When Silence Protects No One
Some stories don't just live within us; they claw their way into the very fabric of our being, leaving unforgettable marks that are often buried for years and sometimes carried for a lifetime. These are the stories of abuse, stories almost impossible to speak aloud, not merely because of the searing pain but because of who the abuser is. They are rarely strangers. They are almost always the people we held closest: our fathers, mothers, siblings, partners, mentors. The very ones who swore to protect us, the ones we were taught to trust completely.
Sometimes, these abusers are respected in our communities and regarded as heroes, leaders, and kind-hearted individuals. To speak against them is to risk being disbelieved, dismissed, or even punished. Because when the person who harmed you may also be the person who raised you, loved you, or helped you, the lines blur. The world doesn't always want to see the truth.
So, we stay silent. We protect them. We question ourselves. We replay the moments, trying to justify them, trying to forget. But the body remembers as the shame burrows in. Slowly, we pay the cost in our minds, in our relationships, and in our health. Because silence isn't neutral, it corrodes. It protects the abuser, not the survivor, and those who abuse often count on our silence. They rewrite history. They define the story. They shape how others see us and how we see ourselves.
This isn't just a women's issue or a men's issue. It's a human one. People of all genders are harmed by people they should have been safe with. And all of us deserve to speak our truth and be heard. To break the silence is terrifying. It threatens the stories families and communities tell themselves. But when we talk, reclaiming the truth, we reclaim what was taken: our voice, our power, our name.
If you're living with the aftermath of abuse, know that healing is not a straight line. It begins with safety, encompassing emotional, physical, and spiritual aspects. Talk to someone you trust, such as a friend, a therapist, or a support group. Write it down. Let your truth breathe. Ground yourself in practices that remind you of your worth, whether that's art, movement, nature, prayer, or rest. You don't need to make sense of it all to begin. You just need to know you deserve peace more than you deserve to carry shame that isn't yours.
In my book Don't Chase Your Dreams, Allow Them to Come to You, there's a chapter called "The Power of Forgiveness." It's not about excusing what happened or pretending it didn't hurt. It's about reclaiming our inner space, our spirit, from the grip of the abuser. Forgiveness, as I write, is a radical act of freedom. It doesn't require forgetting. It requires mental separation. We begin to understand that what they did is not who we are. Their actions don't define our worth. Practicing that separation energetically, emotionally, and spiritually allows us to begin again, not from a place of woundedness but from the wholeness that was never truly taken.
Because when we stay quiet, they win. And when we speak, when we separate ourselves from their story, the truth begins to breathe again, and so do we.
