Learning to Trust Again

When I was a child, something began that continued for several years.

I would spend weekends visiting a family member. At first, it felt special - extra treats, extra attention. But one night, something changed. Boundaries were crossed in a way I didn’t understand at the time. I froze. I didn’t have the words for what was happening, and I didn’t tell anyone. Instead, I pushed the memory down as far as I could. I convinced myself it was nothing.

A few years later, at school, it happened again. This time by someone in a position of authority. I was young. He was trusted and respected. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, only that it made me feel scared and confused. I would freeze when it happened. I blamed myself. I thought maybe I had somehow encouraged it. I didn’t realise at the time that it was abuse.

It wasn’t until years later, when I told someone I trusted, that I heard the words spoken clearly: what happened to you was not okay.

Reporting it didn’t lead to the outcome I hoped for. Too much time had passed. That added another layer of pain, feeling like there was no justice, no accountability.

As I grew older, the weight of everything began to show in other ways. I struggled deeply with my mental health. I reached very low points. I coped in unhealthy ways. I tried to numb the pain. I hurt my body. I starved it. I overworked it. I searched for comfort and validation in places that left me feeling emptier.

There were times I didn’t want to be here anymore.

When professionals and authorities became involved, things at home became complicated. Conversations about what had happened were painful and, at times, dismissive. I felt unheard. I felt alone in something that had shaped my entire childhood.

I’ve lost relationships because I didn’t know how to manage the pain I was carrying. I’ve questioned my identity, my worth, and whether I deserve love at all.

Some days, I still feel lost.

But I am speaking now and that matters.

What happened to me was not my fault. Freezing was not consent. Silence was survival. Coping in the only ways I knew how does not make me broken.

I am still here, even when it feels heavy and somewhere inside me, there is still a part that wants healing, even if I don’t always know what that looks like yet.

- Hope