“This Is What Being Brave Means for Me”
Sunday Paper Editor’s Note: This story contains content that readers may find disturbing, including mention of sexual assault.
Brave has been my word this year.
I am a teacher, and that word card has stayed on my classroom wall all year, not so much for phonics, but because I needed the reminder. I needed to hold on to my faith.
My story is not unique. I know that this type of bravery is one that many women have shown. However, our stories are not widely known.
“What if the worst thing happened, and you rose anyway?”
My good friend wrote these words on a card for my birthday. When I was 20-years-old, I was a college student with big dreams. One night, I woke from a deep sleep to realize that I was suffocating. A man was using a pillow to smother my face. I thought it was a nightmare. Then I realized it was real.
I fought, squirmed, and pushed the pillow. But he was so much stronger than me. He pressed a knife against my stomach and told me he would kill me if I screamed or struggled. “Shut up! I’m going to kill you!” He kept repeating.
I could never see him because he slipped a towel over my eyes and pressed his hands over it. Then he pressed the knife against my throat.
I begged him, “Please. No.”
His knees were on my hips. His hands pressed on my face and shoulders.
I cried out, “Please God, help me!”
That was the worst thing that ever happened. My dad, a homicide detective, had to get me from the hospital that night.
For many months I stayed in bed, frozen, afraid someone was going to break in, even though I was safe in my father’s house. Officials could not find him. DNA testing had not yet been invented. So, as he lived his life, I suffered from PTSD.
Later, I went through months of counseling at a local rape crisis center. I remember using a wiffle ball bat and hitting a foam thing over and over, screaming and raging, cheered on by my counselor. When you’re a 20-year-old college student, all you want to do is get back to being a 20-year-old college student. You want to get back to being a friend, a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a granddaughter, a student. You want to get back to adventurous dreams and plans that you have for your life.
And that is what I did. I buried the memory and did not talk about it with anyone. I lived my life and became a mother. I loved and persevered. All the while, the man who assaulted me was out in the world.
Then last year, something unexpected happened. A detective came to my door and said they found the man. Investigators linked him to two similar cases of sexual assault from decades ago. They tracked him down through DNA, technology that did not exist when he assaulted me.
The detective told each of us victims. He flew to our homes to share the news with us in person rather than by phone or email. He wanted us to know this man had been caught.
As I sat on my couch with the detective, listening to the news, my PTSD returned in real time. My body started to shake uncontrollably. The detective was a kind and compassionate man who said he would stay as long as I needed to process.
Then he told me something I could not believe: Although they had found the man, they could not prosecute him because they must follow the law at the time of the crime. My assault happened in 1989, when the statute of limitations was seven years.
“I am sorry. We can’t change the law,” the detective said to me.
This is where brave comes in. How do I move forward knowing this man is out there, unable to be prosecuted for his assaults? How do I stay brave for myself, for the other women he hurt, and for every woman who has gone through something like this? How do I change the law and fight for justice?
I am figuring that out, day by day.
There is a song by Alita Langford that goes:
“She is a warrior, a warrior
Ain't nothin' gonna slow her down
She is a warrior, a warrior
She's taking this battleground.”
I will be honest: Most days, I don’t feel brave. I want to be strong and persevere, because that is what I’ve always done. That is how my son thinks of me. But what if one day my strength runs out?
I know there are many, many women with similar stories. If I can help just one, it will be worth it.
I think about a young woman I met recently through a volunteer organization that helps single mothers. She gave me a glimpse of her traumatic young life. I saw her bravery. I saw her beauty and perseverance as she moved through each day, a loving single mom walking with her two little boys. And although we have had different paths and trauma, we share the need to move forward. We both must keep going. We must be brave and strong for the sake of our children.
And we must share and listen to our stories.
I don’t want to be quiet anymore. We are stronger when we band together and demand justice.
When I pray, sometimes I hear, Be still. Trust God’s plan. I am trying to remember to listen to that voice. I will not accept that this criminal is free. I will continue to educate myself and contact the district attorney’s office for answers. I will fight to change this law and to bring justice to countless women and families.
And I will continue to live my life, embracing the joy and love that this world has to offer. I will look at my son with pride. I will care for myself. I will lean into therapy. I will scratch the tender ears of my dog, Lucy. I will revel in my morning coffee and laugh at my students’ jokes.
I will do all of this and more—and I will do it with grace, listening to the Holy Spirit. Strong and determined.
Moment by moment, brave will continue to be my word.
If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, help is available. Contact the National Sexual Assault Hotline at: 800-656-HOPE (4673)
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