I was just 7, and I was raped.
That’s the truth. There’s no softer way to say it, and I’m tired of circling around the word like it’s the problem.
I was a child. I didn’t understand what was happening, and I didn’t consent because a 7-year-old cannot consent. I didn’t tell anyone. I stayed quiet and learned how to keep going, how to act normal, how to carry it without letting it show.
I grew up around the secret. I learned how to smile on cue, how to be “fine,” how to keep my voice steady even when my body wasn’t. People saw a kid who adjusted. What they didn’t see was the constant work watching rooms, measuring distance, flinching and then pretending I didn’t. I learned early that silence keeps things from getting worse, even when it makes you lonelier.
I’m venting now because the weight doesn’t disappear just because I’m older. It lives in my reactions, in the way fear shows up without asking, in the exhaustion of always managing myself. Time didn’t fix it. Time just taught me how to hide it better.
I don’t want this minimized. I don’t want it reframed into something easier to hear. What happened was rape. It mattered. It changed me. None of that is my fault. The shame isn’t mine, and I’m done carrying it like it is.
I’m saying this here because it’s the only place I can say it plainly. No performance. No explanations. Just the truth, finally put somewhere outside my body. And that alone naming it, owning the reality of it is a step toward not letting it rot in silence anymore.