Part of me wishes there were some other way to heal. That it didn’t come down to telling the truth—the whole, messy, complicated, simple, sad truth—in order to reach deep, restorative healing. But that’s what it comes down to—telling my story. Fully. And then looking you deep in the eye and asking, “Will you tell me yours?” And then letting our stories collide like a river of tears leading us to our gulf of resilience and survival that is waiting for us as we cry and cry and cry.
My courage still feels too small and I’m okay with that. I know that when I open to this power it will be with no reservations. And I know that that kind of freedom takes a certain kind of commitment, to which, for whatever reason, I’ve hesitated vowing.
I can’t tell you how many spouts of anger have come over me while riding my bike. I’ve been filled with a certain kind of rage that will not slip away. Just before we left on our bikes 2 long weeks ago, my mind kept circling back through memories of sexual violence, as if that unfinished business was ready to be looked at, even though the timing made no sense to me.
Now, as I ride 5 hours a day on my bike, it seems as though I have ghosts following me, stories replaying—my own and other’s—that I don’t want to look at at all. I rarely tell Brian that that’s what I’ve been thinking about. Instead, I ask, “What’s on your mind?” To which he usually replies, “Just focusin’ on riding.” To which I usually reply, “Wow… I’m impressed. I just had a fun idea about…” and I let the conversation go to PG territories. After all, we’re cycling with waterfalls on our left and a rushing river on our right. Who wants to talk about rape under these conditions?
The problem is, who wants to talk about rape under any conditions?
And worse, who wants to talk about the reality that over half the world’s population are consistently and systematically disempowered through means so terrible and vast—be it rape or otherwise?
Not I. Not normally. Not until today.
In Cumberland we talked to women who each had their own story. I told them mine. They asked if I ever pressed charges and I told them that I didn’t—that I had been far too ashamed and far too manipulated to believe that anyone was to blame but my own stupid, reckless, risky self. Maybe you can relate. One of those women was a social worker who told me that it’s never too late—that that man is probably still out there today preying on younger women, getting away with an act so reprehensible, and how? By the silence of survivors.
Julie Daley wrote an incredible series of posts called Silence, Privilege and Power, inspired by one of my biggest inspirations—Audre Lorde. She wrote this line that has circled my soul ever since I read it,
My silence earns me privilege, and it costs me my power.
There are few things that have struck me as truer than this. I would only amend one small piece, to say that our individual silences boil over into a collective silence, of which we all bare the heavy burden. That burden is the distance between war and peace, between fear and courage, between hate and limitless love.
More than anything at all, I have only one real wish—that wish is for our universe that was born by love, to live in love, as well.
This is no easy wish to come true. But then again, if it is the only real wish my heart holds, perhaps the mere pumping of my blood is an act toward manifestation. Perhaps, my single voice is one of millions in a song that is slowly breaking our buried silences.
And as Audre Lorde wrote, in the final remark of this incredible essay,
There are so many silences to be broken.
I am beginning to shed back the layers, beginning to welcome every story to my table, beginning to see more clearly and speak more honestly than I have ever before. It is a gift and a heartbreak and a motivator all in the same breath. And it is worth it in every possible way.
If you would be so daring, so loving, so brave—I’m over here wondering what truths you’re sitting in front of—perhaps for the first time, or perhaps in a new kind of light? I’m wondering where you’re letting yourself see with open eyes the simple way it is? How does it feel? How does it serve you? I can’t tell you how much I need to know I’m not in these awakenings alone.
Today, I’m open to my fear about how big this power is inside, how far I have to go on the front of accepting my shortfalls, how beautiful a city in spring bloom can be, how deeply I miss my home, how incredibly strong and courageous I am, how badly this old story wants to come out, how much my trust in tiny steps is a most generous form of love.
I really, really needed to read this today. And I think that it’s important in this particular community AND in the larger world around us that more and more of us continue to speak up about these types of situations. I work full-time as a sexual assault/domestic violence first responder, so like you, women bring their stories to my table every day, and like you, I’ve also survived & carry my own stories with me. I am SO GLAD that you wrote this post. Thank you, thank you a million times for the courage and grace that infuse every word of this gorgeous post.
Thank YOU for doing such powerful, transformational work. May we come together to help heal each other’s hearts, and in turn, this wounded, blossoming, hopeful world.
big love,
rachael
sending warm vibes … we all will come together, things are starting to happen.
I think it takes a lot of strength and compassion to do the work that you do. I really just wanted to say thank you for all that you do to help women. It’s greatly appreciated, Jessica.
Rachel,
This whole piece is beautiful. These lines feel profoundly true:
“our individual silences boil over into a collective silence, of which we all bare the heavy burden. That burden is the distance between war and peace, between fear and courage, between hate and limitless love.”
I’m over here, with you as you ride, discovering all the places within me that are longing for the light of true and voice.
Thank you.
Love,
Julie
thank you for being a trail blazer of soulful truth. so much of what you wrote in those posts cracked something open in me that i simply had to pay attention to. thank you, love. x infinity.
rach
Thank you so much for writing this incredible and honest post. I too have struggled with being open with my truth and sharing my story. Two weeks ago I decided that I was ultimately undermining my own power by not speaking my truth and decided to speak my truth every day as best I can. The result has been terribly heart wrenching but absolutely beautiful. Each day I get a little closer to being myself and owning my own power.
Thank you!!
oh, lexi, yes.
The result has been terribly heart wrenching but absolutely beautiful. Each day I get a little closer to being myself and owning my own power.
these lines are such a honest summation of how it feels. thank you for being here in this brave, honest place. may we be part of each other’s healing in big ways.
xo,
rach
First I really like the way your site has changed and I feel closer to it than ever. Actually I don’t think I mean it “changed”…more like “grown bigger”
I am beginning to think it extremely rare for any woman NOT to have a story like ours…it is sadly common and mostly kept to ourselves. There are a lot of reasons and the peeling is very delicate – take your time – we are here….peeling ourselves too.
I think that so many of us do not tell our stories because we believe that no one wants to hear them. This is where I could sing the praises of online connection.
Thank you for offering up your truth, your encouragement and acceptance. We all need to be reminded to share our stories and truly listen to those of others.
thank you for your comment, amy. this line especially resonates: I think that so many of us do not tell our stories because we believe that no one wants to hear them.
i’ve learned, though, from telling my story in small circles, that in fact, we are all aching for the chance to be that raw and true… but these days, we are often so disconnected from the opportunity, that when we receive it, we’re not quite sure what to do. practice. this is a practice. i’m so glad to be in it together.
xo,
rach
Thank you Rachael. You, my dear sister, ARE the Generous Form of Love!!
Not only did you gift me (and others, more than you will ever know
with your own personal story and journey, but I was able to go back and read and heal through Julie’s previous archives and story’s of ‘Silence, Priviledge and Power’. Your, our, loving, courageous thoughts and voices, in collective collaboration, is healing Women and families, all around this globe. I am one of them. 
Your writing is beautiful, heartfelt and inspiring. I’m looking forward to reading more.
With Love, Shannon.
I’m so glad you had the gift of reading through Julie’s posts. They touched me in deep ways. May our paths cross many times over.
xo,
rach
This is so raw and touching. Thank you for your honesty. Bless you.
I love you for writing this. I love you for sharing what’s hard, and for being brave.
Thank you.
Your courage may feel too small, but your commitment is hella-huge.
You are making me think about why I don’t tell my story. Our silence doesn’t save us.
oh, bridget! thank you for the hella-huge commitment comment
sometimes, it’s so easy to forget! i’m hopeful that we’ll be able to create a sacred space to tell our stories… the ones we never tell. i’m certain that we are those stories are the gatekeepers to a healed, restorative world. so much love & healing to you,
rach
You are a brilliant and amazing writer. There is so much pain and love and healing in this post I can hardly contain it all in my heart.
This line took my breath away- our individual silences boil over into a collective silence, of which we all bare the heavy burden. That burden is the distance between war and peace, between fear and courage, between hate and limitless love.
Thank you for sharing your truth. When one of us does it opens doors windows for the rest of us.
With love and gratitude,
Lori
What courage. Thank you, and bless you.
Thank you each for your brave and loving comments. I know our voices together have so much power. Sending you each deep love and appreciation.
I am speechless!
Thank you dear one for taking the risk to write this. Words cannot even begin to touch my gratitude for Facebook & Awakening Women & my Guides for leading me to this.
My mother passed away 3 weeks ago. It is SUCH a long story! Parts of that story I am only getting in touch w/ now. She was my Guide & my mentor. Not in the usual way that women mean this when they say this about their mother. But I wouldn’t have been thrust down this corridor if not for our extreme hardship.
This morning, I was walking thru the house w/ this writing coming thru my head titled “I am ‘that’ one”
Because of my extreme difficulties w/ my mother, I can hold that place of pain in another. Without trying to fix it. To just be w/ it. To encourage them to just feel it ALL. And then to help them transform it when they are ready. I have yet to find that safe place for myself. Where can I go to melt down? To just be?
Two nights ago, I was wide awake in the middle of the night. I could feel this almost literal battle going on. It was so difficult to be in my skin. The next morning I was literally sore. I knew that there had been some deep work going on that night. I felt the roots of all these old beliefs were being ripped from me.
Noone in my world understands this language that I speak. But yesterday, as I described this to a new friend, he said ‘good work’. Wow!
I have been silent my whole life about my mother. I have done such work around all of it. I have such a huge compassion for her. She taught me about deeper understanding. What I had left out was the impact that it had on me. All the WILD accusations. All the verbal, mental, emotional & physical abuse, I excused her from. I tho’t it was true. I tho’t it was just something I wasn’t capable of seeing in myself. I am shedding back the layers now too.
Even writing this, has just scratched the surface. Telling my story? Not sure I can yet. Not sure I know it yet. But it is surfacing now. And reading what you have written here is giving me courage to consider it now. It’s difficult because even in spiritual circles, there is such a rush to paste some spiritual bumpersticker belief on it.
Thank you Rachael for your courage & your heart! And your voice. You are helping me quiet those messages in my head that think I am crazy when this stuff shows up. I study w/ the 13 Indigenous Grandmothers. And Grandmother Rita says that it is thru our hardship, that our gifts are born. I know this. And yet it is still so shrouded in shame. As if it is a crime to not have fixed this by now. I turn 51 next week. Oh, & today would have been my mom’s 83rd birthday.
Namaste~~
Cyndee
Cyndee,
I can feel how raw and honest you’re being with yourself in this transitional and transformational time. Thank you for sharing such tenderness with us… May you know that that is more than enough right now, that we are each taking small steps toward coming clean, that there is so much healing surfacing in the world… and the heart, our hearts, are holding each other in truth. Thank you thank you, brave one, for being part of this open-eyed liberation. It is painful. I’m so glad we can hold each other.
xo,
rachael
While this post broke my heart beautifully, it’s been your reply, Cyndee, that left me in tears.
My mother is still alive, and I love her. Every time we talk it feels like dragging something sharp over my heart. It hurts me physically, and I worry sometimes that my heart is nothing more than scartissue. I’m 27, and my whole life, I’ve wanted my mother to be like other mothers. I’ve changed myself to try and earn that love that seems to come so easily between my friends and their mothers. Even now, as a grown woman, I can’t imagine what I wouldn’t give to have her think of me, to be a priority in her life. I love my mother deeply, but the biggest lesson she gave to me was that I would never be enough, and I didn’t deserve to be cared about. There was always someone more deserving.
We don’t really talk about that, though, do we? When a parent is lost in their own pain, and so hurts their child, it’s never truly discussed. It’s (at least somewhat) accidental, after all, or worsened by the child’s unruly behaviour. Maybe if I had been better… maybe I could have done more to help… maybe I should have been better able to read her moods… maybe it’s my fault. It’s so easy to feel alone, to think it’s just you.
And today, your comment has been a lifeline to remind me that I’m not as alone as it feels. Thank you so, so much for that.
Thank you Rachel,
I too have carried a silent scream of rage. It has taken so many years to even begin to understand why. It would break out at times, out of my body, and I wouldve baffled by the inappropriateness of it. In the past 10 years the layers of discovery have occured as my unconscious mind has gently and agonizingly brought back pieces of my childhood memories and shown me why I scream.
It took a lot of understanding from people I respected to reach a place where I could accept my pain was justified. My story is one of crossed boundaries. Of subtle sexual abuse and the shame of a Childs intuitive knowing that father wanted her. Father desired her. I saw a vision of myself shattered into hundreds of thousands of tiny pieces. One for each lingering kiss, one for each skin seeking touch. Oh the joy of completed passage through the layers of pain. Each one essential and pushing me past my perceived limits and into the arms of spirit where I find support, solace, meaning. Into the arms of my husband who is so appropriate and cringes when his gentle kiss triggers my memory of horror and shame. It was gentle non judgmental encouragement and support that lead me back to hearing and trusting my inner voice which I could not bear to hear as a powerless child carrying the burden of deep knowing.
This is a piece of my story. My throat burns with the need to speak my next layer. I have written a letter with boundaries that must not be crossed, and one with a message of my pain to the perpetrator. 24 years of wanting to crawl out of my own skin are gently being healed. The hurt is at times immense, but those times pass. And from them is born a creative power to heal that brings me precisely and perfectly to the next step.
Love to all, I shall for now be anonymous, for as yet I protect my right to choose who knows my story is mine. Such is the nature of subtle abuse born within a family
Thank you for a place to speak, namaste <3
you, my love, are courageous beyond belief. thank you so much for bringing your truth to this table. i can hear in your words that not only is your heart in a deep process of healing, but your presence brings the same things for others. thank you for sharing your gift. may you receive it back 1,000 times over.
so much love,
rachael
I think sometimes that the world is made darker by all that’s hidden. The secret pains, the fear and self loathing. Your strength and bravery is an inspiration. The courage it took to tell your story makes the world a brighter, better, place. You make the world a better place.
With all my heart, I wish you peace, healing and joy.
Namaste.
So manny people I know should read this. Thank you.
Rachel, thank you for sharing , I was honoured to have read such a truthful and touching breaking of silence and re-building of courage.
Secrets breed in silence and survivors of abuse wither from the inside out. Your words touched me to the core and I honour your courage.
I broke my silence of incest, rape and neglect back in 2009 when I published my story. I now help women to discover how to feel safe initiating changes in their emotional wellbeing, physical health and lives as they break free from the traumatic effects of sexual abuse.
Please know you are NOT Alone and it was not your fault.
With support, Gail (Australia)
Author | Advocate | Inspirational Mentor
I thought that my silence was protecting me, but instead it was protecting my abusive father, and keeping me in a place of shame and isolation. My first experience of telling a beloved uncle, only to be told that he would rather remember my father as the loving man that he thought he had known, only compounded the terror I felt at the idea of telling my secrets. Sites such as this help me to know that I am not alone, and that I ( all of three years of age) was not, and am not, to blame.