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You Are a Real Survivor

UNTRUE STORY
There is a “real” survivor out there, and I am not it

BUT TRUTHFULLY
Our pain is real and worthy of healing

In The Sound of Music, a film that had me explaining to my gentile friends way too young what Nazis were, Julie Andrews sang, “Let’s start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.” The best place to start is the untrue story that prevents so many of us from getting the support that we deserve. Perhaps it is even coming up for you at this moment, making you think this book isn’t for you.

That untrue story sounds like this: “I am not a ‘real’ survivor because _______.” At that underlined part right there, you can insert any of the hundreds of reasons that may be coming up for you. Maybe it’s because you were harmed by a woman, or perhaps the person harmed others with greater frequency than they did you. Maybe you don’t know what to call what you’ve been through, or you don’t remember clearly what happened, or you’ve never told anyone about it, or perhaps your mind can think of a way of blaming yourself for the abuse. Or maybe it’s for the countless other reasons I’ve come across.

Before we go any further, even if you swear to me that, for some reason, you are not a real survivor: your trauma is very real. Your pain is real, and it matters, no matter what you call it—I promise.

I also promise that whatever you fill in the blank with in “Mad Libs^™: Rape Culture Edition! Game,” you are in the best company, and it’s very likely that I’ve heard your reason many times before. I can emphatically assure you that no matter what comes up for you, this is not your fault. You did not “invent” your untrue story. We live in a world that implicitly and explicitly tells them. Please be gentle with yourself!

I’ve been publicly writing about my survivorship for six years now, traveled around the country talking about CSA, and supported thousands of survivors in their healing, and yet when things feel triggering, new, scary, or challenging, this untrue story pops back in. It sounds like a record of a song that gets stuck in my head ad nauseam (think ’90s dance classic “Cotton-Eyed Joe”) that tells me I am not a real survivor, and maybe I’m just crazy and making this all up.

Oh, how I would love to shatter that record into a thousand little shards on the floor, but it isn’t that simple. This shit runs deep. That song comes from decades of being told by our culture and people close to me that my pain wasn’t real and it didn’t count. The good news is, with loads of practice and strategies that I’ll be sharing with you, I am able to turn the volume down on that record with increasing ease and swiftness. In these pages, we will turn the volume down together. Remember: there is no way to be good or bad at exploring our untrue stories. We are just thinking, reflecting, and practicing together.

I'm in this with you, and I didn't feel like a “real” survivor either

Since you and I just met, I want to give you a quick overview of my fun little trauma history, so you can understand where I’m coming from, while hopefully avoiding any triggers for you. Okay, I’m going to inhale deeply and try to do this all in one breath, like I’m running a live auction:

Although I spent every other weekend with my biological father ever since my parents divorced when I was a baby, I spent the vast majority of my time with my mom and loving stepfather, whom I will call Jack. My mom married Jack when I was just three years old, and he was a wonderful, supportive man who cared for me as his own child. He and my mother gave us a beautiful home in the suburbs of Washington, DC, filled with laughter, wisdom, and deep-in-the-bones kind of love.

This privileged upbringing they provided has impacted my life and healing in countless ways. Growing up around that kind of love, respect, and admiration fueled my childhood resilience. But when I was 20 years old, all of that changed. In between my sophomore and junior years of college, Jack died of cancer. His death shook every thread of safety and stability I had. In the midst of my grief, the floodgates of my dormant childhood trauma blew wide open.

In the weeks after Jack’s death, I began having sporadic nightmares of my biological father sexually abusing me but wouldn’t tell even my therapist about them for another two years. I was diagnosed with PTSD, founded in the trauma of Jack dying, but in retrospect I understand that the trauma I was reliving extended beyond him and was tapping into a childhood full of abuse.

Phew—okay, I’m out of breath.

I didn't talk about my trauma because I was sure that people would think I was crazy

It took two years of experiencing nightmares and other severe symptoms to tell my therapist about them. I was afraid to tell my therapist because, like so many survivors, I didn’t think I was telling her my father had sexually abused me. No, I was sure I was telling her I was a sick human, because the nightmares made me fear I was complicit or cooperative. I was confident that she’d tell me I was a broken, delusional person.

Luckily, my therapist was hella trauma-informed (Thanks, Connie! You’re a gem!) and immediately took what I was saying to her as an indication not that something was wrong with me but rather that something wrong happened to me. I started learning about the relationship between CSA and memory, and how it is normal for survivors to not remember clearly what happened to them but to remember via body memories.

But I still struggled with the label of survivor. I wanted to claim it, but it didn’t feel like mine to hold. In my version of the untrue story, that word was reserved for the people who clearly remembered their abuse.

Even as I was preparing to launch HealingHonestly.com to talk openly about what it meant to be a young person healing from CSA, I feared connecting with other survivors. I’d dip my toe into Facebook groups and find myself convinced that everyone else was a “real” survivor and I didn’t belong. When connecting with other public survivors, I would brace myself for the inevitable rush of internal voices that would come roaring at me that called me a fraud, a liar, and a drama queen.

Then I had a life-changing conversation over burgers with an old friend

A few months after launching the website, an old friend from college, Chris, asked me out for drinks. We hadn’t seen each other in years, and over beers at a local bar in DC, he told me that he had asked to meet because he was also a survivor and had been quietly following my writing.

I was floored. While he and I had always been friendly, I had mostly seen him as a local celebrity I was lucky to know, who rose to prominence as a civil rights leader within our community while I was also busy running a large nonprofit on campus. We had both spent college admiring one another in all our overachieving tendencies, having no idea we were struggling with the same immense shit.

As Chris shared the details of his abuse, I found the familiar harmful voices swirling in my head. I was trying so hard to stay present with him but could only think of myself. I remember hearing in my head, “Now that’s a real survivor. He knows exactly when/where/what happened to him. Not like you, you fraud.”

Then Chris said something that truly changed my life. As he began to conclude the story of his abuse that he had shared with such clarity and honesty, his voice shifted into a dismissive tone as he said, “But you know, it only happened once. Not like you. Yours has happened more times.” As if to say, once didn’t count. Once? NBD.

Here we were, sitting inches apart in a booth across half-eaten burgers, sharing harrowing details of our experiences as children going through the worst shit, simultaneously thinking to ourselves, “Yeah, it wasn’t good, but that person across from me is the real survivor, not me.”

I nearly cried when I recognized that he was minimizing his trauma the same way as I did. When I told him I had been feeling the exact same way, we both laughed, a mixture of relief and a realization of how fucking ridiculous it is to exist in the world as CSA survivors.

Thinking I wasn’t a real survivor wasn’t about me and my story. If Chris could feel this way, then any of us could. That night began my journey to explore why so many of us feel like this, what forces in the world are creating this invalidating hell for survivors, and how we can hear our own truth more clearly.

I invite you to gently consider your own version of this untrue story

Do you also hear voices that say you aren’t a real survivor? What do those voices sound like; what do you find them saying? Those voices can make us feel the most invalidating feelings: our pain doesn’t count, we are overreacting, others won’t honor our truth.

Sometimes reflecting on this untrue story can bring up old feelings that we are being overly dramatic or too sensitive, internalized messages from our childhood. “The voices in my head that tell me I’m not a ‘real survivor’ say that I’m just trying to get attention, that I’m looking for something that will make me ‘special’ or that I can use to excuse bad behavior,” shared Carla, a survivor.

What is important to remember as you reflect on your own version of this untrue story is that it isn’t your fault you hear this inner narrative, even if it sounds eerily like your own voice. You are not being too sensitive. You are not exaggerating. Your pain is real and it matters.

This is usually the point in reading a book about trauma that my anxiety poops start coming on. So if that’s happening for you, please, for the love of God, take a break, go to the bathroom, hit up the Imodium or a ginger tea, and take your time continuing on. We will still be here post–bubble gut.

What are the origins of the bullshit?

There are people I trusted who reinforced my untrue story

The people closest to us can have the greatest impact on our thinking. The super bummer is that these people often have repeated our untrue stories and may cause us to feel more shame and blame.

My people who added to my feeling that I wasn’t a real survivor were my family members (now extremely supportive, but not then). When I first told them what I was going through when I was 23, I felt comfortable disclosing that I suspected my father had sexually abused me. I hoped they would take my words and rally around me and support my decision to cut him out of my life. It seemed simple, especially because my parents hadn’t been married since I was a baby, and it was no secret to my mom’s family that my dad hadn’t been a good parent.

But what I received for the next four years was a series of invalidating questions like, “Well, how do you really know this happened?” and actions that showed me that my family didn’t think of me as a survivor, including not respecting my need to have zero contact with my father.

Knowing what I know now, from supporting thousands of other survivors dealing with CSA within their families, is that our family’s resistance has to do with them, not us. In the case of my family, they were invalidating my survivorship because it was too painful for them to process that they had failed to protect me from this pain. During those years, they denied my abuse because of the shame they felt over not having stopped this from happening to a child they loved. Unfortunately for me, their shame was contagious and caught onto me, even though it wasn’t mine to hold.

I know I am not alone in having experiences with family members that leave us feeling like maybe our trauma wasn’t real. Bryanna, a CSA survivor, shared with me, “When I told my mom for the first time that I thought I was sexually abused, she called me a liar and said that my therapist was feeding me this information. She then went on to tell my family lies about my experience and created her own narrative. This negative experience in sharing my story makes me doubt whether I am a real survivor.”

It is important that we can recognize with whom our need for validation lies. Is there a person, or people, in your life who you think hold the key to making you feel like you’re a real survivor? In what ways do you think their response was about you, and in what ways was their response motivated by their own shame, ignorance, or other feelings? By thinking critically about the role that people close to us have played in our self-doubt, we can begin to see that the self-doubting narrative isn’t actually ours and that their words are not rooted in our truth.

We can move that validation inward onto ourselves (yes, it is really hard!), regardless of other people’s feelings. It’s okay if that doesn’t feel like a possibility for you right now—remember, we have nine-and-a-half more chapters together. So don’t worry, my friend, we have lots of time to get into these really complicated feelings—I know, what a fun time to look forward to!

The myth of the perfect survivor is everywhere

Across popular culture, the legal system, and even some survivor advocacy spaces, we see the myth of the perfect victim, which says that there is a “good” survivor worthy of attention, justice, support, and healing, and then there’s everyone else. The privileges we hold directly correspond to the impact of the myth. Because I’m a cisgender hetero college-educated white woman from money, my privileges mean that I am punished less for my departures from the myth.

Still, the myth of the perfect survivor is relevant to everyone. There isn’t a single survivor whose story holds up under these pop culture standards of who is a real victim.

HERE’S WHAT THE MYTHICAL PERFECT VICTIM LOOKS LIKE

The mythical, nonexistent perfect victim is a white cisgender heterosexual woman. She remembers exactly what happened and has irrefutable evidence. She is well-educated, can perfectly articulate her harm with the right kind of emotion to demonstrate that she is upset and was harmed, but is not so emotional that she appears unstable and hysterical.

She immediately reported what happened to the police, using the correct tones to tug at heartstrings but seem like she was really injured, with the evidence neat and organized but not too organized, or else, like, that’s not realistic, right? She would like her abuser to be in prison for the rest of his life. She has never gotten into any “trouble” before or spoken a negative word about any living thing in her life. She also has never expressed any interest in her sexuality and doesn’t even have knowledge about sex other than being vigilant about the risk of sexual violence.

She goes to talk therapy and does yoga and doesn’t self-medicate with alcohol, plant-based medicine, or any other drugs. She talks about what happened to her not too much, but just enough to seem palatable and safe for people. She does not challenge any systems of power: family, workplace, criminal justice system, or patriarchy. She publicly forgives the person who harmed her and doesn’t seem too angry (but also not too indifferent and cold!) and leaves her trauma “in the past.” She’s no longer a survivor; she’s a thriver! Also, she shits rainbows and pees liquid gold and recently cured cancer. Mazel tov to her!

Every single one of us deviates in some, or many, ways from this description. If it weren’t one aspect of our survivorship, then it would be something else. The world would point and say, okay, but for this reason you are not worthy of support, validation, and justice. Deviating from this mythic victim isn’t a bad thing, even though the world tries to tell us it is!

As well as the myth of the perfect victim, we also have the myth of the boogeyman abuser. These two myths uphold one another.

HERE’S WHAT THE MYTHICAL BOOGEYMAN ABUSER LOOKS LIKE

The mythical boogeyman abuser is a cisgender man who is a stranger to the victim. The man who harmed her is generally considered to be a bad person with zero redeemable qualities, with a long proven rap sheet of harming people. No one loves him; no one even thinks of him in a neutral way. He is not in any meaningful positions of power or a valued member of any communities. He is low-income and uneducated. The myth of the boogeyman abuser is a tool of white supremacy, and therefore the mythical boogeyman abuser is a man of color, specifically a Black man. When he goes to prison, no one will weep for him or have any compassion for the inhumane treatment he may find while incarcerated.

These two myths are a binary

In this myth, someone is either a victim or an abuser and cannot have both been victimized and also caused harm. Which, as you may have already guessed, is absolute hot garbage bullshit.

The myth of this victim/abuser binary means that we, as survivors, are not supposed to see the humanity in the person who harmed us and should only see them as a monster. This can make us feel guilty if we have feelings of compassion or positive memories of the person who harmed us. The idea that we are supposed to feel a certain way about the people who harmed us is nonsense! However you feel, no matter how conflicting it may be inside you, is never, ever wrong.

We do not need to be perfectly good, nor our abuser perfectly evil, for our pain to be real and matter.

Many people who sexually abuse children were themselves sexually abused as kids. It’s super hard to talk about, which of course means we’ll talk about it much more! This isn’t to say that having been sexually abused justifies our abusing someone else or makes us fated to repeat abuse. No, never! But the binary of victim/abuser makes it impossible for us to have honest conversations about abuse, and it can feel so silencing when we reckon with the fact that victims aren’t perfect humans and abusers may themselves also have been victims.

Why does the perfect-victim/boogeyman-abuser myth exist?

This myth makes it easier for people and systems of power to ignore the violence we experience at epidemic rates and not have to face the role they’ve played in allowing the violence to continue. If people and institutions can find a way to say, “Well, maybe this person isn’t very believable or credible” or “That abuser isn’t a person, he’s a monster,” then they don’t have to face the reality that (1) child sexual abuse exists in every community and is common in families, and (2) we live in a culture that allows for it to continue.

This myth is all around us. It comes up when a male survivor publicly shares his story and people say that because of his gender, he can’t actually be a victim. It comes up when people dismiss and joke about the sexual violence that occurs in prisons. It comes up when people adamantly resist finding out that some beloved celebrity or politician sexually harmed someone else. What’s an example of where you’ve seen this myth played out?

How do race, gender identity, and sexual orientation intersect with the myth of the perfect victim?

While all of us are negatively impacted by this myth, we are not all equally impacted. Forms of oppression, including homophobia, transphobia, white supremacy, classism, and ableism, all come into play within the myth.

Countless stories of perfect white women victimhood were made up to justify lynching Black people, as in the case of Emmett Till, a Black boy lynched because white people claimed he spoke to a white woman. In many cases, the white woman victim story was also created to deny the truth of consenting interracial relationships. Victimhood was co-opted to uphold white supremacy and patriarchy. This history is still very much alive today, where survivors of color are even more ruthlessly invalidated, and the abstract idea of victimized white women is used as a talking point to defend a racist incarceration system.

Society erases survivors who were harmed by women, survivors who are trans, survivors who are nonbinary, and survivors who are men. To quote the musical Spring Awakening: It’s totally fucked. This is particularly wild when talking about child sexual abuse because it is nearly as likely to happen to boys as to girls. Again, approximately one in four girls and one in six boys experience sexual violence before their 18th birthday.¹ My website’s readership is slightly more than half men.

This narrow way of thinking of gender and who gets to be a victim leaves huge swaths of CSA survivors invalidated and without sufficient healing resources. Parker, a male CSA survivor, put it this way: “There are very few groups and places to talk about CSA, but ones geared specifically towards male-identified folks just simply don’t exist. So we’re stuck in a cycle of wanting help but being unable to find it.” Robby describes this dynamic leaving him hardly ever feeling understood. “I constantly feel guilty when I share my experience with others—I feel like others will only see it as attention-seeking, or selfish, or dramatic, and so I rarely share. I have never met another adult male survivor of child abuse in person, or at least one that I know of, because we don’t talk about it.”

Jaden Fields, the codirector of Mirror Memoirs, a national abolitionist organization intervening in rape culture by uplifting the narratives, healing, and leadership of BIPOC LGBTQIA child sexual abuse survivors, explained to me, “Gender nonconformity is a risk factor for sexual abuse.” In accordance with a 2012 study conducted by the American Academy of Pediatrics, specifically male-assigned children between ages 7 and 11 who are gender nonconforming are six times more likely to be sexually abused than their gender-conforming peers.²

Transphobia and homophobia tell a lie that people who are queer and/or trans are somehow more likely to be predatory and sexually abuse children. This lie was created and is perpetuated to justify the oppression of queer and trans people. The reality is that people who are queer and/or trans are at greater risk of being victims.

“If we follow that number that they are six times more likely, then that means likely most male-assigned people who were gender nonconforming as kids, most trans women, and most nonbinary male-assigned people were sexually abused as children. Yet, so much of the survivor-led work centers the idea that the most vulnerable are cis gender white girls,” shared Jaden.

Jaden explained that not only does the myth of the perfect survivor fail and harm anyone who deviates from it, but also the myth completely erases the history of the movement to end sexual violence. “In 1866, Frances Thompson, a formerly enslaved Black trans woman, was the first person on record who ever testified about her rape before a congressional committee in the United States,” he said. LGBTQIA survivors of color have always been on the forefront of advocating for the rights of survivors and an end to sexual violence.

The myth also completely ignores the fact that children with disabilities are three times more likely to be sexually abused than their peers without disabilities. (That rate is even higher among children with intellectual or mental health disabilities.³) “Ableism is a system that creates this idea of what is a good, right kind of body and mind and ‘other,’ and the other is made to be seen as bad, unhealthy, difficult, something to fix, something to dismiss,” Jaden said. “So many disabled children are targeted because, due to ableism, children with disabilities are seen as the kinds of kids adults aren’t going to listen to or believe.”

What does it feel like for you to consider your own story in the context of the myth of the perfect victim? Beyond the myth of the perfect victim and perfectly villainous abuser, what are other cultural or institutional forces that you see at play in your untrue story?

Elizabeth, a survivor in New Zealand, shared how those feelings have come up for her: “I have a sensitive claim with ACC, the government-funded accident compensation system in New Zealand, because of an event that I can remember involving a man taking advantage of me as an adult. The terrible thing is that I’ve come to feel grateful for that event because if it hadn’t happened, I probably wouldn’t have received financial support. But all along, the bit that really hurts me is the harm that happened in the hazy mess of my childhood. It is the abuse that I can feel but cannot remember. I know the ACC would not have recognized that pain. So, how can I?”

Of course we feel invalidated when people and systems that we rely on for our healing and well-being do not recognize our pain. It is important that you know the blame is squarely on the failure of those systems, and not because any part of what you’ve been through isn’t real and important. The system is fucked up, not you!

Strategies

Let’s get into some strategies; but trust your instincts about what feels helpful and what doesn’t feel right. Maybe you’ll think of a creative new way of dealing with this untrue story that never would’ve dawned on me, and that’s totally wonderful.

STRATEGY: If you're asking if it was “bad enough,” the answer is yes, I promise

The first strategy is a simple one, but its beauty is in its simplicity: If you find yourself asking if it was “bad enough,” the answer is yes, I promise.

These feelings of minimization can run deep. KP told me, “I feel terrible even feeling affected by it when I am aware that so many survivors have experienced so much more distressing and ongoing abuse than me.” Jude described it in this way: “I often feel like I am not a real survivor and feel like the abuse I suffered wasn’t bad enough to be classed as a survivor,” these feelings having made her uncomfortable accessing healing resources, adding, “I have felt guilty about seeking help because I thought there were other people who needed more than me.”

Nearly every survivor I know has some version of these feelings. I encourage each of us to push back on the scarcity mindset that tells us there is a limited amount of compassion, understanding, and support out there. All of us are deserving. We are conditioned to believe that asking for anything is too much, but that just isn’t true. There is no finite amount of compassion in this world, and there’s no limit on how much of it you deserve.

If you are wondering often if it was “bad enough,” I find it can help to complete the sentence. For example, “Was my experience bad enough to ________ [insert here: justify creating and maintaining boundaries / warrant the traumatic responses my body is having / devote energy to healing, etc.]. In coaching, when people worry that what happened to them wasn’t bad enough, I ask, “Bad enough to what?” That often helps us get to the root of some of the ways they’re feeling shamed for surviving and healing.

However you are feeling, if you find yourself asking whether it was bad enough, the answer is yes. It was bad enough to justify needing to prioritize your own safety. It was bad enough for you not to feel like you’re overreacting or being dramatic in the traumatized ways your body is responding. It was bad enough for you to be worthy of healing and all that healing can bring you. You no longer need to minimize your feelings and your body’s response to what you’ve been through.

STRATEGY: We can use whatever language feels right to us today

Your trauma is just as real whether you feel comfortable using the term victim or not. So use the words that feel right to you at any particular moment in time. Terms like survivor, victim, and CSA can mean different things to different people. The key thing is that your pain is real, and it matters, no matter what you call it.

If you’re struggling with what words to use, remember that you aren’t alone! Eleni described her own struggles with the terms: “I don’t feel like my experiences fit into the boxes of ‘child sexual abuse’ or ‘rape,’ and I feel like a liar when I say I was sexually assaulted. I know what people assume happened to me when I use that term, and my reality doesn’t fit into the narrow definition most people think of.”

I’ve found in my own journey that there were years when I felt comfortable saying something traumatic and abusive happened to me, but I wasn’t comfortable calling myself a survivor or even using the term CSA. My resistance to those terms came from a lot of places, including that minimizing my own abuse was a coping strategy that I relied on my entire childhood in order to get through it and keep the peace in my family, as well as fearing that my story didn’t count, since I couldn’t remember clearly what happened. I also resisted the term CSA because I feared it meant being fated to a certain terrible life. The stigma of survivorship was scary to me.

“If you would have asked me two years ago if I was sexually abused as a child, I would have definitely said not. For the past year and a half, I would have a different answer for you depending on the day: ‘Yes,’ ‘Maybe,’ ‘A little,’ ‘Probably,’ ‘I’m not sure’ . . . Overall, I have a hard time calling myself a survivor,” Stephanie shared with me.

I don’t care what words you use! Whether any particular words fit you or not, please validate your own truth.

STRATEGY: Let's all tap into some much-needed self-compassion

The last strategy is to tap into self-compassion when you notice that the untrue story is coming up loud in your mind. I know from myself and also from the survivor community that we often have an uncanny ability to blame ourselves for shit that isn’t our fault, which stems from experiencing a lot of misplaced blame for our trauma.

When you hear the inner narrative say you aren’t a real survivor, I encourage you to not get frustrated. Healing is nonlinear. Maybe you go through whole months feeling confident in your survivorship, and then something happens and you feel like you are back to questioning the validity of your own experience. While being extremely frustrating, it is also a totally normal experience!

As I mentioned earlier, I can still hear that inner narrative in myself. Instead of feeling bad that after all my years of working on my healing I still hear a voice saying, “Hey bitch, maybe you’re making this all up,” or seeing that voice as a sign that I haven’t healed “enough,” can I see it as an indication that I’m doing something difficult and triggering? If yes, then can I teach myself to associate that voice with needing to be extra loving, gentle, and affirming to myself? Remember, there is nothing wrong with us. Instead, something wrong happened to us, and that’s why we are hearing these crappy voices.

If you need help tapping into that self-compassion, think about how, even if you don’t know other publicly out survivors, you are surrounded in this world by other people feeling the exact same way as you. Perhaps you are a data person—that’s cool! Here’s some data for you:

I put out a Google Forms survey in 2019 that I kept open for a few months and asked anyone who identified as a CSA survivor to fill it out. In the survey, 949 people checked off whether the untrue stories I listed were ones they heard in their own heads. Here are some stats for my number-loving friends:

▶ “Maybe I’m just crazy.”—75 percent

▶ “It wasn’t that bad, and it could’ve been worse.”—69 percent

▶ “There’s a real survivor out there, and I am not it.”—55 percent

My hope is that you can look at these numbers and see them as just a snapshot indication of how you’re not alone. In my little Healing Honestly CSA survivor world, worrying that we aren’t “real” survivors is one of the most unifying challenges we experience! I want you to know that you are in the best company—there are so many people you don’t know who’ve got your back. We know you aren’t crazy. We know your pain is real and it matters, and you are worthy of support and healing. And hopefully, reading this over whenever you need it can be a strategy that helps you tap into that compassion and kindness toward yourself that I wish so deeply for you.

As you continue to process your own untrue story, it may feel discouraging to consider how much bullshit we have directed toward us that makes it so difficult for us to stand in our truth. Simply put, we shouldn’t have to go through all of this. Remember, no matter what, you aren’t alone in your feelings, and it is not your fault that this is so hard.

It is natural to wish for affirmation from people close to us and the world around us: we deserve it. But I want you to know that no matter how loud that record that says you aren’t a real survivor is playing in your head, you are worthy and capable of support and healing.

Who here could use a nap?

Take a breather. Get a bite to eat, lie down, go get some fresh air, and do whatever feels soothing and good to you, because reading this chapter, asking these questions of yourself, is genuinely hard work. If you’re feeling exhausted or your brain is swirling, take a break! These words will still be here, I promise—the other nine chapters aren’t going anywhere. When you’re ready, whether it’s in an hour or a year, turn the page and we will continue on together.