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Voices H eard I N T E R AC T I V E E Z I N E | FA L L / W I N T E R 2 026

T H E G H O S T S T H AT H A U N T U S

LETTING GO WHEN HEALING CALLS HAUNTED BEING ELEVEN AGAIN WHERE SILENCE LEARNED MY NAME A LIFE WELL LIVED THE UNACKNOWLEDGED CHILD 8 THINGS SURVIVORS NEED TO STOP APOLOGIZING FOR UNICORN SHADOWS: FROM TRAUMA TO TRIUMPH THE COURAGE TO LET GO RESOURCES Photo Composite Claire O’Leary

VOICES HEARD

FA L L | W I N T E R 2026

EDITORIAL TEAM

CLAIRE O’LEARY

Fo un d e r, Edi to r- in - Chi e f Creative Director SHERYL BLAHNIK

Copy Editor

CONTRIBUTORS

D O N N A B U L ATO W I C Z RACHEL GRANT DARLENE LEKOWSKI T IFFANEE MCK AGUE CLAIRE O’LEARY MARIAAH THERESA TERI WELLBROCK HEIDI YEWMAN

PHOTOGRAPHY

TOMO SAITO LEIGH VOGEL/GET T Y IMAGES

INSIDE 6 LETTING GO

Only a few leaves cling to the branches now…

FROM THE EDITOR: WHEN HEALING CALLS

The echoes of trauma linger internally…

HAUNTED

I am not my ancestors. However, it’s my duty to break harmful…

BEING ELEVEN AGAIN

8 15

I stepped out of the shower, looked in the mirror, and broke down…

WHERE SILENCE LEARNED MY NAME

15 18

I don’t remember a time before the rules…

A LIFE WELL LIVED

The chaos didn’t phase her she walked…

THE UNACKNOWLEDGED CHILD

She was the one who’d been left alone for so long. Years!…

8 THINGS SURVIVORS NEED TO STOP APOLOGIZING FOR

From their feelings and boundaries to the ways…

UNICORN SHADOWS: FROM TRAUMA TO TRIUMPH — A HEALING GUIDE

30 30

There were whispered gasps, heads nodding in empathy, eyes welled with tears…

THE COURAGE TO LET GO: HOW RELEASING CONTROL CAN HELP WOMEN RECLAIM THEIR VOICE AND LIVE FORWARD

Inside, I was still carrying fear, shame and a relentless belief that…

RESOURCES: BOOKS FOR ADULT SURVIVORS 40 Books by survivors and professionals that help…

BOOKS FOR KIDS

Books to explore by kids and professionals tor kids, and parents…

BOOKS FOR TEENS

Books to explore by teens and professionals tor teens and parents…

ONLINE SUPPORT

Online Support Groups for all…

LETTING GO... By Claire O’Leary

Only a few leaves cling to the branches now I am letting go Letting go

All the things I loved

I feel my naked branches Shivering

Biking, Hiking, Skiing, Dancing

More leaves drift off Fluttering to the ground

I don’t want to let those go …

But…

Like a feather floating through the air

That made me feel free

Ahh …

As if dancing in the wind

The leaves yet clinging Not yet ready to release

Free

Wait …

Free Letting go

Those are the things we love We don’t have to let those go

Seeing, really seeing each leaf for what it represents

Yes, we’ll be cold through the winter We’ll shiver in the cold with our bare arms

I’m releasing now

But we’ll still be here come spring We’ll still hike through the trees, still dance

Anger

Just more slowly

Frustration

A walk in the park On the beach Absorbing the warmth of the sun that’s peeking through the clouds

Exhaustion Loss Grief

We’ll dance to slower music Absorbing every movement

Utter exhaustion … from trying so hard trying…

Feeling it Allowing

To do those things I’m no longer able to do I’m no longer capable of

Being Feeling free

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Claire O’Leary is Founder, Editor in Chief and Creative Director of Voices Heard, the interactive e-Zine that empowers survivors to shatter the silence of their sexual abuse which helps them heal and helps others heal through sharing their stories. She also founder of the Empowered Voice (Traveling Art Exhibit & Symposium). She is a speaker, advocate, writer and artist. She lives in Donnelly, Idaho with her husband, and enjoys being a mother and grandmother. Claire’s a CSA (incest) survivor, an avid reader, meditates and dances her heart out any time she can.

FROM THE EDITOR: WHEN HEALING CALLS By Claire O’Leary

Photo by Tomo Saito

The ghosts of my past still appear when least expected. But I’ve learned that instead of letting them haunt me, they are a message to renew healing practices left behind. By moving through each one in turn, slowly, as they appear, it’s much less painful than waiting until my body screams at me and I’m in physical pain. We don’t always know when healing will call. Letting Go pg. 6, came out of one of my writing groups. Donna Bulatowicz sets the theme with Haunted and demonstrates how the echoes of trauma linger internally, often showing up when least expected through her ghostly story, pg. 8. Heidi Yewman shares how looking in the mirror after a double mastectomy triggered healing from her sibling sexual abuse in Being Eleven Again, pg. 15. A new contributer, Mariaah Theresa, offers an epic poem Where Silence Learned My Name that touches home in so many ways, pg. 18. Tiffanee McKague defines strength in survivors with A Life Well lived, pg. 25. The Unacknowledged Child came to me, Claire O’Leary, as a reminder that our stories can haunt us until we choose to process them, pg. 26. Building Resilience begins with a powerful reminder of 8 Things Survivors Need to

Stop Apologizing For by our frequent contributer Rachel Grant, pg. 29. Teri Wellbrock, another new contributor shares a compelling excerpt from her upcoming book, Unicorn Shadows: From Trauma to Triumph – A Healing Guide, pg. 30. Darlene Lekowski joins us again with The Courage to Let Go: How Releasing Control Can Help Women Reclaim Their Voice and Live Forward helping us move forward after trauma, pg. 36. As always, the resource section is full of great information. New memoirs, books for adult survivors, advocacy, teens, young adults, kids, and parents, And offers many online resources, links to websites and helpful groups, pg. 40. We’re always looking for new articles and resources. Share your wisdom and your stories with me at Claire@ClaireOLeary.com. The printed issue of Voices Heard; The Survivor Nest Project is available for purchase, $25 + shipping. It would be a powerful gift for a survivor or those associated with survivors. …REACH OUT ANY TIME!

“ The echoes of trauma

linger internally,

sometimes showing up when least expected...

Photo Credit: Istock, fcscafeine Colorized

HAUNTED By Donna Bulatowicz

It’s spooky season, nearing Samhain, a time when the veil thins and anything seems possible. Ghosts appear everywhere—as Halloween decorations, spooky cute décor, and frightening possibilities. Yet, especially for survivors, ghosts don’t only materialize around Halloween. They surround us throughout the year, impacting perceptions, choices, and realities. We carry the phantasms of our experiences, binding our past to our present and future. We are haunted by what happened, what should have happened, choices made, and possibilities abandoned. The echoes of trauma linger not only in battlefields like Gettysburg, but also internally, sometimes showing up when least expected. Unlike in Gettysburg, we don’t typically take ghost tours of our own haunted landscapes. But today, I’m inviting you to join me as I journey within to befriend my ghosts.

“

The first stop is at a classic creepy house. Some of the windows are boarded up, others gleam like watching eyes. The door creaks open like a gaping maw. Will you turn back at the threshold? Or will you step through to meet the ghosts inside? As we enter the house, we see a staircase spiraling, up, up, up to the cupola. Footsteps over generations have worn hollows in the treads. From the basement, clanking echoes. Delicious smells waft from the kitchen: fresh bread, wild rice, bison, carrots, corn, and lefse grace the table. It smells like home.

Fear and courage, love and indifference, strength and weakness: all of these and more echoed through my ancestors’ lives. Before I took my first breath, I carried their stories, hopes, pain, and survival within my DNA. I was born haunted. But not all phantoms cause harm. Within my genes linger talents, triumphs, heroism, and healing too. My relatives survived genocide, oppression, residential “schools,” and more. As additional records are located and digitized, I learn more about those who came before. Unfortunately, much will never be known. The spirits of my healthier ancestors cheer me on. Stories of survival, joy, love, and laughter welcome me. Creativity shows ways to make something out of nothing, like when Grandpa found ways to reuse and fix items without replacement parts; his creations lasted longer than the “official” ones. Or when Grandma taught me how to embroider dish towels, making something necessary into a work of art. She passed along “fancy work” skills that she’d learned from her grandmas. I learned courage from stories of survival, such as Grammy’s grandmother defying family expectations to become the first woman chiropractor in her city. Grampy’s parents escaped Poland during WWI and made their way to Ellis Island. I know little about my dad’s bio father, other than he was abusive and had PTSD from WWII. Other ancestors also left legacies of oppression, abuse, and other evils. I am not my ancestors. However, it’s my duty to break harmful inheritances and work toward generational healing. I cannot fix the damage that some of my ancestors caused, but I can dedicate myself to working collaboratively to create a better, safer, more inclusive world.

I am not my ancestors. H owever, it’s my

duty to break harmful

inheritances and work toward generational healing.

“

As far back as I can remember, I

tried to blend into the surroundings. If I

could escape notice, I might survive.

Photo Credit: Istock, Photokita

The legacy that I build creates the ghost of the future and informs my choices. I need to consider what I can do to make this world better for the next seven generations and beyond. This includes all our relatives, not just humans. The healing work we do ripples outward, and our choices have a greater impact than we know. As we leave this haunted house, let us carry what resonates. Close the door gently and come with me. Our next stop takes us to a desolate forest to meet the ghost of invisibility. This one camouflages herself well, but see that shimmer between the mother oaks? There she is. As far back as I can remember, I tried to blend into the surroundings. If I could escape notice, I might survive. I subsumed my wants and needs as much as I could, followed all the rules, and hid beneath a mask of an “easy child.” I felt constantly on edge, read moods, and attempted to anticipate how to meet others’ needs. None of this worked. Bullies and other abusive people still noticed me. I tried to recruit adults to help me, and I usually faced scolding and other punishments for telling the truth about those harming me. I learned quickly that many people had more interest in protecting the victimizer than the victim.

Speaking up when someone harmed me held more danger than remaining silent and/or protecting the perpetrator. This ever-vigilant ghost reminds me to remain still, shrink myself, put others’ wants before my needs, and stay silent. Slowly I am befriending this specter and growing more visible through empowerment, hope, and using my voice.

As we bid the invisibility ghost farewell, we continue along the path. I urge caution now. The desert can be treacherous. Be wary, for in this locale lurks the ghost of the pedophile elementary teacher who hid behind carefully constructed mirages. She curated accolades for being a self-sacrificing mother of a disabled child, a dedicated volunteer, a devoted wife, and an enthusiastic teacher. She carefully manipulated perceptions to focus attention on what she wanted people to see, rather than the truth. Her class that year was wary of her at first. She was new, and we didn’t know what to expect. Children get used to things quickly, however, especially when an adult is adept at redirection and other grooming behaviors. Her affection and other behaviors toward me were written off as “just what Mrs. T. does.” It became our new normal. She used her knowledge of child development to manipulate me into attaching to her. She created a trauma bond, causing my brain to crave the chemicals released. I was an easy target for her. In addition to being relentlessly bullied in school, I was starved for affection and attention. She gave me that, delighted in me and nurtured my talents.

She made me feel seen, heard, and understood. And she repeatedly turned my body into a crime scene. I left the school year with deep trauma and new ghosts haunting me. I was a fragile, anxious wreck. My developing brain, body, nervous system, DNA, and more had been irrevocably altered by her. Although I am rewiring my brain and doing other healing work, I can’t go back and redo missed developmental stages. Thus, this ghost will accompany me in some form for the rest of my life. However, it is shrinking and getting more transparent as I step forward into more advocacy work, research, and speaking my truth. As the path winds up a hill, we leave the desert behind and enter the rolling hills of the next haunting.

“

I left the school

year with deep

trauma and new

ghosts haunting me. I was a fragile, anxious wreck.

Photo Credit: Photo Composite Claire O’Leary

“

My heart-rate would slow. My shoulders 12

would drop. I came back to myself.

Time lost meaning; music reigned.

Photo Credit: Photo Composite Claire O’Leary

Meet the elusive ghost of what should have been. She represents the possible selves annihilated by this teacher and her numerous enablers. When Mrs. T first shattered me, I lost a lot that I will never get back—my childhood, brain development, trust, and more. She stole not only who I was, but who I was becoming.

And when I told on her the following

school

year,

she

gathered her legion of enablers and focused on decimating me, stealing opportunities, creative pursuits, and more. I loved playing the flute. When I was internally screaming, my flute would alleviate the panic, rage, and grief. My heart-rate would slow. My shoulders would drop. I came back to myself. Time lost meaning; music reigned. My love for flute meant I earned honor band, first chair in middle school band, and second chair in the top high school band during my freshman year. My band teachers thought I would be in the symphony before graduating. But then the abusive teacher passed around a paper of lies about me. I was soon demoted due to retaliation, not ability. I tried chair challenges, but those became private after other flautists questioned why

I wasn’t first chair. My mom called, and the band director dodged questions. Since I was being punished for telling on my abuser, I started hating band and then my flute.

I wanted to write and publish books as far back as I can remember. My abusive teacher encouraged me. When I wrote a short story, she sat me on her desk and had me read it aloud to her. She would celebrate me. She told me I wrote better than she and promised to be first in line at my book signings. She also sent in some of my work to a local young author conference, and I was invited to attend. Writing helped me express myself. However, she discouraged me from journaling by demanding to see my journals and destroying them after she saw what I wrote about her. I then shied away from journaling but poured my heart into creative writing. Of course, she and her enablers took that away from me too, through various forms of humiliation and other punishments.

I am regaining my love for creative writing on this healing journey.

I’m still working on feeling confident enough to submit my books to an agent or publisher. I will get there. Even though I became the adult who would have saved little me, I lost out on one of my biggest wishes that I’d had since early childhood; to be a mom. Unfortunately, my abuser caused some internal damage. I was told as a high schooler that it would be very difficult for me to get pregnant and carry to term. That cherished dream died too. There are other future selves that she— and bullies, enablers, and other abusers— destroyed, some beyond all possibility of resurrection. However, I am reclaiming others, and this phantom materializes less.

As we journey out of the hills, we see the grey, foggy ghost of grief. Grief accompanies many ghosts, of course, leaching color from the landscape. It spirals around me at times, covering my eyes with a thin film of despair and heartache. As a child, no one taught me how to grieve other than burying it and pretending nothing happened.

The year my teacher abused me, my parents’ closest friends lost their 5-year-old son. Two weeks later, my great-grandma died. The adults around me tried to protect—and often prevent—me from crying, from seeing their mourning, and even from attending the funeral for the little boy. I learned to push grief into a compartment and leave it alone, shoving it aside every time it returned. By that point in the school year, I was a pro at dissociating.

Now I’m learning to grieve in a healthier way, especially since grief accompanies healing. I’m gently honoring the ebbs and flows and holding grief more tenderly. It shapeshifts depending on what I’m grieving—whether a lost relationship, missed opportunity, or even changes that are welcome. The phantoms of grief hide in the shadows, impacting us as we heal. It’s messy, painful, challenging work. These ghosts are not as scary as they seem at first glance, even though I do not always welcome them. Grief follows behind, slipping in and out of the shadows as we find ourselves standing at the edge of a turquoise sea, sparkling in the moonlight. Here we find the specter of hope.

“

Even though I

became the adult who would have

saved lit tle me, I

lost out on one of my biggest wishes

that I’ d had since early childhood; to be a mom.

Photo Credit: Photo Composite Claire O’Leary

Photo Credit: IStock, rbv

Hope has walked alongside me always, though at times she’s more difficult to locate. She carries stardust with her, glowing with possibilities. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t found this spirit beside me, even when I tried to push her away. Her sparkle stayed, providing a reason to take another step. And then one more.

This tenacious ghost has accompanied me my entire life. Hope twinkled in the moments of connection with loved ones. It rose like a warrior, bruised and aching, but trying once more. It lived in the ways I tried to make life a little better or brighter for others, how I became the adult I’d needed, in advocacy work trying to improve harmful systems, and in healing. Even in tiny moments of joy, hope glows. It delights in wonder, which nature abounds in— northern lights, skies exploding with stars, wildflower-sprinkled meadows, and turquoise seas. Hope leaps into creative projects, especially when I’m making something for a loved one.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Dr. Donna Bulatowicz has recently moved to the beautiful state of Maryland to be closer to family. She studies and advocates for inclusive children’s literature as well as sexual abuse prevention. She is a former chair of the Charlotte Huck Award for Outstanding Fiction for Children and a former president of the Montana Association of Teachers of English Language Arts (MATELA). Dr. Bulatowicz has created and given sexual abuse prevention trainings for teachers and other school officials. You can reach Donna on her Facebook page, or email Donna.

And when I no longer wanted to live, hope kept me here for just one more day. Then another. And another. This quiet and powerful spirit was my life jacket in a turbulent ocean of abuse. Ghost stories rarely wrap up neatly, just like human lives. Yet they continue to fascinate us and offer a window into a person’s or society’s values, beliefs, fears, and wishes. Which stories are told? When? By whom? The storyteller matters as much as the tale, the haunted as much as the haunting. There’s often hard-earned wisdom in ghost stories. I cannot predict what the future holds for my haunted self. However, I have already learned to walk with some ghosts and release others. Some fade away on their own. Others will likely accompany me the rest of my life, though perhaps in different forms. I imagine that hope will continue lighting my way. As the stars glitter, the crescent moon grins, and shadows shift, the supernatural storyteller steps over the threshold. A hand beckons from the liminal space. Will you accept the invitation to explore your own hauntings?

The choice, dear one, is yours.

BEING ELEVEN AGAIN By Heidi Yewman

“

The breast cancer

diagnosis, the double Photo credit: Composite Claire O’Leary

On a cold January day five years ago, I stepped out of the shower, looked in the mirror, and broke down. My eleven-year-old body was in the mirror. The body that my older brother sexually abused. The body I thought let me down. My chest was swollen, sutured, and bruised. My breasts were gone. I hadn’t seen myself flat-chested since I was a girl. After a breast cancer diagnosis, I had a double mastectomy and several surgeries, including reconstruction with implants. My goal was to get my old body back, or at least to try to look as much like myself as I could. But I developed capsular contracture, a painful complication where scar tissue forms around the implants.

After

several

surgeries,

decided I’d had enough. I had the

implants

went flat.

removed

and

The breast cancer diagnosis, the double mastectomy, and all the surgeries took a toll on my physical and mental health. But seeing myself flat took me somewhere I wasn’t prepared to go. I was eleven when my older brother started sexually abusing me. My body had just begun to change. My breasts were starting to bud, hair was growing in new places, and my hips were getting wider. Day by day, my boyish physique was disappearing. Part of me was glad for the changes because my friends’ bodies were also changing, and at eleven, the last thing you want is to be different. My friends and I read Judy Blume’s

mastectomy, and all

the surgeries took a toll on my physical and mental health. But

seeing myself flat took

me somewhere I wasn’ t prepared to go.

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, and did Margaret’s bust exercises, chanting, “We must, we must, we must increase our busts,” as we pumped our arms, hoping our boobs would grow faster. I didn’t know at the time that breasts meant more than just fitting in with my friends.

“

The other part of me didn’t like the changes. I didn’t seem to fit in with my three brothers the way I had before. I’d always been one of the boys. Suddenly it was weird to play dart guns without a shirt on, and I was required to wear a swim top on our small sailboat— all because I was growing boobs. When I wore one of my dad’s oversized sweatshirts, he teased me, “You can’t wear that, you’ll put bumps in it.”

I became self-conscious about my body in a way I’d never been before. I didn’t want people looking at it or noticing it. I began hiding it under oversized sweatshirts and baggy shorts. I avoided girly clothes and leaned into being a jock, where boy clothes were the norm. All I wanted was to grow up, leave the trauma behind, and finally be in charge of my own life. And I did. I got married, gave birth to two beautiful children, and continued playing sports well into adulthood. It took years and a lot of therapy, but over time, I began to feel like my body belonged to me again. And I thought I’d put what my brother had done to me behind me.

I didn’ t know at the

time that breasts meant more than just fit ting in with my friends.

Photo credit: IStock, Andrii Iemelyanenko Up until that point, I liked my body. I did gymnastics, swam on my local swim team, played soccer, basketball, and tennis, and skied most weekends in the winter. My body had a purpose—to be strong, flexible, and agile. I was proud that I was good at almost every sport I played. But that changed when my brother started sexually abusing me.

The abuse happened in secret and in shame for years. What happened to my body was no longer up to me. And it no longer felt like it belonged to me.

But then here I was, at 53, looking at my eleven-year-old body again. My body was once again changing. This time, because of age. Weight shifting to my waist, muscle loss, and wrinkled skin. I’d learned to accept those changes, knowing that they were just part of life. But seeing myself flat was different. It brought back all the feelings of insecurity, fear, and shame. It reminded me of who I was before the abuse and what I’d lost—how free I’d felt, how strong I’d felt, how trusting I’d felt, and how unselfconscious I’d felt.

My brother had taken my innocence. Cancer had taken my breasts.

“

Standing there, as the water on my skin slowly turned cold, I felt betrayed by both. But this time was different. I wasn’t eleven anymore.

My brother had

I carefully dried myself off, got dressed, and covered the mirror with a sheet.

taken my innocence.

This time, I got to decide what happened next. I knew I would eventually be ready to see myself. I just needed some time. Time to mourn the loss of my breasts. Eventually, I took the sheet off the mirror. I wish I could say I’ve adjusted to my flat chest. I haven’t. But the eleven-year-old girl has disappeared from my reflection, and I now see a strong woman who has been through some shit.

I understand now that my body didn’t let me down. Not when I

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Heidi Yewman is an author, filmmaker, advocate, and sibling sexual abuse survivor. She is the author of Dumb Girl: A Journey from Childhood Abuse to Gun Control Advocacy, an award-winning memoir about surviving sibling sexual abuse, and domestic violence, and the lifelong journey of healing. For more than 27 years, Heidi has advocated for trauma survivors and worked in gun violence prevention, a path that began after the 1999 Columbine High School massacre, where her basketball coach and teacher, Dave Sanders, was killed alongside 12 students.

was eleven. And not when I got

You can find Heidi on

cancer. It changed. And now I

her Website, Instagram,

know I can change with it.

Facebook, and LinkedIn. Heidi’s book Dumb Girl can be purchased on Amazon.

Cancer had taken my breasts.

WHERE SILENCE LEARNED MY NAME By Mariaah Theresa

The Rules He Taught Me

The Way He Sees Me

I don’t remember a time before the rules.

There is a difference between being looked at and being seen.

Not because someone sat me down and explained them, but because they were always there, woven into the way the house felt, the way the air shifted when he walked into a room. I didn’t learn them through instruction. I learned them through instinct—through watching, through flinching, through the quiet understanding that came from getting it wrong too many times.

I learn that from him.

My stepfather doesn’t need to raise his voice for me to know when something is wrong. His presence alone changes things. The house tightens around him, like everything is holding its breath. The television is always on, filling the silence with noise that never feels comforting. He sits in the same spot on the couch, day after day, as if the world exists only within the frame of that screen. But I know better. I know he sees more than he pretends to. I know he notices me in ways that make my skin feel too tight.

I start to feel it before it even happens—the shift in the room, the quiet signal that something isn’t right. My body reacts before my mind catches up. My shoulders tighten, my breath changes, my movements become smaller, more careful. I don’t always know what I’m reacting to, but I know I need to.

I learn to read him before I learn anything else. The way his eyes shift when I enter a room. The way his body leans forward slightly, like something in him has sharpened its focus. The way silence changes when it’s just me and him in the same space. I don’t have the words for what I feel, not yet, but I know it’s something I need to pay attention to. Something I need to avoid. My siblings don’t move like I do. They don’t hesitate before entering a room. They don’t pause in doorways or measure their steps. They laugh freely, sit where they want, speak without thinking. I watch them sometimes, trying to understand how they do it—how they exist so naturally in a space that feels so calculated to me. I try to mirror them at first. I try to walk into the living room the way they do, to sit the way they sit, to act like I belong there. But it never lasts long. There’s always a moment where something shifts—where his attention turns toward me, where the air feels different, where I realize I’ve made a mistake. So I stop trying. Instead, I learn how to stay just outside of things. Close enough to see. Far enough to stay safe.

The way he looks at me isn’t the same as how he looks at my siblings. With them, his gaze passes over them easily, without tension, without weight. With me, it lingers. It sharpens. It feels like something is being measured, something is being decided.

There are moments where everything seems normal. The TV is playing, my siblings are laughing, and my mom is somewhere in the background. But even then, I don’t relax. I can’t. Because I know how quickly things can change. I know how fast normal can turn into something else. And when it does, it’s never loud at first. It’s subtle. A comment. A tone. A look that lasts just a second too long. Those moments confuse me more than anything else, because they don’t look like what I think something bad is supposed to look like. But they feel wrong. Deeply wrong. And I carry that feeling with me long after the moment passes. I try to stay out of his way. I try to become invisible. But invisibility is unpredictable. Sometimes it protects me. Sometimes it doesn’t matter at all. And the worst part—the part that stays with me the most—is what happens after. Because after, everything goes back to normal. Like nothing happened. Like I imagined it. And my mom… she doesn’t say anything.

The Mother I’m Losing

The House That Holds Everything

I don’t realize I’m grieving her at first.

The house doesn’t feel like a place people live.

How could I?

It feels like a place that holds things.

She’s still there.

Things that aren’t said. Things that aren’t acknowledged. Things that sit in the walls and in the air, growing heavier the longer they stay there. Even when it’s quiet, it doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels like everything is waiting. Like the house itself knows something is wrong but doesn’t know what to do with it.

Still walking through the house, still sitting at the table, still speaking when she needs to. If someone asked me, I would say I have a mom. I would say she’s right there. But something about her feels… gone. Not all at once. Not in a way I can point to. But in pieces. Small ones at first. The way she doesn’t notice things she used to. The way her attention drifts when I try to talk to her. The way her responses feel delayed, disconnected, like she’s answering from somewhere far away. Sometimes she looks at me, and I feel like she’s really seeing me. Those moments are rare, but I hold onto them like they mean something bigger than they do. I tell myself that’s who she really is—that everything else is just temporary. But those moments never stay. They fade quickly, replaced by distance I don’t understand. There are things I notice without knowing what they mean. The way she disappears into rooms for long periods of time. The way her mood shifts without warning. The way she seems exhausted even when she hasn’t done anything. As a child, I don’t call it addiction. I don’t have that word yet. I just know she isn’t fully here. Little did I know, I was already grieving her. Grieving a mother who was still alive. Her body was present. But her soul… her heart… those were already gone.

I move through it carefully, like I’m trying not to disturb something invisible. I’ve learned where to step, how to walk, how to open doors without making noise. I’ve learned which rooms feel safer and which ones don’t, even if I don’t fully understand why. I don’t think of it as fear yet. I think of it as awareness. He is always somewhere inside of it. Even when I can’t see him, I know where he is. I can feel it. I can hear the TV before I hear him, and somehow that’s worse. Because the TV means he’s settled, and when he’s settled, he’s watching. Not just the screen—but everything around him. I try to stay in spaces where I don’t have to be seen. My room becomes less of a place to sleep and more of a place to disappear. It’s the only place where I can exist without constantly thinking about what I’m doing wrong. But even in my room, I listen. I listen for footsteps. For shifts in tone. For the way the house changes when something is about to happen. Because even when I’m alone, I’m not really at peace. I’m just waiting.

Silence Outside These Walls

Christmas Morning

The rules don’t change when we leave the house.

I wake up early.

If anything, they become more defined.

I always do.

Public places should feel different. I can see that they do for my siblings. They laugh louder, move more freely, talk without hesitation. The outside world seems to belong to them in a way the house never fully does.

There’s something about Christmas that feels different before it even starts. The house is quieter, but not in the usual way. It feels softer. Like for a moment, everything might be okay.

But for me, it doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like another place I have to be careful. I walk behind them, quiet, aware of everything around me. I watch how people interact, how they speak, how they exist without thinking about it. I try to understand how they do it—how they move through the world without constantly checking themselves. Sometimes people notice me. They smile. Speak. A simple greeting, something kind, something normal.

And for a moment, I want to respond.

I sit up in bed and listen. I can hear movement downstairs. Wrapping paper. Voices. Laughter. For a second, I let myself feel it. Hope. It’s small, fragile, something I don’t usually allow myself to have. But it’s there, and I hold onto it carefully as I walk to the top of the stairs. I don’t go all the way down. I don’t know why, but I stop there. From where I sit, I can see everything.

But before I can, I hear it.

The tree is lit, glowing softly. Presents are spread out underneath it, wrapped in bright paper, stacked neatly. My siblings are already there, picking things up, reading tags, smiling.

“Don’t talk.”

I lean forward slightly, scanning.

It doesn’t matter that we’re outside. It doesn’t matter that no one else would think anything of it. The rule still applies.

Looking.

I want to be like every other kid who answers without thinking.

My voice is not something I’m allowed to use. So I stop trying. Over time, silence follows me everywhere. Not just in the house, but outside of it too. It becomes something I carry, something I rely on, something that feels safer than speaking.

Searching. I check every gift. Every tag. Once. Twice.

Eventually, I stop feeling like I’m being silenced.

Again.

I start feeling like I am silence.

Slower this time, just in case I missed something. But I didn’t. There is nothing for me. Not one.

Raising Them While Losing Myself Even in all of this, I am not just surviving myself. The realization doesn’t hit all at once. It settles slowly, quietly, like something sinking into place. I don’t cry. I just sit there. Watching. Trying to understand how I can be in the same house, on the same morning, and still not exist in the same way.

I am taking care of them. My siblings. Because someone has to. When my mom disappears—whether she leaves physically or just becomes unreachable—I step in without thinking. It doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels like something that needs to be done. I make sure they eat.

Eventually, I stand up.

I make sure they’re okay.

I go back to my room.

I distract them when things feel off.

No one calls for me.

I keep things calm when I know they won’t be.

No one notices I’m gone.

Not loudly.

I learn how to read everything before it happens. The way my mom moves, the way her voice sounds, the way the house feels when something is about to shift. I act before things escalate, before they notice, before it becomes something they have to carry.

Not dramatically.

They get to be kids.

But permanently.

I make sure of it.

I stop expecting to be included.

Even when I don’t get to be one myself.

And something inside me changes.

And my stepfather stays exactly where he always is. On the couch. Watching TV. Like none of this belongs to him. Like none of it is his responsibility. There is no one stepping in. No one saying this isn’t something I should have to do. So I keep doing it. I become what I needed. Without even realizing it. And somewhere in the middle of taking care of everyone else… I start to disappear.

Becoming the Quiet One

The Questions That Follow Me

I don’t remember the exact moment I become quiet.

The questions start small.

It doesn’t happen all at once. It isn’t a decision I make. It’s something that forms over time, shaped by repetition, by correction, by the understanding that speaking rarely changes anything—and often makes things worse.

Almost quiet enough to ignore.

At first, I still try. I still respond when I’m spoken to. I still explain myself when I feel misunderstood. I still ask questions, even when I already know they won’t be answered. But every time I open my mouth, it feels like I’m stepping into something I can’t control. So eventually, I stop. Not completely, not in a way that’s obvious to everyone else. But enough. Enough that I no longer draw attention. Enough that my voice becomes something I use carefully, sparingly, only when I have to.

Why can they do that and I can’t? Why does he look at me like that? Why does she not say anything? At first, I don’t expect answers. I just let the questions exist, floating in the background of everything else. But over time, they grow. They get heavier, harder to ignore, more personal. What’s wrong with me? What did I do? Why am I different?

Silence becomes easier.

I don’t ask these questions out loud.

Safer.

I don’t think I even fully form them into sentences at first. They exist more as feelings—unsettled, constant, sitting just beneath everything else.

Predictable. I start to notice that the quieter I am, the less I am seen. And the less I am seen, the less I am targeted. It becomes a pattern I rely on, something I can control in a life where so much feels out of my hands.

And because no one gives me answers, I start looking for them in the only place I can.

People might look at me and think I’m calm. Well-behaved. Mature. They don’t see the calculations happening behind it.

I study everything about me. The way I speak. The way I move. The way I react. I look for something that explains it, something that makes sense of why I am treated differently.

They don’t see how every word is measured before it’s spoken.

But I never find anything solid.

They don’t see how I study people before I respond to them, how I read tone and expression before deciding whether it’s safe to speak at all.

Just a feeling.

My silence isn’t natural.

Because if I’m not, then none of this makes sense.

It’s learned.

And if none of this makes sense, then it means I have no control over it.

Built carefully, piece by piece, out of everything I’ve experienced. And over time, it stops feeling like something I’m doing. It starts to feel like who I am.

Myself.

A quiet, growing belief that maybe I am the problem.

So I hold onto the idea that it must be me. That I must be doing something wrong. Because believing that feels easier than believing I never had a chance to do anything right. Still… there’s something in me that doesn’t fully accept it. Something that hesitates. That questions the questions. That refuses, even quietly, to let me disappear into them completely.

The Part of Me That Knows

Where Silence Learned My Name

There is a part of me that doesn’t believe what I’ve been shown.

I don’t notice when it happens.

It doesn’t speak loudly. It doesn’t fight. It doesn’t try to prove anything.

There’s no moment where everything becomes clear, no sudden realization that shifts everything into place. Like everything else in my life, it comes quietly. Gradually. In pieces.

But it exists. Steady. Quiet. Unmoving beneath everything else. I don’t always notice it. Most of the time, it’s buried under everything I’ve learned to carry—the silence, the questions, the way I’ve come to see myself. But sometimes, in moments where everything feels too heavy, it rises just enough for me to feel it. A knowing. Not something I can explain. Not something I can defend. Just something that is. It shows up when I’m alone, sitting in my room, replaying everything that’s happened throughout the day. I go over the words, the looks, the moments that didn’t make sense. And while part of me tries to justify it, tries to make it fit into something I can understand, there is another part that simply… doesn’t. It doesn’t accept it. It doesn’t agree with it. It just knows.

I stop waiting. I stop standing in doorways hoping I’ll be allowed to stay. I stop looking at the table during dinner, wondering if there will be a place for me. I stop expecting my name to be on anything meant to bring joy. And in the absence of those expectations, something else settles in. Understanding. Not the kind that brings comfort. The kind that stays. I begin to understand that nothing about this is temporary. That the way I am treated isn’t something I can change by being quieter or better or smaller. It just is. This is the house. This is my place in it. But even as that understanding takes hold, something else remains. Something that hasn’t been taken from me.

Knows that something about me is not.

I notice it in the quiet moments, when I’m alone in my room and the noise of the house fades into the background. I notice it in the way I observe everything, the way I remember, the way I hold onto things that no one else seems to acknowledge.

I don’t act on it.

The house teaches me silence.

I don’t change anything because of it—not yet.

It teaches me how to hold things in.

But I hold onto it.

How to shrink.

Carefully.

How to survive without being seen.

Quietly.

Cont on next pg...

Knows that something about this is wrong.

Because it’s the only thing that feels real in a place that constantly tells me I’m not. And even though I don’t realize it at the time, that part of me is the reason I don’t disappear completely.

For a long time, I think silence is something being forced onto me.

I was grieving a mother who was still alive.

Something I don’t have a choice in.

Her body was there.

But eventually, I understand something different.

But her soul…

Silence isn’t just something around me.

Her heart…

It’s something I’ve learned.

Those were gone long before I understood what that meant.

Something I’ve adapted to.

And in all of that absence, in all of that quiet, in all of the things that were never said…

Something that has followed me through every room, every moment, every experience.

Something still saw me.

It sits with me at dinner.

Something still held me.

It walks beside me in public.

Something still knew me.

It waits with me at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning.

This was the place where I was shaped.

It is always there.

Where I learned to endure.

Consistent.

Where I learned to survive.

Familiar.

Where I learned to become someone who could carry all of this and still remain.

Unchanging. And one day, without even realizing when it started, I understand something that settles deeper than anything else ever has. I was not just raised in silence. I was known by it. In a house where I was overlooked, where I was dismissed, where I was told I was undeserving, silence was the only thing that never left me. The only thing that stayed. The only thing that recognized me when no one else did.

And even though no one in that house ever truly spoke my name the way it deserved to be spoken… There was something that did. Quietly. Constantly. Without ever needing to say a word. This was the place… Where silence learned my name.

A LIFE WELL LIVED By Tiffanee McKague

The chaos didn’t phase her she walked through it with grace She had the ability to counter arguments With a smile on her face. She saw adversity as a challenge To rise above ABOUT THE AUTHOR Mariaah Theresa’s is a mother, substance abuse therapist, and a student graduating with dual bachelor’s degrees. She has dedicated her life to helping others heal from trauma, and addiction. Mariaah Theresa’s story is one of survival, resilience, and learning how to find her voice after a childhood built on silence. She hopes to create larger conversations surrounding childhood abuse, emotional trauma, addiction within families, neglect, and the invisible ways children learn to cope when forced to survive environments that are not emotionally safe. She broke generational cycles and became the person she desperately needed as a child. Her story began with trauma, but it continues with healing. You can find Mariaah on Substack.

The only thing she had room for was A powerful love She knows her worth And the joyful nature of her soul Compassion and understanding Is what she speaks and knows There’s few things she wouldn’t do To help another She knows what it’s like To be a struggling single mother She finds the good In the hardest of situations

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Tiffanee McKague is mother of 2 amazing boys that she loves with all of her heart. On February 10, 2025 they could have lost their mother. Tiffanee survived an attempted murder at the hands of a man that she thought was her friend. After rejecting the offer to be his girlfriend he thought it best to make sure that if he couldn’t have her, no one could. Since then, Tiffanee has found strength

Gratitude is a mindset With no stipulations

in telling her story on behalf of Rise Up

Life is how you perceive it So see it great

against domestic violence. Tiffanee has

No time to sit around Or hurry up to wait

like herself. She is getting a degree in social

Your setbacks are a chance For you to learn

You can find Tiffanee on TikTok.

They make your accomplishments Feel well earned She sees the world as beautiful And life as a blessing A life that’s well lived Requires a lot less stressing

2 Thrive (a domestic violence haven for women in Cascade Idaho) to speak out made it her life purpose to help survivors work to do just that.

THE UNACKNOWLEDGED CHILD B y Cl a i r e O ’ L e a r y

“

I would soon learn that she was my reminder that every moment of trauma needed to be

seen, felt and heard. Photo credit: Mixed media collage, Claire O’Leary

She was the one who’d been left alone for so long. Years! It seemed so trivial when I was going through my therapy— when I considered the 3 years of abuse by my father. I would soon learn that she was my reminder that every moment of trauma needed to be seen, felt and heard.

I hadn’t seen her since I left my job 2 years prior. I saw her often back then—every time my boss reamed me up one side and down the other for some small thing I’d done incorrectly, she’d pop up. I’d walk out of her office and say to my office mate, “She treats me like I’m 5 years old.” Immediately her image would pop into my head, but I’d let it go. Over and over again, she was unacknowledged. But when I left my job because I couldn’t take it anymore, I forgot her. She waited in

the background for well over a year. Until one day…

I was writing and…There she was! I’d continued to heal from my trauma. I’d begun the process of forgiveness. I was a Reiki Master. With all the work I’d done though, I knew it was time to acknowledge who she was…

My five year old child. She stood in the doorway after she’d been molested. Tears streaming down her face. Feeling guilty because she’d been told not to go into the bedroom. She’d disobeyed her parents. She didn’t realize what her uncle had done was wrong. She didn’t understand why he didn’t tell her parents that he took her by the hand and led her in the room. She’d never forgotten that sense of “EWE” that she’d felt. But the sense of feeling good, feeling loved by her uncle eased the “EWE” just a little. Enough that it was forgotten. For more than 50 years.

Until she wrote her story. She’d been reamed by her parents while standing there. Her father silenced her when she tried to tell them her uncle took her in there. “DON’T TALK BACK!,” her father exclaimed. She stopped talking. Knew it was futile to even try.

For more than 50 years she remained silent. She became the consummate “YES GIRL.” Not knowing who she was or what she wanted. Acknowledging this little girl. Seeing her, frightened and alone, SILENCED, — Writing her story was a true healing moment. She finally remembered who it was in the room.

The details were remembered.

Writing that story helped me realize it was time for me to share the knowledge I’d gained through my own healing. I continued healing “my little girl” through the years. Holding her close. Reassuring her that I was here and would always be her best supporter. I played with her. I hugged her with each of my older parts—the 16-year-old, 21-year-old, 25-year-old, the partially healed and the crone. I felt the energy of Jesus himself surrounding us in that moment. His energy permeating and healing each part of me in turn.

I developed a day long retreat where we processed our trauma. We meditated, wrote and illustrated our stories. We shared them, built community and healed together that first day and every retreat or workshop thereafter.

Art Exhibit & Symposium).

I continue to offer these day-long retreats and weekly gatherings to heal the parts of us still hurt.

an avid reader, meditates and dances her

I’ve learned that healing in community and through art is powerful.

She is a speaker, advocate, writer and artist. She lives in Donnelly, Idaho with her husband, and enjoys being a mother and grandmother. Claire’s a CSA (incest) survivor, heart out any time she can.

BUILDING RESILIENCE

8 THINGS SURVIVORS NEED TO STOP APOLOGIZING FOR By Rachel Grant

In this powerful 8-part series, Rachel Grant explores eight things survivors of childhood sexual abuse need to stop apologizing for — from their feelings and boundaries to the ways trauma has shaped how they navigate relationships and life.

“

Rachel challenges the shame and selfblame survivors often carry.

With her signature compassionate-but-direct approach, Rachel challenges the shame and self-blame survivors often carry and offers a new way to understand their experiences, reclaim their needs, and take up space without apology. Each video offers an empowering reminder that you don’t have to be sorry for what you needed, how you coped, or who you are becoming. “I found the series of super short videos really helpful, with reminders of old habits better left behind.” Claire O’Leary. Watch here.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Rachel is the owner and founder of Rachel Grant Coaching and is a Sexual Abuse Recovery Coach. Rachel holds a Master of Arts in Counseling Psychology and is the author of Beyond Surviving: The Final Stage in Recovery from Sexual Abuse and Overcome the Fear of Abandonment. You can download both free on her website. She works with survivors of childhood sexual abuse to help them let go of the pain of abuse and finally feel normal. Her program, Beyond Surviving, is specifically designed to change the way we think about and heal from abuse. She has successfully used this program to help her clients break free from the past and move on with their lives. Reach Rachel here or on Facebook.

UNICORN SHADOWS: FROM TRAUMA TO TRIUMPH — A HEALING GUIDE By Teri Wellbrock

TRAUMA WARRIOR As I stood before attendees at the National Crime Victims’ Rights Week luncheon in downtown Cincinnati on April 5, 2017, sharing my story publicly for the first time, my voice and hands in a battle of trembling, I found myself awed with the audience response. There were whispered gasps, heads nodding in empathy, eyes welled with tears, and an occasional slack-jawed “wow” mouthed in my direction. I started with, what I refer to as, the “ugly facts”, but promised that my story is one of hope, strength and resilience. My message for you is the same. I am going to start by sharing the ugliness of my trauma history. I find connection in the honoring of the trauma. That’s where our soul-linking happens. Our hearts bond through our truths. Within each of our own stories lies tremendous strength and resilience, and empowerment is triggered when our stories are honored.

THE UGLY FACTS When I was four years old, living in Park Hills, Kentucky, in a tiny brick home my parents had rented from friends, my mother, fueled by Valium washed down with booze, decided I needed to go “live with Jesus.” My one-year-old sister was beside me in the bathtub, her head also being held under the water. She, too, was being sent “away from the heartache of this world,” this “valley of tears.” Fortunately, our father came in to save the day and sucker-punched mom across the bathroom. The pill-popping Vodka ride continued, however, and retaliation was simmering.

Not long after our close encounter with death, Mom decided to attack Dad with a butcher knife in the kitchen. As Dad explained it, “I grabbed a wooden kitchen chair, lifting it up in front of me for protection, like a lion-tamer staving off a wild beast, when the blade of the knife slammed through the wood, penetrating so deeply the pointed blade popped through the bottom of the chair.” Watching my mother, slobbering her angst, be cuffed and carted off, left my confused little brain pondering. Soon after, my dad moved out. Leaving us with half-empty pill bottles, even emptier booze bottles, a Jesus-infused alcoholic, and fear.

Thank God Grandma Kitty, my dad’s mom, was a protective presence in our lives. A few months later, having wandered down Hamilton Road to play with my best friend in her front yard on the quiet suburb street perched on a hilltop overlooking downtown Cincinnati, my first encounter with a predator, lurking behind a teen-aged boy’s charming smile, came sauntering into my life. He was sixteen. I was five. The invitation to “play a game” was too much to resist. We followed him; into his parents’ empty home. Soon after, we moved to an apartment in another quiet neighborhood on the

“

I learned to be silent, east side of Cincinnati. I transferred to the Kindergarten in the school next door to our complex, hiding behind the dumpster on my first day, eating blackberries off the branches vining their way up the rusty chain-link fence. A few years passed, filled with screams of “JIM!” from my mother, summoning my belt-wielding father from his back room, in order to silence the children. I learned to be silent, obedient, faster to scurry behind locked doors than my little sister, and timid. Survival skills. Soon to be used against me. Age nine. 1975. My mom asked me to run next door (really the next building over in our apartment complex on Mears Avenue) and borrow a can of cream of mushroom soup from our neighbors. I scurried over in my worn out sneakers and rainbow-striped halter top, kicking fallen crab apples along my way, then tapped my knuckles on the screen door. Sally, the white-haired lady didn’t answer. But, her smarmy nineteenyear-old son did. He nonchalantly invited me in to help him retrieve the can of soup from a back bedroom/makeshift pantry. As

he dangled the soup can over my head, he directed I would be “earning it.”

Age ten brought on an onslaught of abuse. A nun, a choir director, and more chaos. It also introduced me to determination, perseverance, forgiveness, and the concept of “having someone’s back.” I was in fifth grade and closing in on myself a little more with each breath. The school admin noticed a change in my appearance, having cut my hair super short, and wearing only boys’ clothing. I was assigned to a counselor. My teacher. Sister Mary Elephant. A cruel creature clad in Catholic cloth. She would slam my fragile self-esteem repeatedly onto her desk, advising me, “You know no one likes you, right? You’re dirty. And you stink.” This counsel advice happened in between her bouts of yelling commands at me of “sit down”, “stand up”, “speak up”, “shut up”. After school, I would head to the undercroft, a cold and damp space beneath the church,

obedient, faster to

scurry behind locked doors than my lit tle sister, and timid.

Survival skills. Soon

to be used against me.

where our church organist would don his role as choir director. I believed him when he told me I had a pretty singing voice. I accepted his invitation to stay after practice to work on solo voice lessons. His wife and my mom were friends. So that made it alright. Private singing lessons soon turned to other private encounters.

“

I believed him when he told me I had

a pret ty singing

voice. I accepted his invitation to stay after practice to work on solo voice lessons.

In eighth grade, I won a full-ride academic scholarship to a prestigious all-girls Catholic high school. I made it through one year. Barely. My grades were perfect. Naturally. I was the “smart one” as indicated by mom during introductions. My sister: “the pretty one.” We were poor. While the school held mother/daughter tea parties and conversations revolved around summer trips to Europe, I was hopping on the number twenty-four Metro bus or hitching a ride in Dad’s rusted out Buick station wagon. The one with the mushrooms growing in the back.

I also fell head over heels in puppy

love

with

newly

found BFF. With her blonde hair, braces, flipped up collars on a rainbow collection of Ralph Lauren polo shirts, Papagallo purses, and love of “Air Supply”, it was no wonder. I was smitten. I wanted to be her. I learned how to talk like totally rad. I studied flirting methods

so we could hit on boys together. I spent nights at her enormous house in an upscale neighborhood, dreaming of ways to steal a kiss, but never daring to try. During the summer between freshman and sophomore year, however, I found the courage to confess my love. She took it pretty well. Or so I thought. As I walked through those huge entrance doors into sophomore year, I could feel the onslaught of judgment close around me. Whispers of “lezzie” and “dyke” forced their way past the pounding of blood surging through my head. I caught her eyes, the smirk betraying our friendship. I begged my parents through desperate sobs to let me switch schools. I promised I would work, pay my own tuition, anything. I told them I missed my friends. I missed boys. I wanted to be closer to home. Please, Dear God, I will do anything! I secured a job at my new school, working in the accounting office. I also started working at the priest rectory at our parish in the evenings, answering phones and stuffing church bulletins with fliers. One of my jobs was filling the basement fridge with soda for parish meetings and the priests’ caffeine fixes. Enter the religious education director. A man in his thirties who decided he wanted my fourteen-year-old self. He would sit in the office with me, offering to rub lotion on my sunburn, to which I giggled an awkward, “no thanks,” asking me personal questions and telling me I was pretty. More awkward giggles. Then came the day he followed me to the basement as I set out to complete my fridge-filling duties. While Fr. George Cooley was upstairs molesting little boys, I was fighting off the religious education director in the basement. I ended up dating a family friend’s grandson. He was a year older and wanted more than I was willing to offer. I prided myself on being a virgin and would tout to all of the boys I flirted with that I was “as pure as the driven snow.” They heard that as a quest to be conquered. It was 1982, a time marked by heavy teenage drinking and drug

use, at least in the party circles I was running in. I had tried smoking pot, but it only made my elbows itchy. Alcohol, however, was a whole other story. I looked older than I was so I was designated the beer buyer. Cases of Little Kings and bottles of cheap booze were easily secured with my fake ID and heavy flirting. Puking was kept to a minimum as I learned to pace and hold my liquor. I stayed away from the coke, ludes, shrooms, and acid offered me every weekend. I called my dad for a ride if I drank and couldn’t find a sober ride home. Yeah, I was underage drinking, but I was trying to be smart about it. Dad never lectured. The junior I was dating my sophomore year had a blowout party on a family farm. He was feeding me beer at a faster than normal pace and I could feel myself losing my normal grip on control. I tried to resist, but he brought in reinforcements with more teens urging me to “chug, chug, chug” then cheering when I’d win. I was offered shots of sweettasting liqueurs and slammed them back. My nose was numb. My teeth were numb. My resistance was numb. He knew it. As he invited me to the barn, offering to show me the race car in the garage along the way, I felt queasy. But, not from the alcohol. I took his hand and followed, slurring my objections to climbing the stairs into the barn loft. I knew what was waiting for me up there. And I was right. Later that same year, after attending the Riverfest celebration on the banks of the Ohio River along Serpentine Wall in downtown Cincinnati, I was making my way toward a meet up spot with a group of friends. As we reached the top of the stairs leading to the open skywalk, linking buildings throughout town, my stomach flipped at the sight before me. My instinct was to turn and run. I ignored the angel whisper. Lined along the walls on either side, some donning matching colored headbands, all wearing a mix of anger and dare on their faces, inviting us into the beehive, was a gang of youth. They looked to be my age. I moved forward,

albeit hesitantly, following closely behind my friend carrying the boom-box on his shoulder, a tune from radio station WEBN, the Riverfest sponsor, cutting through the thick air. Within moments, all hell would break loose as broomsticks, numb chucks, fists, and groping hands would be coming at us. I was thrown into a corner, surrounded by males and females, as hands were shoved up my shirt and down my pants. My dad ended up writing a letter to the mayor of Cincinnati via an op-ed piece in the local newspaper. An investigation was then launched. Fifty kids were arrested. I ended up testifying at a large number of those juvenile hearings, resulting in forty-nine convictions. One of the officers involved in the investigation took a liking to me. His fellow officers would tease him when he’d invite seventeen-year-old me to lunch dates, calling me “jail bait” as they’d wink in my direction. When the dust had settled and the last hearing held, this detective asked my parents if he could take me to dinner to celebrate the convictions. They, obviously, agreed. He was a police officer. As he drove across Fort Washington Way on the edge of downtown Cincinnati, my gaze cast upon the muddy waters of the Ohio River, a Knight Ranger song came on the car radio. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “This is our song.” My stomach flipped. Oh, no. Here we go again. He never did take me to dinner.

“

As he invited me to the barn, offering

to show me the race car in the garage

along the way, I felt

queasy. But, not from the alcohol. I took his hand and followed,

slurring my objections to climbing the stairs into the barn loft.

“

I didn’ t even know what a healthy

boundary looked like

much less how to put one in place.

February 19, 1988. I was twenty-one years old. Loving life and planning my upcoming October 1st wedding. I started the day sane. An armed gunman, after stabbing my coworker with a hunting knife, and cocking the hammer of a revolver while he pressed it to my temple, would instill a terror so intense within my being that I am still working at healing. Three months later, the armed gunman (having eluded capture after the first robbery) would return to my life, only this time he would pull the trigger. My younger sister would find herself within mere feet of the fatal gunshot as she hid beneath a desk. I scurried out a bank door, hiding in the neighborhood behind the bank, only to come face-to-face with another armed assailant. He aimed his Luger in my direction when our eyes met.

HAPPINESS AND HOPE Now for the “happy and hope” part of my story, as I like to call it! In the spring of 2013, I hit a proverbial wall. I was struggling with a toxic friendship and the lack of healthy boundaries within that relationship. I didn’t even know what

a healthy boundary looked like much less how to put one in place. Particularly with someone I loved. This friendship was a deep, powerful and soulful connection. A spiritual soul-sister thing as well as a laugh-ourasses off best-friends-forever connection. However, our foundation was built upon trauma. When we met in 2009, I had just lost my dad, she had just lost her second baby boy in utero. We were brought together in grief, bound in our shared pain. I happened to be in the midst of a dissolution of my marriage, while also struggling in my relationship with my youngest (then teenaged) son. Plus I kind of wanted to write a book or two, and felt I needed to be “cured” before doing so. I just wasn’t sure how to fix myself. And there on the back burner, sitting at number five on my “reasons why I need therapy” list sat: panic attacks. I started therapy with a local counselor, close to home, as my fears of driving were worsening. I found myself having overwhelming panic attacks turning left, crossing over or stopping on any bridge or overpass, being a passenger while on the highway, heavy traffic, being stopped in traffic, and the list was growing.

A few months into our sessions, she asked me, “Teri, have you considered EMDR therapy?” I had no clue what she was talking about. Being the over-achiever that I am, I immediately started researching it. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR). A therapy developed by Dr. Francine Shapiro, an American Psychologist, to help combat the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I immediately reached out to a practitioner via email, describing my trauma history in great detail. I received a return response indicating this particular therapist was not taking new patients, but wanted to interview me anyway as she found my case intriguing. I met with her and her adorable labradoodle, Kode, and she agreed to take me on as a client. Our very first session was October 7, 2013. I had neatly and oh-so-diligently stored away my traumatic experiences in separate little boxes in my psyche. I liken it to the old Dewey Decimal System cards at the library. However, part of our therapy sessions required my dumping the contents of those boxes into a pile in the middle of the floor, one on top of the other. Soon we had a huge mess of chaos lying there and we started to slowly sift through it. Heartache by heartache, violation by violation. Over the next four years, we would meet ninety-eight times. Almost one hundred sessions of reliving traumatic events from my past, stirring up long suppressed emotions and the overwhelming fears associated with them. It was within the confines of that safe space I first heard the words “complex posttraumatic stress disorder” and “dissociation” applied to me and my symptoms.

During that time, I also began building my own coping skills toolbox, filling it with anything and everything I found that provided any sense of relief for

anxiety

symptoms.

and

panic

I read books, articles, research journals. I started yoga. I found meditation apps and guided videos on YouTube. I visited a psychic who offered a suggestion of writing and burning letters of forgiveness in order to release the negative energy. Nature hikes felt more peaceful than terrifying, as they had been in the past (I had worried about what might be lurking in the woods in lieu of enjoying the sound of the water cascading over rocks while birds sang along). Also, at that time, I happened to be working for a mental health agency in school settings, meeting with children needing help building their own coping skills toolboxes. In hindsight, I now realize I was in that position at exactly the right moment in time for me to help myself while helping those children learn to cope. I started journaling, reciting positive affirmations to myself, and sharing my trauma stories on social media. One of the most powerful lessons I learned with therapy and through my own research in educating myself on ways to help these children, was in regard to mindfulness. A powerful tool that I utilize on a daily basis even now.

learned

how

ground

myself, by sitting nervously in that brown swivel chair in my therapist’s office, feet planted firmly on the floor, imagining roots growing down into the earth. There were self-taught lessons on body sensations, reality reminders, breathing skills, and using creativity to release stored emotions. Read the rest in the upcoming release of Unicorn Shadows!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Teri Wellbrock is a trauma survivor, author, audiobook narrator, and host and producer of the globally top 1% rated The Healing Place Podcast. After overcoming C-PTSD symptoms and 25 years of severe panic, she shares her story of hope to inspire others on their healing journeys. She is a co-author of several collaborative books: The Magdalene Oracle: Awakening the Power of the Rose Brave Kids Volume 3: Short Stories to Inspire Our Future World-Changers, Volume 3; The Caregiver Chronicles and is writing Unicorn Shadows: From Trauma to Triumph – A Healing Guide. Teri also publishes a monthly Hope for Healing newsletter, speaks at traumarecovery events, and is a proud mom of three. Her mission is to make a positive difference in others’ lives and shine a light of hope into dark spaces. Connect with Teri at: Website, Podcast, Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram, and TikTok

THE COURAGE TO LET GO: HOW RELEASING CONTROL CAN HELP WOMEN RECLAIM THEIR VOICE AND LIVE FORWARD By Darlene Lekowski

For most of my life, I believed strength meant control. If I worked hard enough, prepared enough, achieved enough and stayed one step ahead, I could keep life from surprising me. That belief helped me build a successful career over nearly four decades in banking and fintech, including leading enterprise sales and strategic client relationships in a demanding, male-dominated industry. It helped me become the woman people could count on—the one who could handle pressure, solve problems and keep moving. What I did not understand for many years was where that need for control came from.

“

Inside, I was still

carrying fear, shame and a relentless belief that if I lost control, everything might fall apart.

Photo credit: As a child, I survived sibling sexual trauma and abuse (SSTA) by my two oldest brothers from ages 7 to 12. I learned early how to compartmentalize, perform, control everything around me and keep going while carrying a secret I believed could destroy my family if I ever told. Achievement and perfectionism became more than ambition. In many ways, it became armor.

responsibility, drive, the ability to manage a dozen things at once. But we rarely ask what those qualities may be protecting. Sometimes the very behaviors that helped us survive one chapter of our lives can quietly limit us in the next.

That is something I now think about often when I speak with women leaders. We celebrate the qualities that make women effective—resilience, discipline,

WHEN SUCCESS BECOMES ARMOR spent

decades

becoming

exceptionally good at appearing fine.

At always excelling, always overachieving. I could lead meetings, negotiate complex deals, raise a family, hit major milestones and show up for everyone around me. From the outside, that looked like strength. Inside, I was still carrying fear, shame and a relentless belief that if I lost control, everything might fall apart. Many women do this in ways that have nothing to do with trauma. We hold on to perfectionism because it once earned us approval. We avoid vulnerability because we learned that competence is rewarded. We say yes because being needed feels safer than disappointing someone. We stay in roles, relationships, expectations or identities long after they stop serving us because letting go feels like losing. But there is a difference between being in control of your life and being controlled by your need for control. I did not fully understand that distinction until my own carefully managed life was disrupted in a way I never expected.

THE MOMENT I COULD NO LONGER MANAGE THE STORY In 2021, after more than fifty years of silence, I spoke publicly about the abuse I had survived. I believed telling the truth would finally bring closure. I also believed I would finally get the apology I felt I deserved and that I needed to heal. Instead, one of my brothers who abused me sued me for defamation. Suddenly, the secret I had spent a lifetime containing was no longer something I could neatly manage. I had a choice: retreat, apologize for speaking, and allow fear to put me back in the box I had lived in for decades—or stand in my truth and accept that I could not control the outcome. I chose to fight. I counter-sued. After a twoand-a-half-year legal battle, I took my case before a jury and won.

For a long time, I thought winning would be the ending. I imagined a verdict would give me the healing, validation and peace I had been chasing. The victory mattered enormously, but it taught me something more important: freedom was not going to come from controlling the ending. It was going to come from releasing the belief that an ending could erase everything that came before it. That realization changed how I think about leadership, healing and what it means to live forward.

LETTING GO IS NOT GIVING UP Women are often told to “let go” as if it means lowering our standards, becoming passive or caring less. I see it very differently. Letting go can be one of the most powerful acts of leadership we practice. It can mean letting go of the need to be perfect before we speak. Letting go of the belief that asking for help makes us less capable. Letting go of the version of success someone else defined for us. Letting go of shame that never belonged to us. Letting go of the need for everyone to understand, approve or agree before we trust ourselves. Most importantly, it means learning to separate what we can influence from what we were never meant to carry. I cannot change what happened to me as a child. I cannot recover the decades I spent silent. I cannot control what other people choose to believe about my story. But I can decide what I do with my life now. That is agency. And for me, agency has become a far more meaningful form of control.

“

Let ting go can be one of the most powerful

acts of leadership we practice.

“

That question—what

happens to the person who cannot afford to fight back?—has

become central to my advocacy.

Photo credit: Leigh Vogel/Getty Images

AUTHENTICITY IS A LEADERSHIP STRENGTH

FROM PERSONAL VOICE TO COLLECTIVE CHANGE

When I first began speaking publicly, I approached it the same way I had approached so many things in business: prepare for every possibility. My laptop was surrounded by sticky notes filled with talking points because I was terrified I would forget the right words.

Finding my voice also forced

Eventually,

realized

how

absurd that was. This was my story. I had lived it. The more I stopped trying to deliver it perfectly, the more deeply people connected with it. Sometimes my voice cracks. Sometimes I become emotional. I no longer see that as a failure of composure. I see it as evidence that I am present and telling my truth. That lesson has followed me back into leadership. People do not need leaders who perform perfection. They need leaders who are credible, self-aware and human. Authenticity does not mean sharing everything with everyone. It means no longer spending your energy pretending to be someone you are not.

me to look beyond my own experience. I had the financial resources, legal representation and support to defend myself when my abuser sued me. Many survivors do not. That question—what happens to the person who cannot afford to fight back?— has become central to my advocacy. Today, alongside my work as a business leader, bestselling author and speaker, I advocate for survivors and for legal reforms that make it safer to tell the truth. I am working with attorney and advocate Victoria Burke to help advance the Speak Your Truth Act, an effort aimed at protecting survivors from retaliatory defamation lawsuits used to intimidate or financially devastate them for speaking about their abuse. I also speak openly about sibling sexual trauma and abuse, or SSTA, because so many survivors grow up believing their experience is too shameful or unusual to name. I once believed I was the only one. But I’ve since found out that SSTA is believed to be one of the most common forms of childhood sexual abuse in the world, yet it’s still one of the least discussed. Research estimates that 1 in 25 children are impacted

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Darlene Lekowski is a survivor, speaker, advocate, and business leader who

Photo credit: Leigh Vogel/Getty Images by SSTA—roughly as common as childhood food allergies—yet most people have never even heard the term. We need to make SSTA a part of our vocabulary so that hopefully by speaking it out loud we can work to prevent it or enable children to speak about what’s happening to them much sooner, rather than carrying that secret for five decades as I did. Meeting other survivors taught me how powerful three simple words can be: You are not alone.

My journey has moved from silence, to voice, to action. What began as a deeply personal decision to stop hiding has become a commitment to help make the path safer for others.

WHAT I WANT WOMEN TO KNOW Now in my 60s, I’m entering a chapter of my life I never could have predicted just a few years ago. I am still a fintech executive. I am also a bestselling author, speaker and advocate.

The parts of myself I once worked hardest to hide are now the very parts that allow me to connect most meaningfully with other people.

That does not mean I am grateful for what happened to me. I would never choose the abuse, the silence or the courtroom battle. But I can choose what I carry forward from them. That is the invitation I want to extend to other women: ask yourself what you are still carrying—or what box you have buried— simply because it once helped you survive, succeed or belong. Is it perfectionism? The need for approval? Anger? Shame? An old definition of success? The belief that you must always be the strong one? You do not have to discard your ambition, your standards or your strength. You may simply need to release the things that are taking up the space where something better could grow.

transformed decades of pain into hope and healing—for herself and others. After fifty years of silence about the sibling sexual trauma and abuse (SSTA) she endured as a child, she found her voice, winning the civil lawsuit brought against her by her own brother. Her

debut

memoir,

Shattering

Silence:

A Story of Survival, Justice & the Power of Telling the Truth shares her journey of resilience, justice, and healing. She speaks publicly about her journey and partners with SSTA and sexual assault organizations worldwide to raise awareness and give a voice to all survivors.

For me, living forward does not mean forgetting the past. It means refusing to let the past keep making decisions about my future.

Darlene lives in the Charlotte, NC suburbs

We cannot control everything that happens to us. But we can reclaim authorship of what happens next. We can speak. We can choose. We can change direction. We can become more fully ourselves.

Visit darlene-lekowski.com | Instagram:

Sometimes the greatest power we gain is not from holding on tighter. It comes from finally having the courage to let go. To open whatever box we are carrying. To let go, break free and live forward.

with her husband, Tom, their dog, Pepper, and is the proud mother of three adult children.

@darlenelekowski

RESOURCES: BOOKS FOR ADULT SURVIVORS of possibility for FSA victimhood as a means to advance contemporary critical understandings of the role of gender and sexuality as instruments of modern power.

Beyond Surviving: The Final Stage in Recovery from Sexual Abuse by Rachel Grant.

In Beyond Surviving, author Rachel Grant, a Sexual Abuse Recovery Coach, provides an understanding of the three stages of recovery: victim, survivor, and beyond surviving – and offers survivors guidance and tools for empowerment and healing.

The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Bessel van der Kolk M.D

Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, uses recent scientific advances to show how trauma literally reshapes both body and brain, compromising sufferers’ capacities for pleasure, engagement, self-control, and trust. He explores innovative treatments—from neurofeedback and meditation to sports, drama, and yoga—that offer new paths to recovery by activating the brain’s natural neuroplasticity.

The Brave Knight, by Diane Tarantini (Author), Jessie Haring (Illustrator) In The Brave Knight, Tarantini articulates incredibly complex child abuse grooming techniques/dynamics such as desensitizing physical contact, isolation from familial supports, love for perpetrators, disparity of social power, and somehow does it in an age-appropriate, non-threatening way. A brilliant, compelling, and inspiring resource for kids and those who love them.”

Everyone Was Silent: A memoir by Diane Tarantini. Dina Martinelli grew up in a family where everyone was silent. And everyone kept secrets, including Dina. For over three decades, Dina Martinelli—now a young wife and mother—keeps quiet about what happened in her family all those years ago. She doesn’t disclose what her brother Jude did to her, and she doesn’t discuss her lifelong relational war with her mother, Jean, due in part to Jean’s struggle with mental illness. But one day, Dina breaks her silence, and after that—with counseling and faith—her life gradually begins to improve.

Female Sex Offenders: What Therapists, Law Enforcement and Child Protective Services Need to Know by Julia Hislop Ph.D. For everyone responsible for the well being of children, this book explains one of the hardest to detect threats to their safety. Female sex offenders have victimized an estimated two to three million people in the United States. As a society we find it nearly impossible to believe that females are capable of sexual abuse. The result is that each year hundreds of thousands of youth are not protected, not believed, and not treated for the trauma associated with the abuse.

Dumb Girl by Heidi Yewman is a heartening memoir about a girl who survives physical abuse and molestation to become a powerful advocate against gun violence in America. Growing up in a toxic, malecentered household where she’s repeatedly told, “Don’t be a dumb girl,” Heidi’s abused by her dad—molested by her brother and left to fend for herself by her alcoholic mom.

Female-Perpetrated Sex Abuse (Concepts for Critical Psychology) by Sherianne Kramer. Female-Perpetrated Sex Abuse is a groundbreaking study into gender, sexuality and victimhood. It examines the cultural conditions

Female Sexual Abuse of Children 1st Edition by Michele Elliott

This courageous and powerful book is a first step in addressing the secrecy, distress, anger, and fear surrounding female sexual abuse of children. Refuting the rationales for our lack of attention to the problem and contradicting some commonly held beliefs about sexual abuse, it combines accounts from survivors with input from professionals working with both survivors and abusers.

This unprecedented look at female sexual predators explains why and how they prey on our children and youths and what adults and children and youths themselves should understand to prevent victimization.

Flightpath to Healing: A Guide for Child Sexual Abuse (CSA) Survivors by Gloria Masters. Female Sexual Offenders: Theory, Assessment and Treatment 1st Edition, by Theresa A. Gannon (Editor), Franca Corton Featuring a collection of essays by leading experts, Female Sexual Offenders: Theory, Assessment and Treatment is the first book to bring together current research, clinical assessment, and treatment techniques of female sexual offenders into one accessible volume.

To all Child Sexual Abuse (CSA) Survivors out there, this book is for you. Are you seeking support while navigating your way to recovery? Are you hoping for insight on reclaiming the life you should have had? Do you want the freedom to finally shine your light in the world?

when you’ve been wounded deeply?” “How do you move past the pain that keeps you up at night, leaves you isolated, untrusting, and afraid? How can you possibly forgive them, especially when they don’t deserve forgiveness?”

reminding us that joy is possible in the face of great pain. Poignant, brave, and helpful, Healing My Life offers a much-needed testimony for anyone affected by childhood sexual abuse.

Glorious Awakenings, My Journey of God’s Healing by Chris Cline is about her journey of God’s healing from sexual abuse. It shares the abuse and the path she took to heal – God redeeming the pieces of her that were broken emotionally, physically, spiritually, and sexually. Chris says “It is a beautiful story of how Jesus saved me – how my journey healed me and brought me to a closer relationship with God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit.”

Healing Sibling Sexual Abuse: A Very Personal Story by Hannah Louise Cartwright RN, MA

Look no further. This step by step guide includes excerpts, teachings and exercises you can try, to start rebuilding your way back to yourself. Beginning with where you are, it gently leads you to a more peaceful place of healing

Memoir and self-help book for adult survivors of sibling sexual abuse written by a psychotherapist. Her book tells the personal story of recovering from sexual abuse at the hands of a sibling. Cartwright aims to help victims understand the impact sibling abuse has on survivors, provides tools to help them begin their healing journey and emphasizing that survivors can leave the past behind and build happy lives ahead.

Healing My Life: From Incest to Joy by Donna jenson.

Female Sexual Predators: Understanding Them to Protect Our Children and Youths (Forensic Psychology) by Karen A. Duncan (Author).

Forgiving The Nightmare, by Pastor Mark Sowersby begs the questions “How do you forgive

A deeply personal story that explores the sexual violence Jenson endured at the hands of her father, the refusal of her family to acknowledge her pain, and a rocky escape as a teenager from the Midwest to start anew in sixtiesera California. Jenson writes with her sense of humor firmly intact,

Healing Steps Higdon Jones:

Sharyn

A Gentle Path to Recovery for Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse is a step-by-step guide to healing from the deep pain of early sexual abuse. Such profound abuse touches the core of a woman’s being: in unwanted

memories, confusing feelings, distorted self-image, ongoing relationship struggles, and more. This frank and thorough book, written by a therapist who has herself survived sexual abuse, offers clear-eyed advice, stories of struggles and recovery, and exercises to guide you in healing.

in strip clubs and hotel rooms. She finds love, loses it, and loves again. Years pass before she dares to dive into the depths of her past. Only then does she begin to heal.

Sexual abuse and grooming of children across the world are both frightening realities, and ways to manage this are desperately needed.

It’s a call to arms, an invitation to survivors to speak out and reclaim their power.

This road-map is for parents, teachers, grandparents, and frontline staff everywhere.

Ska’s mastery of emotional and interpersonal subject matter takes the reader on a journey into the bright side of darkness filled with love, heartache, joy, and the poetic tone that only Ska can manifest.

The Home I Know: A liberation Story by Josephine A Lauren.

Annie’s childhood by the sea seemed to be an imaginative dream—until she moved away from home at eighteen and her body began to tell a very different story. What followed was a lifelong reclamation of history, identity, and name. This raw and resilient story uncovers the complex reality of safety and sexuality in society, and especially at home.

The Journey of the Heart by Anna Cley. From floating boxes to lifesaving riddles to an enlightened mirror, The Journey of the Heart is a timeless tale that speaks to the inner child in us all. The Journey of the Heart offers heartfelt assurance that no matter what circumstances we are born into, our future is ours to write.

Leaving Darkness Behind by Elizabeth M. Altmaier. This book helps survivors find the road to recovery and learn healthy practices that will lead to thriving, not just surviving. Survivors of childhood sexual abuse can begin a recovery journey informed by accurate understandings, not myths, and empowered by processes that help them thrive. Written for men and women by an author who is herself a survivor, this guide tells the truth about what complex trauma means for your physical and mental health.

I Feel Real Guilty: A Memoir of Sibling Sexual Abuse by Jane Epstein I’m sorry for what I did to you when you were younger. When Jane Epstein’s brother makes this confession, a tsunami of memories floods over her. She remembers the years of sexual abuse at his hands. The pain. The shame. Suffering from trauma few talk about, Epstein searches for solace

Keeping Kids Safe: A Roadmap for Parents, Teachers & Others by Gloria Masters. “Notice and trust children’s behavior, over their words: That is where the truth lies.” Did you know that children are at risk of sexual abuse, now more than ever? While your children are ‘playing on their laptops’ online grooming could be occurring.

Loving My Salt Drenched Bones by Karo Ska. Karo Ska delivers an ensemble of poetic magic in her highly anticipated book, Loving My Salt Drenched Bones.

The MindBody Toolkit by Kim Deramo, D.O. Ten Tools to Instantly Increase Your Energy, Enhance Productivity, and Even Reverse Disease. The MindBody Toolkit explains the science behind the mind-body connection and gives you 10 tools you can use anytime, anywhere to activate self-healing and awakening now!

Miss America by Day by Marilyn Van Derber. Former Miss America, Marilyn Van Derber, tells the story of how she was sexually violated by her father from age 5 to age 18. She was 53 years old before she was able to speak the words in public: “I am an incest survivor.” Van Derbur describes in detail what specific “work” she did on her successful journey from victim to survivor.

Darlene’s journey of discovery and healing.

My Life Now: Essays by a Child Sex Trafficking Survivor by Mary Knight A unique survivor memoir. Essays that range from heartwarming to brutal. Individual trigger warnings (TW) allow readers to practice self-care. Washington State native Mary Knight, MSW, experienced various forms of child sex trafficking, sometimes in her own home. Her parents were her pimps. Knight’s current life is filled with safety, love, joy, and children. Happily married, she is a child advocate, a foster parent, and a grandmother.

On Angels’ Wings: My Flight From Trauma To Grace by Gloria Masters This extraordinary, powerful story of Gloria’s journey from darkness into light is one of hope, resilience and the unrelenting power of the human spirit to survive.

Shattering Silence: A Story of Survival, Justice and The Power of Telling the Truth, by Darlene Lekowski Her debut memoir, (April 2026), shares her journey of resilience, justice, and healing.

It’s June 1960 and in middle-class suburban New Zealand, a child was born into sex slavery. For the first sixteen years of her life, Gloria suffered horrendous sexual, physical and psychological abuse at the hands of her father, with no one to protect her. Experienced through the eyes of a child, On Angels’ Wings will forever highlight the way we deal with child abuse, shining a light on this darkness, and challenging us not to assume that every child is safe. One voice speaking out is all it takes to save a life.

Tanisha’s life changed before it began at the age of 5 or 6 years old when she was raped by a friend of the family and she wasn’t believed. The damage caused her to have to relearn how to walk. Her pain continued through adulthood before she could finally enjoy life.

Often excused by parents as `kids will be kids’ behavior, sibling abuse remains largely unrecognized. Symptoms of such abuse and its devastating effects on victims go undetected, victims do not receive appropriate therapeutic intervention, and transgressors do not come to the attention of the courts. Shattered Innocence by Darlene J. Clark. Abuse happens too often. Back in the 1960’s, it was taboo to speak about this - especially the sexual abuse. “Shattered Innocence” takes us on

This book is written by a counselor who rehabilitates offenders. The author gives insight into sibling sexual abuse—the causes, the effects and the devastating statistics.

Sibling Abuse: Hidden Physical, Emotional, and Sexual Trauma Second Edition by Vernon R. Wiehe

My Pain is My Power by Tanisha Bankston.

Sibling Sexual Abuse: A Guide for Confronting America’s Silent Epidemic by Brad Watts.

Thriving After Sexual Abuse: Break Your Bondage to the Past and Live a Life You Love by Denise Bossarte. This book is an eloquent and empathetic self-development book laying out a blueprint for survivors to heal themselves. Bossarte writes with fierce candor as she shares her own traumatic experience with childhood sexual abuse.

The Survivors Club by Nubia DuVall Wilson Eva wakes up and finds herself in a 1920s lounge with four strangers. One by one, each is mysteriously pulled back in time by an invisible force to keep an unknown boy named Quentin alive. With no sense of time and no way out, the group becomes entangled in a life or death situation, while they piece together a puzzle that reveals more than a complicated boyhood. Ultimately, each stranger has a secret that creates more unity than they could have imagined.

Understanding Female Sexual Offenders to Protect Youths and Children by Whitney Ezeh This book explains why and how female abusers prey on both youths and teens and how one can avoid them.

What Do I Do Now? A Survival Guide for Mothers of Sexually Abused Children (MOSAC) by Mel Langston PhD and Leona Puma. What do I do now? is a mother’s cry after she learns her child has been sexually abused. A mother’s belief in her child’s disclosure and her active support and protection after disclosure are essential to recovery from the horror of sexual abuse

Considering Family Reconnection and Reunification after Child Sexual Abuse: A Road Map for Advocates and Service Providers by Joan Tabachnick. Few topics stir up such deeply emotional responses as the sexual abuse of a child. When we began talking about this guide we were met with a range of reactions from anger and fear to a deep appreciation for taking on a project that will provide a thoughtful examination of this important issue.

Engaging Bystanders in Sexual Violence Prevention by Joan Tabachnick.

The Ugliest Word by Annie Margis tells the story of a little girl named Lark whose father is molesting her, as she navigates childhood, and the woman she becomes. An aspiring writer and artist, Lark’s spunk and creativity buoy her as the abuse progresses. The Ugliest Word is for those who survived childhood incest and for everyone who loves a survivor, is friends with or works with one.

Victim 2 Victor by Anu Verma. This inspiring and brutally honest memoir details the struggle for survival and the search for healing and happiness. Raised in abuse and navigating through consequences, a young, broken soul finds the strength to embark on a journey to reclaim her self-worth. Her inspiring journey is a lifelong struggle to find self-worth on the ruins of self-esteem.

FREE PUBLIC EDUCATION MATERIAL

This booklet reviews the concept of bystander intervention and some factors that lead people to act. It considers who bystanders are and some circumstances that would motivate people to get involved.

A Reasoned Approach: Reshaping Sex Offender Policy to Prevent Child Sexual Abuse by Joan Tabachnick, and Alisa Klein. Published in April 2011, provides an in-depth analysis of current sex offender policies and their impact on preventing child sexual abuse.

Let’s Talk, Adults Talking to Adults about Child Sexual Abuse by Stop It Now!. Educational Brochure about talking with someone when you are concerned about their behaviors.

BOOKS FOR KIDS and Childhood Sexual Abuse by Margie McKinnon (Author), and Tom W. McKinnon (Illustrator) R.E.P.A.I.R is Recognition, Entry, Process, Awareness, Insight, and Rhythm. Enter a Six-Stage Program with your child to cross the Bridge of Recovery and make available a whole new world of hope.

Behavioral Therapy). Includes a reproducible story, assessment and treatment activities, and detailed parent handouts. Geared to children aged 4 to 12.

30 Days of Sex Talks for Ages 8-11: Empowering Your Child with Knowledge of Sexual Intimacy by Educate and Empower Kids. This is a series that helps you discuss sex education as a family. Having these talks with your child will establish a pattern of healthy conversations for the future. As you move through the discussions, these interactions will gain depth and your relationship will strengthen. Your child will become more comfortable talking to you about anything as he or she grows into the healthy, knowledgeable person he or she will become.

Good Pictures Bad Pictures Jr.: A Simple Plan to Protect Young Minds by Kristen A. Jenson (Author), Debbie Fox (Illustrator) It’s not if our kids come across pornography, it’s when. This is a great book for parents to read to kids about why pornography can be harmful.

Some Secrets Should Never Be Kept by Jayneen Sanders (Author), and Craig Smith (Illustrator). A beautifully illustrated children’s picture book that sensitively broaches the subject of keeping children safe from inappropriate touch.

How to Protect Kids from Sexual Abuse Body Safety Toolkit by Defend Young Minds. For parents and professionals. Help your child create a body safety plan and learn to recognize and report 3 “red flag” situations to stay safe. Every child deserves to be empowered with self-defense!

Cory Helps Kids Cope with Sexual Abuse First Edition by Liana Lowenstein This therapeutic story and collection of creative activities are designed to help children cope with sexual abuse and trauma. Therapeutic games, art, puppets, and other engaging techniques address the eight components of TF-CBT (Trauma-Focused Cognitive

I Said No! A Kid-to-kid Guide to Keeping Private Parts Private by Kimberly King and Zack King (Authors) and Sue Rama (Illustrator) Helping kids set healthy boundaries for their private parts can be a daunting and awkward task. Written from a kid’s point of view, I Said No! makes this task a lot easier.

Please Tell: A Child’s Story About Sexual Abuse (Early Steps) by Jessie Written and illustrated by a young girl who was sexually molested by a family member, this book reaches out to other children in a way that no adult can, Jessie’s words carry the message, “It’s o.k. to tell; help can come when you tell. Tootles the Turtle Tells the Truth by Lenell Levy Melancon. This is a lovely book that playfully walks a child through a story about someone scaring a child into not telling. The characters ask interactive questions at the end of the book to engage readers in a candid discussion of good, bad and scary secrets.

Repair for Kids: A Children’s Program for Recovery from Incest

BOOKS FOR TEENS

Ascend, a Zine for teen survivors of sexual assault and friends. Ascend supports young people who are survivors of sexual assault.

From acclaimed author Kate Messner comes Chirp, the powerful story of a young girl with the courage to make her voice heard, set against the backdrop of a summertime mystery.

Ten-year-old Della has always had her older sister, Suki. When their mom went to prison, Della had Suki. When their mom’s boyfriend took them in, Della had Suki. When that same boyfriend did something so awful they had to run fast, Della had Suki. Suki is Della’s own wolf--her protector. But who has been protecting Suki? Della might get told off for swearing at school, but she has always known how to keep quiet where it counts. Then Suki tries to kill herself, and Della’s world turns so far upside down, it feels like it’s shaking her by the ankles. Maybe she’s been quiet about the wrong things. Maybe it’s time to be loud.

When Mia moves to Vermont the summer after seventh grade, she’s recovering from the broken arm she got falling off a balance beam. And packed away in the moving boxes under her clothes and gymnastics trophies is a secret she’d rather forget.

Caprice by Coe Booth, written with extreme sensitivity and honesty for middle-grade readers, is a painful but ultimately healing novel about finding support from your parents and friends, articulating your truth, and choosing your own path. As Caprice tries to figure out her future, she is pulled back toward her past, and the abuse she endured from her uncle when she was little -- an abuse she’s never told anyone about.

Fighting Words by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley In this powerful novel that explodes the stigma around child sexual abuse and leavens an intense tale with compassion and humor, Kimberly Brubaker Bradley tells a story about two sisters, linked by love and trauma, who must find their own voices before they can find their way back to each other.

It Happened on Saturday by Sydney Dunlap. Thirteen-yearold Julia would much rather work with horses at the rescue barn than worry about things like dating and makeup. But when her BFF meets a boy at camp, Julia’s determined not to get left behind. After a makeover from her older sister, she posts a picture of herself online and gets a comment from Tyler a seemingly nice kid who lives across town. As they DM more and more, Julia’s sure that Tyler understands her in a way her family never has. Even better, their relationship earns her tons of attention at school. Then Julia finds out Tyler’s true plan…

Let’s Talk About It by Erika Moen and Matthew Nolan. The Teen’s Guide to Sex, Relationships, and Being a Human. Inclusive, accessible and honest graphic novel guide to growing up, from gender and sexuality to consent and safe sex. Perfect for any teen starting to ask questions.

The Secrets We Keep by Cassie Gustofson In the vein of The Way I Used to Be and Kelly Loy Gilbert’s Conviction, this “exceedingly well-written, powerful, and suspenseful” young adult novel follows a girl’s struggle to reconcile friendship, sexual abuse, and the secrets we bury deep down inside to survive. High school freshman Emma Clark harbors a secret—a secret so vile it could implode her whole world, a secret she’s managed to keep buried…until the day her best friend, Hannah, accuses Emma’s father of a heinous crime.

ONLINE SUPPORT ONLINE SUPPORT GROUPS FOR SURVIVORS:

1 in 6 sponsors free anonymous chat-based support groups for male survivors of sexual abuse seeking a community of support. Sessions are offered Monday through Friday. These written chat (no audio or video) groups focus on education and mutual support for males and are facilitated by a counselor. 5Waves promoting Worldwide Awareness, Voice, Education, and Support around Sibling Sexual Trauma—child sexual abuse caused by a sibling. Defend Young Minds We call it “digital self-defense.” Let our bestselling books, curriculum, guides and newsletter help you raise empowered, resilient, screensmart kids. Exodus Cry is committed to abolishing sex trafficking and breaking the cycle of commercial sexual exploitation while assisting and empowering its victims. Enough Abuse is a citizen education and community mobilization initiative working to prevent child sexual abuse in our homes, schools, youth organizations and communities. We are providing adults and communities with the knowledge and skills they need to put an end to the silence, and eventually, the epidemic of child sexual abuse. Healing PTSD Naturally Kathryn Berg, of Lotus Homeopathy offers support on Facebook for people who suffer from PTSD to help them discover natural methods of dealing with PTSD, no matter what the cause. This group supports all trauma not only sexual abuse survivors. HelpRoom Offered by 360 Communites an affiliate of RAIIN, HelpRoom is an anonymous online group chat option that allows members of the community who have been affected by sexual violence to connect with one another. Trained staff facilitate group discussions to ensure a safe environment for all visitors to discuss topics and experiences related to sexual violence.

Hidden Water Healing Circles meet weekly — either in-person or online — and are designed to enable participants to find the growing edge of their healing alongside others who have had similar experiences with childhood sexual abuse. Incest AWARE is a group for those working to end incest and help survivors of incest abuse to heal. Isurvive is an online abuse survivor support group. Their forums/chat rooms are open to adult survivors and their loved ones seeking to heal from all forms of abuse including sexual, physical, verbal, emotional and ritual. Jane Epstein is a website and blog for sibling sexual abuse survivors. The Lamplighter Movement is dedicated to recovery from incest and child sexual abuse. They have chapters located throughout the US that organize groups for survivors. MASOC is the Massachusetts Society for a World Free of Sexual Harm by Youth. Since our founding in 1986, MASOC has provided education and training services to professionals; educated legislators on emerging issues; and coordinated efforts with the partners critical to this important work. National Association of Adult Survivors of Child Abuse NAASCA has a list of recovery groups and services worldwide for adult survivors of abuse, including incest. Their online daytime recovery meetings are an open discussion forum about child abuse trauma and recovery and are hosted by volunteer members. NSVRC (National Sexual Violence Resource Center) has compiled a list of linkable websites and resources offering support and help for survivors, which includes links to support groups. Sexual Assault Advocacy Network (SAAN) Facebook Group was founded to support the people who support sexual violence survivors. Their active Facebook group connects survivoradvocates who are working to support other incest and other

sexual abuse survivors, change policy and raise awareness. RAINN’s National Resources for Sexual Assault Survivors and their Loved Ones resources and references. SiblingsToo Podcast The voice of sibling sexual abuse survivors and their families. Reducing stigma with heartfelt stories and real science.

Stop It Now! Stop it Now! Prevents the sexual abuse of children by mobilizing adults, families, and communities through direct support, information, and resources to take actions that protect children before they are harmed. Survivors Of Childhood Trauma is a friendly Facebook group that offers help and advice to fellow survivors from all walks of life. Survivors of Incest Anonymous (SIA) is a 12-step recovery program for adult survivors of incest. They offer a range of peersupport groups including virtual, phone and in-person – all free of cost. Their website also contains resources and information of interest to incest survivors. Wings Support Groups offers a variety of virtual and in-person groups in the Denver Metro area. Wings supports adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse to live their fullest, healthiest lives as they speak about, heal from and thrive beyond CSA trauma.

SUPPORT FOR FAMILIES OF SURVIVORS

M*OASIS Support (Mothers* Of Adult Survivors of Incest and Sexual Abuse) is a resource website and blog for anyone looking to understand how to support a survivor of incest and sexual abuse. StopSO Support for Families Online Group is a safe and supportive space for family members of a sexual offender or for family members of someone who is worried that they may cause sexual harm. (StopSO also provides services for those at risk of offending and concerned about their thoughts or behavior.).

JOURNAL ARTICLES

Uncovering Female Child Sexual Offenders—Needs and Challenges for Practice and Research The Proportion of Sexual Offenders Who Are Female Is Higher Than Thought: A MetaAnalysis Authors Franca Cortoni, Kelly M Babchishin, and Clémence Rat Insights on Female Sex Offenders from the Missouri Registry

SEARCHABLE DATABASE

Psychology Today’s website has a “Find a Therapist” directory of therapists, psychiatrists, treatment centers and support groups located throughout the US that is searchable by city or zip code.

ONLINE ARTICLES

Insights on Female Sex Offenders from the Missouri Registry by Elias Ghossoub and Nadia El Harake. The sociocultural description of women as being nurturing, non-aggressive and, more significantly, nonsexual has diverted the attention from female sexual offending. The true rate is remarkably higher because the care-taking behavior of women masks their sexual offenses. The Proportion of Sexual Offenders Who Are Female Is Higher Than Thought: A MetaAnalysis by Franca Cortoni, Kelly M Babchishin, and Clémence Rat. Women commit sexual offenses, but the proportion of sexual offenders who are female is subject to debates. Uncovering Female Child Sexual Offenders—Needs and Challenges for Practice and Research by Safiye Tozdan, Peer Briken and Arne Dekker. This article provides a short literature overview on female child sexual offenders (FCSO) focusing on the discrepancy between prevalence rates from different sources, characteristics of FCSO and their victims, as well as the societal “culture of denial” surrounding these women.

Voices Heard shatters the long held silence of sexual abuse survivors through story-telling and expressive arts.