Not My Story

When I was first asked to speak at the women’s empowerment conference back home, my immediate response was of course. I believe that women, especially Black women, deserve spaces to come together to connect and heal. And I know that in order to do so, we need vulnerability within their community.

But after I sat with what I was asked to speak about, I thought to myself— “I don’t know what I would actually say, because I’m no longer in a space of having to heal from what happened”. The emotions and the words to share don’t exist in the same way anymore. It’s been 6 years, and I’m in such a different space now, literally and figuratively.

But about 2 weeks later, I saw him for the first time since COVID. He tried his best to avoid being in my line of sight, but unfortunately, I saw him and I froze. All of the feelings from 6 years ago came rushing back. All that I went through mentally became a familiar memory once again. I immediately left, returned to my hotel, and went straight to bed—again avoiding the trauma that was still looming under the surface.

The next day, as I was driving back home, I just cried. I cried for the entire hour and 15-minute drive. For the first time, I allowed myself to sit in my hurt without judgment or searching for a justification for how I was feeling. And that in itself was both painful yet freeing at the same time.

Later that day, I got myself together and continued on with my life just fine. While I was able to genuinely move on from that moment, that experience made me aware of a few things. For starters, it reminded me that forgiveness is not for the other person. It’s not even an acceptance of what happened, but rather the decision to release this painful burden from myself so that I can be at peace in my life.

When we hold on to anger, hurt, and past experiences, it allows that thing or person to continue causing harm in our life without their presence being required. As I cried in the car on the way home, I remember pleading to God that if releasing this pain and yearning for revenge would allow me to no longer have this heaviness in my heart, then I would give it all to Him.

Just like J. Cole said, “vengeance is the Lord’s, and it’s not for me”—because my God can handle things much better and far more efficiently than I ever could. So if I place my faith and love in the Lord, then how can I still carry this hate? This burden? I’m going to let Him handle you in the best way possible, because all the energy I’m spending on wanting you to be miserable is taking away from where I’m trying to go and who I’m trying to be.

I fought for justice. I spoke out against you. Now, it’s for God to handle.

The next thing that moment made me realize is that healing is not linear and triggers are not setbacks. I find it ironic that as Black women, we tend to know how to take care of everyone else until it comes to ourselves. We brush things off, behave like it’s nothing, and believe that anything we allow to interfere with what we have going on is a weakness or a failure.

I remember when I was first diagnosed with panic disorder, and my therapist at the time said to me: “You are deserving of the tenderness and patience it’ll take to get through this moment.” Simple words, but they had the biggest impact on me.

Because why didn’t I believe that I was worthy of tenderness, patience, and compassion while going through the unpredictability of life? Why did I not think I deserved stillness and recovery? Ask yourself this.

I believe many of us think that if we allow our feelings to flow freely—allow them to show up however they do without interference—we’ll get stuck in them. Drown in them, even. Because once I let these feelings, these thoughts, and emotions come to the surface… what now? Where do they go? What am I supposed to do with them?

Release. Once they come up, they are now able to simply be released. How can you exit a room if you don’t first open the door? How can you complete a chapter without writing it in its entirety? How can you heal from something you never gave yourself the chance to actually process?

When I was in college dealing with the harassment from his friends, the Dean at UConn telling me that the original punishment was “too harsh for raping me,” —I kept myself busy. Working two jobs, two student executive boards, taking 18-credit semesters and drinking a bottle of wine just to fall asleep so I didn’t have to think.

So many things I did in silence. Sure, people were around. I had some great friends and support. But it still felt so alone. So quiet. And while I now forgive myself for doing what I thought was best in that moment to survive (and so should you), I sometimes wonder what it would’ve been like if I had told my friends and family  how I was really feeling. What was going on in my head. What I needed.

But 6 years later, I survived. I survived because I eventually began telling people what happened to me. Without shame. Without questioning or gaslighting myself. Despite the invalidations others tried to place onto me. I spoke, and I leaned on the community. I chose those who chose me. I curated my life in a way that I would never know who didn’t support me, because the love was so loud.

I’m okay—because I know that this was never my story, it was his. It is his. He knows what he did. His friends know what he did. The University of Connecticut knows what he did. And those are the people who have to live with that reality—not me.

This is the first time I’ve been able to truly speak on this without discomfort, pain, shame, or overthinking what people may think when they read this story. That is true healing.

I may be triggered again in another year, or five, or ten—and that’s okay. Because my trauma does not define me. Your trauma does not define you, and it is not your story.

Allow yourself to feel, because you deserve it. Allow yourself vulnerability, compassion, and love. We exist in an individualistic society where it has become the norm to deal with things on your own because “people do not owe you anything.” But they do.

We owe our friends check-ins. We owe our chosen family the effort of showing up when we can. We owe those in our community safe spaces and softness. Without those things, I wouldn’t be here.

Give yourself the things we’ve been conditioned to believe we didn’t deserve—because you do.