MY STORY

12/17/2025

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I was 7, when I first started getting molested by 3 of my cousins.
I wasn't taught boundaries, personal space, or good touch vs. bad touch. I didn't think it was wrong, I honestly thought I was just hanging out with family. There were times they begged me, even when I said no. Sometimes they would wait outside the bathroom until I was finished, or until I fell asleep. Going to their house meant being molested, it was just part of it. This continued for years. I didn't realize it wasn't normal until I started dating and being sexual with partners. That's when I realized that intimacy isn't supposed to come from family members, and at 13, my “NO’s” were getting firmer. And one day, it had all just stopped. Growing up, my mom was in the home but not present. My father was never around. Because I had no siblings, I naturally gravitated toward my cousins. When I became older, I just needed to know how did I get thrown into family molestation? There was so much abuse being done, and everything being casually swept under the rug. No adults taking blame, or even being held accountable. Even now I am still conflicted with placing blame on my cousins, because I know they were only doing what they were being taught. We were all victims. I stayed silent because I didn’t feel safe. No adult was safe. Staying quiet was the only way to survive. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t okay. It was fear, it was confusion, it was the only shield I had in a world where nobody saved me.
I had to dig myself out on my own. I now live with PTSD, depression, anxiety, and a binge-eating disorder. One thought, one smell, can take me straight back to those moments. When I had my own children, loving them and showing affection was incredibly difficult. My body was always in fight-or-flight mode. Even small touches made me believe that I was under attack. Having to tell myself to “breathe, you're okay” lasted for years. I’m 27 now, and the psychological effects of the trauma from 20 years ago still linger. I was told that I have to stop walking around like a victim, but I am a victim. Some days I’m conquering the world and doing phenomenal, and some days I feel like the trauma was just too damn much. So I give myself grace and space to grieve, and I get up and try again the next day. I told my mom when I was 22. I thought she’d finally hear me, finally hold me, finally choose me. But she brushed it off like it was nothing—said the past is the past, and there’s no reason to cry over spilled milk. And my father, he didn’t just blame me, he shamed me and told me that I should kill myself because no daughter of his, could have had that happen to them. They all failed me, my aunt who watched it happen, my mother who dismissed it, and my father who condemned me. I was a child with no protection, no guidance, and no safe adult in my entire world. How was I supposed to know better, if I was never taught anything?

12/15/2025

There was once a nine-year-old little girl who was never given a choice.

She was placed into a situation no child should ever experience, controlled by an adult man and trapped in a world of fear, manipulation, and violence. By the time she was still a child herself, she had already endured more than many face in a lifetime. By fourteen, she became a mother. She would go on to have more children as she grew older, all while still under the influence and control of someone who used power, fear, and substances to keep her trapped.

That little girl was my mother.

She was young, broken, and hurting. She was introduced to drugs and violence, and she lived a life where survival came before safety. One day, when her own child realized she was in danger, she ran for help. She did exactly what children are taught to do—she told the truth and asked for protection. Instead of being believed, she was rejected. She was told she was a liar. She was sent away.

From there, her life became a series of escapes—running from unsafe homes, unsafe streets, and unsafe people. She learned to stay alert, to trust no one, and to survive however she could. Even when she tried to return home, she never truly felt safe. Eventually, she was told to leave again, for her own good.

Then tragedy struck. Her mother passed away suddenly, and she returned home once more, only to be sent away again—this time across the country with nothing but herself to rely on. Years later, she learned devastating truths about her mother’s death, and it became clear that the adults who were supposed to protect her never truly did.

By fifteen, she became a mother herself.

She was still a child, raising a child, trying to survive in a world that had never been gentle to her. Living on the streets, she fell into dangerous environments and destructive patterns. She did things she wasn’t proud of, because survival doesn’t always look like innocence. One moment changed everything—she narrowly escaped losing her life, and in that moment, she knew she had to change. Not just for herself, but for her baby.

She walked away from abuse. She went back home with one goal: to protect her younger siblings before they could be harmed too.

At seventeen, against all odds, she got her own apartment. She found her voice. She spoke up. She took action to stop the cycle. She gained custody of her sister and stayed connected to her brothers, even when systems failed them. She became the protector she never had.

Through it all—every closed door, every impossible situation—she believes God carried her. That He spoke when she couldn’t. That He opened doors no one else would. That He made a way when there was no way.

That little girl survived.
That young mother survived.
That fighter is me.

And I share my story to say this: no matter where you start, no matter what you’ve endured, your story is not over. Healing is possible. Freedom is possible. And breaking the cycle is one of the most powerful things a person can ever do.

12/14/2025

I was nine years old when my sense of safety was taken from me.

Just a few houses away from where I lived, I was pulled into an abandoned house. I remember the darkness, the smell of dirt and debris, and the terror of realizing I was trapped somewhere no one could see me. I screamed, and thankfully someone nearby heard. That noise scared the person who attacked me, and he ran. I was able to get away.

My grandmother called the police. We went to court, and as a child, I had to face the person who hurt me. Despite everything, he walked free because someone falsely testified on his behalf. That moment taught me a painful lesson early in life: telling the truth doesn’t always lead to justice.

What followed was almost as damaging as the attack itself. I wasn’t believed by everyone. Some of his family members said cruel things about me. I became quiet. I learned how to disappear in plain sight. It felt like the world had decided my pain didn’t matter, and silence became my way of surviving.

Not long after, I began spending time at my aunt’s house, believing it was a safe place. It wasn’t. Her husband crossed boundaries repeatedly. I stayed still. I said nothing. I acted like nothing was happening because that’s what I had learned to do. One day, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I told another aunt who lived far away. That was the first time I truly spoke up again.

Instead of protection, I was met with explanations. Apologies. Stories about his own childhood trauma. I was a child, trying to make sense of adult failures, and I became even quieter. I didn’t understand how telling the truth could fracture families—or why I was the one carrying the weight of that fracture.

At fifteen, I began attending church. I found faith, hope, and a sense of freedom I hadn’t known before. I joined a group for teen girls where we talked openly about our lives. For a while, it felt healing. But once again, someone in a position of trust crossed boundaries. It started subtly, then became more obvious. I tried to manage it quietly, hoping it would stop without disrupting everything I had built.

Eventually, I told. And once again, the cost was heavy. I was blamed. I was shamed. Relationships were broken. I learned something difficult but important: telling the truth is rarely neat or comfortable. Freedom is not a pretty process. That is why so many people stay silent—not because they are weak, but because the consequences are real.

But freedom is not just about the person who speaks up. It’s about protecting the next child. It’s about breaking cycles that families and communities try to keep hidden. Silence doesn’t protect anyone—it only allows harm to continue.

Years later, I learned that the person who first attacked me went on to seriously harm others. He was eventually sentenced to prison. That knowledge still hurts, because it confirms what I’ve always believed: when people cover for abusers, they enable more victims.

I share my story to say this: choosing truth over silence is hard, and it often comes at a cost—but it is worth it. Children deserve safety. Survivors deserve to be believed. And standing up for what is right matters, even when it hurts.

12/14/2025

My name is William McNeill, and I’m sharing my story because silence only protects the people who cause harm.

My early childhood began with love and safety. Until I was very young, life felt normal and secure. That changed abruptly when violence entered my world in a way no child should ever witness. From that moment on, my life was reshaped by loss, fear, and instability, and I was placed in the care of a close family member while everything around me fell apart.

Around the age of five, I was taken against my will. I was held for years in conditions no child should ever experience. During that time, I endured severe abuse and lived in constant fear, isolated from the world and stripped of safety. Survival became my only focus. At a very young age, I learned how fragile life could be, and how cruel people can be when they believe they will never be held accountable.

When I was about eight years old, an unexpected moment gave me a chance to escape. I took it. I ran, injured, terrified, but determined to live. Somehow, I made my way back to my family. That escape saved my life.

The years that followed were filled with therapy and rebuilding. Healing was not quick, and it was never easy, but I kept going. I went to school, served in the military, and later pursued business ventures. On the outside, it may have looked like I moved forward—but trauma doesn’t disappear just because time passes. It stays with you, shaping how you see the world, how you trust, and how you protect yourself.

A few years ago, I was informed that images connected to my abuse still exist online. Hearing that was devastating. It was a reminder that the damage caused by child exploitation doesn’t end when the abuse stops. It follows survivors into adulthood, often resurfacing when least expected.

Because of what I lived through, I have spent my life deeply aware of the dangers posed by traffickers and child abusers. They are a profound threat to humanity, and their actions leave permanent scars on individuals and families. No child should ever be treated as disposable or voiceless.

Today, parts of my family are missing, and I carry deep concern for their safety. I hold onto hope and faith that they are protected and that one day I will be reunited with them—and with my son. Hope has carried me through the darkest moments of my life, and it continues to do so now.

I share this not for sympathy, but for truth. Survivors exist everywhere. Many of us carry our stories quietly, but speaking out matters. Children deserve protection, belief, and justice. And survivors deserve peace.

12/13/2025

I was abused by my older brother, and some of my earliest memories are shaped by that experience. It continued throughout my childhood and didn’t stop until he moved out when I was around ten years old. As a child, I tried once to tell a family member what was happening. The response I received made it very clear that I should never bring it up again. So I didn’t. I learned early that silence felt safer than truth.

That silence followed me for decades. The memories didn’t disappear—they came back every night in vivid dreams and recurring nightmares. The kind that stay with you long after you wake up, weighing on you throughout the day. I spent years trying to outrun the sadness and heaviness that followed me everywhere. From my twenties onward, I tried countless medications and different ways to cope, but nothing truly lifted the pain. It quietly shaped my relationships, my sense of self, and my ability to experience joy.

In my forties, everything finally caught up with me. I realized that even though the abuse had ended long ago, I was still living inside it. When I finally spoke my truth, my life changed in ways I never expected. Instead of support, I was met with blame. I was harassed and pushed away by my own mother, who told me that if I had “spoken up louder,” it would have been stopped. She even claimed that her son—the person who caused the harm—was the real victim. Hearing that was devastating.

And yet, telling my story was also the beginning of my freedom.

Fast forward ten years, and I know now that speaking out didn’t destroy me—it saved me. It didn’t give me back the childhood that was taken, but it transformed the pain into something meaningful. Through healing, I gained deep compassion, empathy, and understanding. I became someone who could truly be there for others, because I knew what it meant to survive something unspoken.

I’ve worked with incredible therapists, done a great deal of inner work, and I know the journey isn’t finished—but I also know I’m capable of continuing. Healing isn’t instant, and it isn’t easy, but it is possible. And it is worth it.

If you’re still carrying something like this alone, please know it’s never too late to tell someone. Holding it inside is already painful—you deserve relief, support, and peace. Even the smallest step toward healing can lead somewhere better. There are more people out there who understand than you may realize, and many who will walk beside you.

For everything that falls away in healing, so much more is gained. ❤️

12/13/2025

When I was seven years old, I was placed in the care of a child psychiatrist after the loss of my father to su***de. I was a grieving child who needed protection and support. Instead, the person who was supposed to help me took advantage of my vulnerability and abused that position of trust. At that age, I didn’t have the words or understanding to know what was happening was wrong, only that I was afraid and trapped.

During that time, he also became aware that I was transgender. In the early 1970s, being trans was widely misunderstood and even labeled as a mental illness. He used that reality to silence me, making me believe that if I spoke up, I could be institutionalized or taken away from my home. That fear kept me quiet for many years.

Eventually, my mother remarried, and I was able to stop seeing the psychiatrist. I believed the worst was behind me, but my home life soon became unsafe again. My stepfather was controlling, emotionally abusive, and struggled with alcoholism. Over time, his behavior escalated. He worked to break down my confidence and independence, and once I was sufficiently isolated and afraid, the abuse became physical. He was careful at first, hiding it when my mother wasn’t around, until his drinking made it impossible to keep the mask on.

When my mother finally saw the truth, she began quietly planning to leave. It was incredibly difficult. He had taken control of all the money from the sale of her home and prevented her from working, leaving her financially trapped. Because I was close to graduating high school, she made the painful decision to wait, hoping to minimize disruption and keep me safe until she could get us out. Within a month of my graduation, she left him.

Years later, I finally told my mother the truth about what had happened with the psychiatrist. Speaking those words was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Carrying that silence for so long shaped my life in ways I am still unpacking.

I share my story now not for sympathy, but because silence protects abusers—not survivors. I want others to know that abuse can come from people in positions of power, from those society tells us to trust. If you are carrying something like this, please know that what happened to you was not your fault. You deserved safety, care, and protection. Telling your story—when and if you are ready—is an act of strength.

You are not alone.

12/12/2025

When I was eight years old, my life changed in a way no child should ever experience. The abuse I went through came from someone who was supposed to protect me, and it continued for years. I was threatened into silence and told that speaking up would destroy my family, so as a little girl, I carried a fear I didn’t understand. I thought what was happening to me was normal. I prayed for years for someone to save me, because I didn’t know how to save myself.

The abuse finally stopped as I got older, and that shift helped me start to see that what I had lived through was not normal, and it was not my fault. When I was finally strong enough to tell my mother the truth, she listened. She believed me. And she took action to protect me and my siblings. It wasn’t easy—there were people who tried to blame me for what had happened, people who refused to accept the truth—but my mother stood by me and made sure the person who hurt us was held accountable.

That person is no longer part of my life. I don’t speak to him, and I don’t owe him anything—not my time, not my stories, not my forgiveness. What he did could have ended my life, but instead, I survived. And so did my brothers and sisters.

Growing up under someone who was controlling, manipulative, and violent leaves scars, but it also teaches you the importance of speaking up. I share my story now because I know so many others are still afraid. So many children and adults carry secrets that were forced on them.

If you are going through something like this, please know: you are not to blame. You deserve to be believed, protected, and supported. Speaking up can be terrifying, but there are people who will stand with you. You are not alone. 🩷

12/12/2025

My second Memory is that of me and my little sister being babysat by our cousin Shelly. I was three and my sister was a baby. She made us go to bed with the boys. My cousin Jeremy and his friend. they were teens around 14 or something... I was on one edge my sister on the other, the boys in the middle. The friend of my cousin was beside me and grabbed my hand and put it straight in his underwear. I knew my cousin was going the same to my baby sister and in that moment all I could do was worry about her. Why would they do that to a baby? I didn't care about myself even at the age of three because my dad was abusive to my mom and my mom took everything out on me. she had gotten pregnant at 15 and I ruined her life. she made me KNOW that every single second of every day. Later on she remarried. Michael was his name. he bought me a dollhouse and showed me what the mommy and daddy liked to do when the kids went to bed. That lead into me waking up with his hands in my underwear or on my shirt on many occasions. I never said a word. I just worried about my sister... From what I know he didn't do it to her. Anywho... My mom divorced him and kept letting him babysit us when she would go party. so it just kept happening. I got pregnant at 20 and He showed up out of nowhere... my mom and I had apartments beside each other and he needed a place to stay. She told him I had an extra room and he could stay there. He left to go get his stuff and I broke down because when she showed him my apartment, he grabbed me from behind and pulled me into him and had his hands on my b***s. I managed to get free and told my mom (after he left) all the things he did when I was little and just then. She seemed like she cared. She called him and cussed him and told him he couldn't come back and asked me why I never told her... well, My mom was the most abusive person ever. especially to me so I figured she didn't care anyway. and found that to be true because ever time we fought after that. She said "you liked being molested by him! that's why you kept going back to his house!" meanwhile I was child and she made me go so she could party. My kids know they can tell me ANYTHING! I WILL be there, and I WILL fight! some of us don't have anyone to tell. we just carry it. 😞

12/12/2025

I am now 61 years old. My parents were my chief abusers, but they were not the only ones. I paid full price for being willing to speak the truth. I told my mom when I was seven, what my dad was doing to me in private. She told me "you're crazy if you think he did that.". I thought it meant I had to choose between what I knew was true, and her version, but either way was a huge loss for me. If I believed her, I felt crazy, and if I believed me, my own mother would see me as crazy.

Before I could decide, my mom started telling our friends and family that I was crazy, and they couldn't believe a word I said. That sealed it. I knew right then that I wouldn't be able to get help from any of them. Hope drained out of my spirit then and there like water through a colander, and it wouldn't return. I wasn't going to be rescued.

It would take over a decade to understand why she did that to me. She was as guilty as my dad. I didn't remember that she had molested me too, with him, and by herself until after she did it to my two year old son. My being willing to speak overtly was a huge threat to her staying out of prison, and she would have lost her position in our family. She did everything to ensure neither of those things would happen to her, including threatening my life, using her Chevy Nova.

My own mother screwed with my reality through gaslighting so much that I psychologically fall apart even now, if anyone gaslights me.

The damage done between the physical and sexual abuse was hefty, and caused many mental health conditions in me. However, the cost of the mental abuse and the gaslighting has been most expensive of all. It has so often threatened my life, and required ongoing therapy, and many hospitalizations throughout my adulthood. It also caused me to spend 17 years of my life in a wheelchair, and to lose relationships with my adult children who believe their grandma about me.

In essence, my mother has created the psychiatric conditions in me, that she lumped together as "crazy" when I was seven, before I had any diagnoses at all. Every diagnosis I have collected in therapy are tied directly to ongoing traumatization.

I put myself through university and most of grad school. I worked, was a mom, and volunteered. Yes, I have, and had difficulty with depression and PTSD, and various symptoms. I need therapeutic support to get through my life and heal. If I am crazy like my mother still says, what does that make her, for making my life a living hell?

For anyone who shies away from people with psychiatric conditions, please consider the very real, human cost of isolation plus the suffering of having mental illness. Mental illness really means the absence of a certain degree of health. Crazy is not a nice term, and it only makes people suffer more....quite intensely more.

12/12/2025

My uncle was my abuser.
For a lot of us, we were introduced to perversion at an early age. So here I was, an 11-year-old little girl longing for the love of a father. My “uncle” would always be extra friendly towards me and reward me with praise when I did good things, so I thought surely this was someone I could trust. I thought he loved me. Little did I know that he was preying on me the entire time. One day, when there was no one else around, he instructed me to remove my clothing and proceeded to climb on top of me. As a young girl, I was terrified of what might happen if I chose not to cooperate, so I simply did as he told me. He made many attempts to pe*****te me, but would stop because of the pain he was causing me. This process went on for about 10 to 15 minutes before he finally gave up, and allowed me to put my clothes back on. My mind was racing; I was torn between telling someone or keeping it to myself because I felt ashamed and guilty about what had just happened.
That was the day my voice was stolen from me. See, he decided for me. He ordered me not to tell anyone so that is exactly what I did! For so long, I had neglected my own needs, putting the well-being of others before my own. But the weight of their trauma and my struggles became too much to bear, leading me down a dark path of addiction and emotional exhaustion. Through it all, I discovered the importance of self-care and the healing power of nature, reading, and writing. I wrote a book about my life called “Poor Out The Overflow” that’s available on Amazon. I now understand that true change begins with self. By setting clear boundaries, advocating for yourself, and practicing self-love. My writing has become a therapeutic tool, helping me to release negative thoughts and embrace a healthier, more authentic version of myself. I hope to inspire others to prioritize their self-care, and to understand that they are worthy and deserving of love and happiness. Together, we can break free from the chains of trauma and embrace the beauty of new life.

12/11/2025

I was only five years old when my stepfather began crossing boundaries that no child should ever face. My earliest memories are tied to fear, confusion, and silence. I didn’t tell my mother right away, and when she eventually learned what was happening, she still chose to stay with him. That decision shaped years of my life and left a wound that took a long time to understand. My brother, who is his biological child, still doesn’t believe me. That disbelief hurts deeply, even now.

As I grew older, I was repeatedly placed in situations where I had to be in the same room with the man who harmed me. Holidays, family gatherings, and everyday moments became reminders of trauma I was trying to survive. Eventually, I found the strength to set a boundary and refuse to be anywhere near him. That step was one of the first ways I reclaimed my voice.

But my story didn’t end there. When I was seven, a man who rented the basement of our home pretended to want to “play games” with my sister and me, but instead took advantage of our trust when no adults were around. When I was eleven, someone who was supposed to be my closest friend betrayed me in a way that left me even more confused and hurt. Later that same year, an older male took advantage of my vulnerability and left me feeling empty and lost. By the time I was twelve, I learned I was pregnant.

When my mother found out, she still didn’t step in to protect me or report it. One month after my thirteenth birthday, I gave birth to my first daughter. I became a child raising a child, while still trying to make sense of everything I had lived through. The person who fathered her continued to mistreat me until I eventually gathered the courage to leave. That moment was a turning point—one of the first times I chose myself.

Feeling lost and believing that motherhood made me “grown,” I made reckless choices and ended up pregnant again. At fourteen, I welcomed my second daughter. I was alone, heartbroken, and overwhelmed, but I kept going for the sake of my children. Both fathers chose not to be present, but I did everything I could to give my girls the love and care I never received.

That same year, I also found something life-changing: my relationship with God. For the first time, I felt comfort, love, and a sense of worth. Despite being young and still learning, my faith carried me through moments when I felt like giving up.

Still searching for love and stability, I later had my first son. By the age of twenty-one, I was a mother of five. It was not an easy journey—physically, emotionally, or mentally—but I have never regretted my children. They became the blessings that grew out of soil that should never have been placed in a child’s hands.

Today, all my children are grown, and I am a grandmother. Something I once never believed I would live to see. I look at my life now with gratitude and strength. I broke cycles instead of repeating them. I protected my children in ways no one ever protected me. God healed parts of my heart that I thought were permanently damaged, and He continues to work on the parts that still need time.

I share my story because someone out there needs to hear this:
You are not alone.
You are not to blame.
You deserve protection, healing, and peace.
And if someone doesn’t listen—tell someone else.
Keep telling your truth until you are heard.

Thank you for listening. ♥️

12/11/2025

From a very young age, my life was marked by betrayal from the people who were supposed to protect me. My father crossed boundaries no parent should ever cross, and my mother — the person I desperately needed to defend me — did nothing. We never had the kind of bond a mother and daughter should share. When she discovered a letter I had written to my boyfriend, describing what my father had been doing, she reacted with anger instead of concern. She accused me of lying, even though deep down I believe she always knew the truth. She worked nights and left me alone with him, and the harm continued until I finally escaped by getting married at 17.

Years later, after both of my parents had passed, I learned just how far his behavior had reached. I discovered he had harmed several other members of my family, and that I was not the only one. My aunt and cousins carried their own silent pain for years, only speaking out after he was gone. Learning this confirmed what I had experienced, and it helped me understand that none of us were to blame for any of it.

Today, at almost 74, I am finally at peace. I am writing my life story, and I hope to publish it so that others may find comfort, strength, or even the courage to speak out. My healing journey also inspired me to write poetry, including one of my most meaningful pieces, titled “I Am the Child.” The poem speaks for every child who has ever been hurt, overlooked, or ignored, and it has been shared at vigils, awareness events, and campaigns around the world. It has become a voice for children who cannot speak for themselves.

I carry many identities: I am a child of God, a survivor, a poet, a singer, a mother, a grandmother, a friend. I have endured pain that could have broken me, but I refused to let it destroy who I am. Even now, while living with disability, I remain strong, creative, and grateful for the ability to share my story.

I admire the younger generation who are unafraid to speak the truth and demand change. I hope my words help them — and anyone of any age — understand that silence should never be forced, and healing is always possible. My voice was taken from me as a child, but I am using it now, and I will never let it be silenced again.