The Second Deadly Weed

The Second Deadly Weed

One of the most challenging parts of the healing journey is the shock of discovering how many weeds still remain in your garden—some of which you didn’t even know were there. You see, weeds grow under the same conditions as flowers. They thrive in sunlight, water, and space. They compete for the same resources as healthy plants, and more often than not, they win—because weeds are resilient.

I can identify several resilient weeds in my garden. It wasn’t just the struggle to feel pretty or valued—it was the behavior that came with that desire. One of the strongest, most deeply rooted weeds in my garden was the weed of sexual trauma.

It’s strange. Sometimes I forget what I walked into a room for, but I remember this moment as clearly as yesterday. I was ten years old. My mom and I had just moved out of our home on Schley Street into a cute little house in Vauxhall, New Jersey, on Emily Avenue. I liked it there. I made friends quickly. In fact, it’s where I first met the boy who would later become my first husband and the father of my youngest daughter.

We’d been there for about nine months when my stepfather called my mom, asking her to come back and help fix up the old house on Schley Street. Always resourceful, my mom took on most of the work herself but called in family and friends for help. One of the people she called was my Godbrother, Mark.

Mark had a difficult childhood. My parents looked out for him when he was young. My mom had a big heart for children, especially those who were mistreated. Mark had always been around to lend a hand, and he felt obligated to repay her kindness.

During that time, my mom was splitting her days between working, checking on the house in Vauxhall, and renovating the one on Schley. She often left me with an older cousin when she had to be gone for extended hours. But that day, my cousin wasn’t there.

Our Emily Avenue house was tiny—almost like a dollhouse. It had only two bedrooms, and mine was the smaller one. Mom got me bunk beds to make it work. That morning, she was in a rush. I was still in my nightgown, covered by a brown leopard-print housecoat. I was lying on her bed chatting with her as she got ready when the doorbell rang. It was Mark.

He came in and greeted us like he always did—with a hug for mom and a “Hey sis” as he bent down to kiss me on the cheek. I always loved Mark. I trusted him. So I thought nothing of the greeting.

Soon after, Mark and my mom left for Schley Street. She reminded me to tidy up and to call her if I needed anything. I stayed in her room for a bit, watching TV. About 30 minutes later, the doorbell rang again. It was Mark.

He said, “Your mom sent me back to pick up something we forgot.” That made sense to me. He wandered into the kitchen, then came into the bedroom where I was. “You’re growing up so fast,” he said. “I remember when you were just a baby. You’re becoming a beautiful young woman.”

“Woman? Beautiful?” I was only ten. No one had ever called me a woman before. Only my parents ever called me beautiful. I blushed and quickly replied, “I’m not a woman yet—I’m still a little girl.”

“Yes, you are,” he said. “But I bet your body is already changing in ways you don’t even notice.”

That’s when the air in the room shifted. I felt something was wrong, but I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat still.

“Come here,” he said. “Let me show you.”

I stayed frozen. So he came to me.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m your brother. I’m supposed to teach you things.” Then he led me to the bathroom mirror, gently opened my housecoat, and exposed my undeveloped chest. “See how your breasts are already growing?” he said, running his hand across them.

They looked the same as always to me. But I nodded, pretending to understand.

My stomach was churning. My mouth was dry. My heart raced, but I followed his instructions like a robot.

He guided me into my bedroom, told me to lie down, and left briefly. When he returned, he was holding a handheld mirror.

“Open your legs,” he said. “I want to show you the hair that’s growing.”

And again—I obeyed.

He positioned the mirror between my legs and pointed. “See? You’re already maturing.”

I didn’t see anything. But he slid his hand down to my private area and whispered, “Pretty soon, you’ll be a woman.”

I laid there—frozen.

I didn’t know what would happen next. I didn’t know how to stop it.

Then, just as suddenly, he stood up. “I just wanted to let you know how proud I am of you,” he said, before rushing out the door.

I assume he panicked, realizing how long he’d been gone, and that my mom might be wondering where he was.

Now, I understand that moment for what it was: grooming. He had planned that day as an introduction.

After he left, I just sat there. Still. Numb. The only thing running through my mind was every Lifetime movie I’d ever watched—how the women always said they could still feel the man’s hands on them long after it was over.

That’s how I felt. Damaged. Changed.

My ten-year-old mind couldn’t find the words for it.

I called my cousin. She had been raped before. I thought she would understand. She was furious.

She told me to call my mom immediately. I was terrified, but I did it.

I can still hear the sound of my mom’s voice on the other end of that phone.

She told me to lock the doors and not to let anyone else in. She was on her way.

That day, my mother almost killed Mark. The only thing that stopped her was the fear of what would happen to me if she went to jail.

That day changed my life.

Later that evening, we cried together. We talked. We hugged. I saw a pain in my mother that I now understand too well.

As a mother myself, I now know the helplessness, the rage, the guilt of not being able to protect your child. That indescribable despair that floods you when you realize your child’s innocence has been stolen—and you couldn’t stop it.

This is what sexual abuse does.

It plants a weed so deep, its roots reach into every part of your life. It grows through your relationships, your self-worth, your sense of safety, your identity.

It is a demonic weed. And the only way I’ve found to battle it is through God’s healing.

All too often, our children—boys and girls—are victims of predators. These predators don’t just harm their bodies. They rip their souls apart and leave scars that never fully fade.

But I believe healing is possible. I believe redemption is real. I believe that even in a garden overrun with weeds, God can still bring forth beauty.