04/07/2026
𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡.🩵💚
To every survivor: I see you. I feel you. I am with you.
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⚠️⚠️⚠️ 𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗚𝗘𝗥 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚⚠️⚠️⚠️
‼️𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗰𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝘂𝘀𝗲 (𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱 𝗦𝗔)‼️
⛔️ Please proceed with caution. ⛔️
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If I were to ask you about your earliest memory, where would you be taken? How old would you be? What would you see? Perhaps it’s playing with a favorite toy, the smell of your grandmother’s cooking, or the comfort of a parent’s embrace.
No one ever believed me when I shared that my earliest memory began at the age of two. They’d say it was impossible– no mind can hold onto events at such a young age.
But I was two. 𝗜 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼.
Yes, two… Think for a moment, of a two-year-old. What words come to mind?
𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘊𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘐𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘗𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺. 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘑𝘰𝘺.
While I, thankfully, felt moments of love and joy, those feelings were overshadowed by confusion and betrayal. At an age when children have a natural sense of awe and wonder of the world around them, and hold an unwavering trust in the goodness of the people who surround them, I was learning how to read a room. I was learning how to protect myself. I was learning how to survive.
‼️‼️‼️𝑪𝑨𝑼𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵: 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑪𝑺𝑨‼️‼️‼️
It would usually happen on the days our parents left us home with our oldest brother. He was a teenager but the rest of us, we were all just little children.
One particular memory has remained with me all these years. I remember feeling dread build up within me as time continued to pass by while my parents were out. Then a sense of relief came when I saw that our aunt and cousin who lived in the upper duplex had stepped outside. One by one, my older siblings made their way out the door, out to the refuge of being in an adult’s presence.
I was (and am) the youngest. The door was wide open, and it was my turn to make an escape. I thought to myself, “I’m going to run so fast he won’t be able to catch me.”
My siblings stood on the porch, frantically gesturing. “Hurry, hurry!” they urged me. I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me and thought for sure I’d make it out.
I was close, just about to reach the door when I felt an arm swing out to catch me. Then, he shut and locked the door.
I remember feeling so little and helpless as he carried me down to his room. I remember my body going limp as he laid me down. I remember feeling numb as I watched his eyes go void and dark. I remember the world around me turning black as my mind repressed the moments that followed.
The next thing I remember was him carrying me back up the stairs. He went into my parents’ room to grab a candy from my dad’s secret stash before handing it to me. Then he unlocked and opened the door, leaving it wide open as if nothing had happened.
When my siblings came back inside, they crowded around me, asking me how I got the candy. At the moment, little, gullible me, felt so lucky to be the only one who got candy that day. It would take me years before I would realize that the candy wasn’t a treat– it was the price of a secret I wasn’t even old enough to understand.
‼️‼️‼️ 𝑪𝑨𝑼𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵: 𝑬𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑪𝑺𝑨‼️‼️‼️
𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗱𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲; 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝗶𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗱𝗲. I didn’t grow up feeling precious. I became someone who struggled to feel pure, even as a child. What replaced the innocence and love was deep shame and guilt, the belief that I was never good enough, and the gnawing feeling of loneliness, like I didn’t have anybody.
From that age onward, I learned how to adapt to survive. Dissociation. Submission. People-pleasing. Fawning. Perfectionism. Avoidance. Hyper-independence. Denial.
I developed trust issues, so I questioned everyone’s intentions. I had social anxiety, so I constantly scanned every room for an exit. I feared intimacy and being seen, so I self-sabotaged relationships and opportunities.
I lived in survival mode for so long that the constant state of high alert felt normal, and even peaceful at times, to me.
I didn’t realize that by trying to stay afloat this way, I was actually slowly drowning myself.
That little girl, that two-year-old, she still lives in me by the trauma she was made to carry. A baby, really– yet, she’s fiercely protected me the best she knew how all these years. She’s kept me alive, but it’s time to move past simply surviving. It’s time that I be there for her. It’s time I heal her. 𝗜𝘁’𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲. 𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺… 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘢𝘮 𝘐. ✨