with yourself and feel your feels, you’re forced to participate in circle time. Ohhhh circle time. Torture time. This was when I began to understand the gravity of mental health disorders. Have you ever had circle time with paranoid schizophrenic individuals? All while trying to hold your s**t together to prove you are safe enough to leave. This was the opposite of a loving, caring, compassionate place. It was cold. It was judgmental. It was clinical. There was zero freedom, even within a room with just a bed. The only way I was allowed out was if I agreed to be put on a cocktail of drugs. There was no therapeutic support. They forced drugs and extremely uncomfortable interactions with other patients. That was it. No one, not a single time, asked me why I did it. Even to this day, no one in my life has ever asked me why. I guess this type of raw honesty isn’t something most people can handle. Anyways, this is when I realized I had no way out. I could not risk ever ending up in this hellish place again. This experience sparked its own special form of PTSD. The type where it's your own fault, you can only be mad at yourself... For being weak. It's a tough one to cope with.
I have spent the next nearly 2 decades healing.
Healing physically, mentally, and emotionally. My spiritual beliefs and understanding of energy has massively formed the ways and depths of which I’ve been able to heal. But it hasn’t been easy.
There are no systems set up for kids going through this type of abuse.
The abandonment wounds generated from every system failing you is a challenging one. It creates a mentality that you are 100% on your own and not to trust anyone or anything. The abandonment wounds of those who left you, even if rightfully so. It doesn’t make it hurt less. The abandonment wounds of not being saved or protected from this, despite having a mother who cares and would have swapped positions with me in a heartbeat had she known.
The abandonment of not saying anything for so long, essentially abandoning myself, my inner child.
The emotional and mental wounds don’t stop there, not even close. I have a massively distorted relationship with my body. My worth is tied to my body and the acceptance of it, or what it can offer someone. I am a people pleaser as a way to combat the guilt, shame, and feeling like a burden. I would do anything to feel loved. Don’t even get me started with how twisted love and s*x has become. Not even knowing pleasure. Not being able to love myself. Existing only to please others because you don’t think you’re worthy of anything.
And the shame.
Why on earth should someone feel so much shame for being a victim of something? It’s wild. But it’s our societal conditioning. It’s the people who victim blame. I have lived in so much fear around sharing this and feeling judged for it. I know there are people who will think I’m lying. Why would I lie? Why would I want this? It’s sad to be so scared to speak your truth.
The voices.
That voice inside your head that tells you you're a piece of s**t. Yeah, that voice. The voices telling me how pathetic I am for being unable to cope. The voices telling me how weak I am, how no one could ever love me, and what a failure I am. The voices telling me what a monster I am for hurting others through this. The voices of darkness, of energies attached to me perpetuating my own judgments of myself.
The body.
The sheer number of health issues that I’ve lived with as a result of the relationship with my body, tension, stress, trapped emotions, and what I firmly believe is damage from the sheer amount of drugs I was forced to be on during an important developmental period of my life (puberty). Chronic inflammation. IBS. Endometriosis. Chronic headaches. Hemiplegic migraines (you feel like you’re having a stroke). Bouts of fainting. Glossopharyngeal neuralgia (cousin to what is called the ‘suicide disease’). My feet go numb. I have nerve pain and brain fog. I have insomnia. I have kidney related issues. I have chronic fatigue. I have fibromyalgia. My pelvic area is out of alignment causing immense pain constantly.
I have spent more time than I can count bed ridden due to health issues no one can find a reason for.
A huge part of this healing process is actually admitting it happened. We gaslight ourselves. It’s not just me. Many of us do it. I’m well aware of how malleable the brain is, and how memories are not always accurate. I spent a long time in denial, telling myself my memories must be wrong. That’s what anyone would say if I told them. But the body does not lie. The way I flinch and want to crawl out of my skin when touched. The heart pounding anxiety I get around this particular family member. The reaction of tears and rage in response to being tickled. The heat that engulfs my body, embarrassment and shame, in intimate situations with my husband who has been nothing other than a safe space. Even the solid blacked out period of time around this age, a sign of repressed memories.
It leads to another wound we have, we don’t know how to trust ourselves.
How do you trust yourself when everyone tells you you're crazy? How do you trust yourself when you don't feel okay but everyone tells you you're fine? How do you trust yourself when you're told you're making things up? How do you trust yourself when you're terrified to even speak?
The ripple of emotional wounds, beliefs, and programming as a result of this extends to every area of my life. My relationships, romantic and platonic. Intimacy. My relationship with myself. My confidence. The way my nervous system has run everything in my life for so long, a nervous system wired to brace myself for something bad about to happen…
The fear of being seen and desire to be invisible.
I say all of this to paint a picture of how much someone has to work through just to find a baseline normal after s*xual assault. To feel home in their bodies. To want to exist. To feel safe to speak. This isn’t even a fraction of it. And I am privileged. I have access to the internet. I have the time and space to be able to work on myself in this way. I have clean water and food. I have a support system now. And it’s still hard and I still have work to do… Recognizing when I’m triggered by a specific food that was used as a reward system by this person… Or triggered by an unexpected touch… Or triggered by nudity in general.
This is a reminder of how important it is to talk about this.
For the LARGE percentage of the population experiencing this. It may feel uncomfortable to hear someone say these things to you. But you need to listen. You need to understand the gravity of it. We need to stop being so afraid of discomfort that we are harming ourselves and our loved ones. We need to educate our kids about their bodies, what is and is not appropriate, and give them a safe space to ask questions and tell us when something feels uncomfortable or isn’t right. I will be that mom who doesn’t allow sleepovers at other kids’ houses and I don’t care how ‘mean mom’ that makes me. I won’t force my kids to hug someone they don’t want to. My kids’ safety is my top priority.
And them having bodily autonomy and sovereignty is the most valuable thing I can offer them.
Also, to be clear, this isn’t a pity party either. This isn't a cry for attention. This is being shared so that we can start talking about it. So that someone can feel seen. So that someone can feel safe to speak up. I’ll take one for the team. I’ll let myself be judged or slandered.
But if you for one second seem to think s*xual abuse of ANY type is okay, or you speak about it with a ‘but’ (‘but she wore a revealing outfit, but she put herself in that situation, but she asked for it), you are the problem.
This is birthing something of a mission for me, should anyone feel called to it. Writing my story out provided massive healing and shifts. Sharing my story has added another layer of healing to this. I know not everyone is ready to share their story with their name or face attached to it. So I want to offer this... Anyone who has been s*xually assaulted... I see you, I hear you, and I want to help you release and heal some of these wounds. Anyone who wants to write their story and send it to me... Whether anonymously, with a first name only, or full first and last name... I will share your story.
If you want to submit your story, you can submit it via the link below, email me at tricia@fringespirit.com, or send me a private message. You can share it with me to hold space and see you, or you can opt to have it shared.
