THE S WORD

The S Word

Sexual abuse. Rape. Sexual trauma.

I need to say it.

I need to write it.

I need to see it.

I was sexually abused.

I’m tired of the shame.

I’m tired of hiding.

I’m tired of the silence that was passed down like some family heirloom.

I’m tired of hearing, “What happens in this house stays in this house.”

I’m tired of the secrets buried so deeply they rot our souls.

I was sexually abused by a family member.

This is the lie the enemy made us believe—that silence protects us.

That denial keeps the family intact.

That shame belongs to the victim.

This lie has infected generations, especially in Black communities.

It’s a legacy that dates back to slavery, when our bodies were treated as property—stripped, violated, sold, consumed.

Men and women were brutally raped. Innocence was taken without thought or consequence.

Babies were born from those tragedies.

Yes, I’m going to say it.

It’s more than “Me Too.”

It’s a miracle if it didn’t happen to you.

Sexual abuse happens.

And it’s even more insidious when it comes from someone who is supposed to love and protect you.

Fathers rape daughters.

Mothers rape sons.

Uncles rape nieces.

Grandfathers rape grandchildren.

Cousins rape cousins.

It happens.

Then come the secrets.

Then the lies.

Then the mistrust.

Some children are not believed.

Some are told they’re making it up.

Some are silenced to “protect” the family’s name.

And others are forced to carry the burden alone—blamed, dismissed, or forgotten.

It gets covered up.

It gets normalized.

It has to stop.

Sexual abuse damages more than the body.

It distorts the miracle of who we are.

God created sexual pleasure to be beautiful—an act of intimacy, of love, of creation.

But when twisted through abuse, it becomes something demonic.

It seeps into the soul like poison.

Children, innocent and unaware, are manipulated into believing it's love.

It may bring physical sensations, but they have no understanding of what those sensations mean or where they belong.

That becomes their blueprint.

Their only reference point for love, affection, and pleasure.

And then people wonder why they grow up angry.

Why they’re confused.

Why they become hypersexual or emotionally disconnected.

You poisoned their mind.

You poisoned their body.

You poisoned their soul.

You poisoned their garden.

Sexual abuse made me promiscuous.

The guilt of my trauma, combined with a longing to feel pretty, wanted, and loved, led me to seek attention in the only way I thought I could.

So whether I wanted to or not, I gave in to boys who wanted sex.

Did that make me a whore?

Did that make me a “fast-tail” child?

Maybe in the eyes of others.

But deep inside, I was broken.

Acting out a wound I didn’t even know how to name.

While I gave my body, I felt dirty.

I felt worthless.

I didn’t even know what an orgasm was—I never experienced one.

I didn’t know I was supposed to.

There was no pleasure when I was molested. Only silence. Only obedience.

Only survival.

It took years for me to learn what healthy intimacy felt like.

To understand what sex was meant to be.

Because I had nothing to compare it to.

Behavior follows experience.

We internalize what love and affection are based on our earliest memories.

Those memories take root.

They grow.

They become our emotional compass.

So when weeds start choking out our joy, we don’t even recognize them.

Because weeds need the same light, the same water, the same space as healthy plants.

And if we’re not careful, we feed the very things that are killing us.

That’s how trauma works.

It becomes the lens through which we see everything.

It becomes our “normal,” even if we can't explain it.

So we act it out.

But who do we talk to?

Who do we tell?

This doesn’t come up in casual conversation.

You don’t bring it up on a first date or while chatting with a friend.

How do you say, “Someone I trusted took everything from me,” without the shame rising up in your throat?

It leaves you speechless.

It leaves you powerless.

I think it's even worse for men.

Society teaches them that real men don’t cry.

Real men don’t get hurt.

Real men don’t get violated.

So when something is stolen from them before they even become men, they bury it.

They get harder.

Colder.

Quieter.

Not that women don’t suffer the same silence. We do.

But sometimes, women find healing through therapy, through community, through faith.

Some men never speak about it.

Some can’t even admit it happened.

But today, I choose something different.

Today, I take my power back.

I was sexually abused by a family member when I was a child.

Yes, it happened.

But guess what?

It didn’t destroy me.

It wounded me.

It bent me.

It shrunk my petals.

It tried to steal my joy.

But it did not win.

Today, I take it all back.

I did not die in the wilderness.

I was built by the Master.

I am not just a survivor.

I am more than a conqueror.

I am healing.

I am growing.

And every day, I am becoming more whole.