First I need to say that this post may be a trigger for some people so please, as you read, if something inside of you feels uncomfortable stop reading. There are and will be parts of this story I’ve chosen to keep private for the protection of others and the situation but protecting the people I love does not require me to remain silence or stop me from sharing my story. And I will say there are people in my life who I did share this with and some I attempted to and I was met with one of two responses, Wanda why do you have to tell EVERYONE your business or being ghosted and never returning my calls. This event has taught me so many lessons and it’s my hope that if even one person reads this and walks away empowered to share their story to me that’s all that matters. Silence can be the enemy.

This is something I’ve wanted to write about for months but haven’t. Not because I don’t have the words, because trust me, I have plenty of words. I’ve been quiet because I’ve been trying to figure out which parts of this story are mine to tell, which parts belong to the people I love, and how to tell the truth without giving strangers access to pieces of my family’s life that aren’t theirs to have.

In April 2026, I was sexually assaulted.

Even typing that sentence is difficult. I did report it and today I’m going to tell you what those three words won’t. Because throughout this whole ordeal I cried, I was scared, and I was terrified that I wouldn’t be believed.
I sat with a detective from special victims and told them what happened. Then I told it again, and again and again. I answered questions about things I didn’t want to talk about and tried to remember details while my mind was still racing, trying to understand what had just happened to me.

There were moments when I felt like I was the one on trial and I was just giving a statement. I remember wondering whether I was saying things the right way. Whether I remembered enough, whether they believed me, whether something I said or didn’t say would somehow make what happened SEEM like it was my fault.

Underneath all of that was fear but I kept talking, I was scared, I cried, but I did it anyway.
That’s something I understand differently now. Courage doesn’t look the way it does on TV at the end of an SVU episode with Olivia Benson standing by your side.
I talked to the people I was supposed to talk to. I went through examinations and conversations I never wanted to have. I repeated things I didn’t want to repeat. I entered a process I NEVER asked to be part of.

Ultimately, the case didn’t move forward and that’s something I’ve struggled with everyday since. When there’s no courtroom, no trial and no verdict, where does that leave the person who still wakes up every day carrying what happened?

BECAUSE IT DID STILL HAPPENED AND IT HAPPENED TO ME!!!

But here’s the thing, a courtroom doesn’t get to determine whether my experience was real, and I’m beginning to understand that I don’t have to remain silent simply because the legal process ended or someone else is uncomfortable with me sharing MY story.

Privacy Does Not Require Silence

For months, I’ve wrestled with the idea that something this personal should remain a private family matter and I understand that instinct. I have a husband and 2 children and their privacy matters deeply to me.

There are details of this story that involve people I love. There are details that could identify people who did not choose to have their lives discussed publicly. But those details aren’t yours. Not everything needs to be shared for the truth to be told. So I’ve made a decision, I have chosen to protect some details because they belong to people I love. But protecting their privacy does not require me to remain silent.

There’s another reason I need to talk about this, My kids.
I Reported It BECAUSE I Have Kids. I need my daughter to know that if anything like this ever happens to her, she is never alone. I want her to know she can tell me or her dad. She can report it. She can ask for help. She can scream about it or whisper about it. She can cry through every damn word, and whatever happens afterwards does not determine whether her experience was real.
I don’t ever want her believing that bravery means she won’t be afraid or has to remain quiet. I know better now. Sometimes bravery looks like being absolutely terrified but stand up and tell your truth.

And then there’s my son.
I need him to understand consent, boundaries and responsibility. I want him to grow into a man who respects women, not because someone taught him how to “stay out of trouble,” but because he understands that another person’s body and boundaries deserve respect. I want him to understand that consent isn’t something to assume.
and if a woman he loves ever tells him that someone violated those boundaries, I want his first instinct to be to stand beside her. Not question what she wore. Not ask why she went somewhere. Not wonder why she didn’t leave sooner.
Just: I believe you. What do you need?

Those are lessons I wish none of us ever needed but unfortunately we do.

When Reporting Doesn’t End in a Courtroom

There’s something else I’ve learned that I desperately want other women to know. Reporting is brave even when nothing comes from the report. We tend to understand sexual assault stories through their endings: Was someone charged? Was there a trial? Was there a conviction? It can be frustrating when you hear stories on the news about these types of events and have ABSOLUTELY NOWHERE to put YOUR feelings. Trust me this is one I deal with every f*cking day. I feel slighted, less than like I don’t matter because there’s an entire human being living in this space and some days I feel like an abandoned dog on the side of the road.
Sometimes can you do everything you’re told you’re supposed to do and the story still doesn’t end with somebody standing in a courtroom. That doesn’t mean you failed. It doesn’t mean reporting was pointless.
And it sure as hell doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I’m Still Living the Middle of This Story and I wish I could end this by telling you I’ve healed.

But I’m not there.

Some days I’m okay, other days, what happened occupies far more space in my head than I want to give it. I’m still angry. I’m still processing. I’m still figuring out what healing even looks like for me. And I DON’T have a beautiful lesson tied up with a bow yet and maybe I never will.

But what I do know:

I won’t allow someone else’s actions to decide that silence is now part of my life.
I get to decide what I tell. I get to decide what I keep private. I get to decide when I’m ready, and little by little, I’m going to tell my story.
Not because I owe a dams soul the details, not because I’m asking anyone to decide whether what happened to me was bad enough and certainly not because a courtroom, detectives or a group of attorneys gave me permission. I’m telling it because somewhere there is a woman, man, teen, or child sitting with a similar story that never made it into a courtroom. Maybe the police investigated and nothing happened. Maybe prosecutors decided there wasn’t enough evidence. Maybe they reported it and then watched everybody else go back to their lives while theirs felt completely different.
Maybe they’re wondering whether speaking up mattered, whether they were brave for doing so, or if they’re still allowed to hurt. This is what I want them to know:
You were brave when you spoke. You were brave when you reported. You were brave when you walked into rooms you never wanted to enter and answered questions you never should have had to answer.

And even if your story never sees the inside of a courtroom, that doesn’t erase what happened to you. It doesn’t erase what it took to tell someone. And it doesn’t erase you.

You are still here. And so am I.
— Wanda