I Thought I Was Safe

Disclaimer: This post discusses topics that may be triggering or distressing to some readers. Please take care of your well-being and feel free to skip this content if needed.

Photo by Наталья Кленова on Unsplash

One morning I set off across the field to see if my friend could come out and play. It was a place stitched into the fabric of my childhood. There were acres of wild grass and soft, forgiving earth, and the air always seemed to hum with quiet magic. A narrow creek wound its way through the middle, glinting in the sun like a trail of silver secrets. The willow trees leaned low over the water, their branches swaying like watchful arms, brushing the surface with a kind of gentle wisdom.

We used to twirl dandelions under our chins there. Pick clover and pretend it was treasure. We’d bring home messy bouquets to my mom, thinking they were flowers. We believed that they held a more profound meaning. That they were enough.

That field felt like mine. I thought I was lucky. When I built forts, no one tore them down. I picked lilacs with both hands, their soft blossoms brushing against my skin, the scent rising around me sweet, heady, and dizzying. No one told me they weren’t mine to take. It felt like freedom. Pure. Uninterrupted. The air was filled with a quiet joy that only arises when you genuinely believe in your safety.

The idea that no one else could play there never occurred to me. It never occurred to me that it might not have been pure luck. Perhaps the absence of others wasn't a blessing but instead a warning that echoed the unspoken truth: sometimes, freedom comes at a price, and ignorance can be a dangerous companion.

That morning, my friend wasn’t home. So I turned back, cutting through the field again, the soles of my shoes brushing through grass already warm with sun. I was halfway across when something seized me from behind.

It was sudden and violent. A force, sharp and disordered, yanked at my shirt and clawed at the fabric of my pants. For a brief moment, I believed I had become entangled in something natural and harmless.

But then came the unmistakable weight. It was a weight of flesh and intent. Not thorns. Not vines.

I spun around, my heart pounding, ready to scream, swing, or both. And there he was.

A man.

Disheveled. Unshaven. His clothes were askew, stained, and loose. Hair tangled. The dirt had caked his fingernails. He looked wrong, not just messy but out of place, like someone who didn’t belong in a world that had always felt ordered and safe. He didn’t belong in my field. He didn't belong in my story.

The smell hit me next. The smell, sour and unwashed, clung to him like a second skin. Sweat. Dirt. Something decayed. It turned my stomach.

His eyes darted, unfocused yet locked on me with a horrible clarity, like he’d been waiting. Like he knew I’d be there.

He lunged again. Grabbed me. His body pressed against mine, heavy and wrong. He wriggled on top of me, a sickening, squirming motion that made my skin crawl and my mind shut down.

I fought back blindly. Arms flailing. Legs kicking. My body twisted like a fish on a line, desperate to escape. Somehow I still don’t know how I finally broke free.

And I ran.

I ran like the ground itself had betrayed me. It felt as though an ancient and monstrous force had pursued me, and I had narrowly managed to escape its clutches. I ran through the field that once felt like home. I ran past the trees, the lilacs, and the dandelions. The soft earth, which had always welcomed me, now felt foreign to me.

I didn’t stop until I reached the side door of our house. We never used the front door. It was for company or to let the sun in. I ran to the back door by the driveway, stepped inside, and took the two steps up to the powder room. I locked the door behind me and stared into the mirror.

What I saw didn’t feel like me. My face was pale, streaked with dirt and something darker. Fear, maybe. My clothes were torn, hanging off me like I’d been dragged through something no one would believe. Scratches lined my arms. Red welts rose from the skin where his hands, or perhaps the ground, had left their mark.

But it wasn’t just the reflection that unsettled me.

The air felt weird. Heavy. It felt as though an unseen force had followed me home, pressing against the walls. The room felt smaller, distorted. Time slowed. The atmosphere was thick and syrupy. It felt as though I had left behind the familiar world and entered a realm that refused to let me go.

It wasn’t just that I had escaped a man.

Violence wasn’t unfamiliar to me. I had known chaos. I had lived with fear. But this was different. It was intentional. Personal. A violence that looked me in the eye.
The rupture didn’t come with words. Just a silence that swallowed everything. Only the feeling remained, unshakable. Only the aftermath.

I was a child thrust into a nightmare that shattered any shred of innocence I had clung to. Each moment replayed in my mind, a haunting reminder of the vulnerability I now carried like a scar, a constant weight that seemed to anchor me in a reality I never wanted to face.

I experienced a full-blown sexual assault at the age of eight. After a childhood already marked by abuse and neglect, the trauma I endured that day became a suffocating fog, further warping my sense of safety and trust. I had lost the innocence of my early years and the belief that anyone could be kind. I learned to live in a constant state of hypervigilance, always scanning, always bracing. Even a smile from a stranger felt like a mask, a potential threat. People surrounded me, yet I felt utterly alone, trapped in silence, carrying pain too heavy for a child to bear.

I didn't speak up for so long because I didn't have the words. As a child, I had no language for what had happened to me, no way to make sense of the pain, no understanding that what I’d endured wasn’t my fault. Silence wasn’t just a choice. It was all I had.

And there was no one I could trust. No one would have believed me. No one made room for my pain, no arms were wide enough to hold it, and no heart was safe enough to share it.

So I did what so many of us do.
I swallowed it. Buried it.
I wrapped it in silence and shame, carrying it as if it were mine alone to bear.

Most days, I still keep it hidden, tucked beneath the polished surface of a life I fought to survive.
I never said it out loud. I just threw the clothes away, torn, stained, beyond saving.
No one asked where they’d gone.

But while I could get rid of the clothes, I couldn’t throw away the memory.
That silence became its own kind of wound.

It lives in my mind like a stain that refuses to fade, an ever-present reminder of a truth too many choose to ignore.
I didn’t have the words back then.
Only the aftermath.
Only the silence.

It has taken me years to speak these words, not because I ever forgot, but because remembering still hurts.
The weight of those memories was never meant to be carried out loud.
And healing didn’t arrive all at once.
It came slowly, in fragments, grasped in quiet moments as I tried to rebuild myself inside a world that taught me to fear it, to never trust it.

But I speak now because, for the first time, I can.

Because it happened. Because I matter. Because my voice does, too.

And this is not a post for pity. It’s a post for truth. That wasn't your fault. You didn’t deserve that. You deserved safety. You deserved love. You deserved someone to fight for you.

Healing doesn't start with forgetting.
It begins with remembering every detail clearly, painstakingly, and relentlessly.
It begins with writing it down in ink that doesn’t fade. Speaking it out loud, even if your voice shakes, is the first step. It starts with acknowledging the reality of the situation.
It begins with forcing the truth into the open and daring the world to look away.
It begins with refusing to be silent ever again.