I was just a kid when I saw a “good touch, bad touch” commercial on TV, a simple message that planted a seed. It was the first time I could say what had been happening to me, making me realize that what I’d been enduring wasn’t right. I finally decided to tell my mother that my uncle had been abusing me, hoping that by opening up to her, I might somehow get my stepfather to stop, too. Maybe he would see that I was willing to tell and worry that I would eventually speak out about him, too.

When I told my mother, she believed me. But my stepfather, who was also abusing me, didn’t. He even confronted my uncle, but not out of any desire to protect me. It felt as if he wanted to assert dominance rather than defend me. He dismissed my words entirely, even though he had hurt me in worse ways. The only difference? My uncle never threatened me the way my stepfather did.

At school, we had assemblies where they would tell us to speak up if anyone touched us inappropriately. But despite these well-meaning messages, I never felt safe enough to tell anyone at school. The irony was that I didn’t trust the school to support me, just as I was finding the words to speak out.

There was a mentality of “children should be seen and not heard,” which I had already felt at home, and that same belief seemed to extend into my school life. My principal would frequently call me into the office, not to offer help but to scold me for defending myself against a much older, larger male bully, which only reinforced the feeling that I didn’t deserve protection.

It’s a strange, painful irony, realizing that the very people who should protect us at home and school sometimes uphold silence and break that trust. Speaking out was never straightforward. Yet, despite all the barriers, I’ve found ways to reclaim my voice and story, one piece at a time.