It was never your fault

 Your body, your choice, your voice

This post has lived in me from the very beginning. I always knew I wanted to use my words to create something more than just content. I wanted to build a space where people feel seen, comforted, and less alone. A space that offers hope, even in the darkest moments. That’s why I write: to give strength, to share pain that’s often too heavy to carry alone, and to remind someone out there you matter. And when it comes to sexual assault, one of the most painful, personal, and silenced topics, this message feels more important than ever.

Sexual assault doesn’t just mean rape. It includes every unwanted touch, no matter how “minor” someone tries to make it sound. It’s manipulation. Coercion. It’s when someone uses guilt or love as a weapon to make you do things you never agreed to. It’s threats. It’s pressure. It’s that dirty look. That vulgar comment. That hand that lingers too long. It's doing something you didn’t want to do just so you wouldn’t lose someone, or to avoid conflict, or danger. This list is long, heartbreakingly long, and what I’m naming here are only the basics.

So, let me say the most important thing, clearly and without hesitation:
It. Was. Never. Your. Fault.

I’m fully aware that men and boys can be victims too, and they deserve just as much compassion and protection. But we also have to acknowledge a sad truth: the majority of survivors are women. Just imagine 1 in 6 women experience some form of sexual assault in their lifetime. And those are only the reported cases.

This post is for every single survivor, no matter who you are, no matter what exactly happened. Your story matters. Your feelings matter. Whether you were a child, a teen, an adult, it wasn’t your fault. Whether you wore a dress or jeans, whether it was night or day, whether you were drunk, sober, loud, shy, naive, or bold, you are not to blame.

And yet, we live in a society that still asks: “What was she wearing?”
As if clothes invite assault. As if someone else’s violent, violating decision could ever be justified by your outfit. That’s how deep this toxic mindset goes. Society will bend over backwards to protect the abuser, and then turn around and ask the survivor to explain themselves. That needs to end.

Writing this isn’t easy. I’ve had to stop, breathe, and come back. Because it hurts not just because of what I know, but because of what I carry within me, too. I don’t speak about this from the outside. This pain is something I’ve felt deeply. It’s not theory to me, it’s real. It leaves marks on your mind, your body, your soul. Flashbacks. Nightmares. That feeling of being a stranger in your own skin. The disgust that doesn't go away. The fear of being touched, even by people you trust. The fear of never feeling safe again. It changes everything. And I know the weight of trying to pretend you're okay when you’re falling apart inside.

I also know how hard it is to wash someone’s touch off your body. How even when your skin is clean, your memory isn’t. How months, even years, can pass, and you’ll still have moments where the past grabs hold of you like it never left. That sudden rush of shame, or panic, or that hollow ache in your chest you can’t quite explain. I know what it's like to wish you could climb out of your own body just to feel peace for one minute. And if you feel that way, please believe me when I say, you're not alone. I carry that same ache with you.

To the person reading this who feels broken beyond repair, you're not. You may feel shattered right now, but every piece of you is still worthy of love, healing, and peace. There is no timeline for recovery. There’s no “right” way to survive. Whether you talk about it or not, whether you cry every night or bury it deep just to keep going, you are surviving. And that in itself is brave.

I wish I could reach through the screen and hug you. Not the kind of hug that fixes everything, because I know nothing can undo what happened, but the kind of hug that says you’re not alone anymore. You are loved. You are believed. And you are so incredibly strong, even on the days when you don’t feel it. Especially on those days.

No one, and I mean no one, has the right to touch you without your consent. I don’t care what you were wearing. I don’t care if you were walking home at night. I don’t care if you trusted them. I don’t care if it was your partner. Your friend. A stranger. Consent is not a luxury, it’s a right. Every woman, every girl, every child deserves to feel safe in their home, in their school, on their street, in their skin, every day, every hour, everywhere.

The trauma doesn’t disappear just because time passes. It lingers. It hides in places people don’t see. In your reactions. In your silence. In the things you now avoid without knowing why. And sometimes, the world makes it worse by blaming you, by doubting you, by expecting you to “move on” as if healing from that kind of pain is something you can schedule.

But the truth is, life didn’t stop the day it happened. Even though you might have wished it did. We’re still here. And we’re here for a reason. To speak. To fight. To break the cycle. To protect future generations so maybe they can grow up in a world that finally understands consent, respect, and accountability.

It’s devastating, isn’t it? How after everything, parts of society still find a way to imply it was our fault. They might not say it directly, but you feel it in their silence, in their questions, in the way they look at you like you’re the problem for speaking up.

I know it’s hard. And I know the chances of carrying anxiety, depression, PTSD, or feeling “forever changed” are high. And I know what it feels like when you have no one to tell. When your voice feels too small, or like it won’t be believed.

That’s why I’m writing this.
To remind you you are not alone.
You are not to blame.
You are a survivor. A warrior in your own right.
And you deserve peace. You deserve healing. You deserve to live without shame.

Walk with your head high.
Not because you weren’t hurt, but because you are still here. Still breathing. Still choosing to keep going, even when it hurts. Walk for yourself. For that younger version of you who didn’t have a voice. Walk for the ones still trapped in silence. Walk in defiance of the people who thought they broke you.

Because they didn’t.
They never will.

And if no one’s told you this yet, I’m proud of you. For surviving what should’ve never happened. For carrying that pain and still choosing to wake up. For breathing through the nights when your chest felt too heavy. For simply being here, right now. I know it’s hard. I know some days feel unbearable. But you are proof that even in the deepest darkness, the human soul fights to stay alive. You are not just a survivor, you are a living, breathing miracle. And I hope that one day, when you look in the mirror, you see even a glimpse of the strength and beauty the rest of us already see in you.

However you take it, whatever way is it, it’s all good. Take all time you need and remember it was never your fault. If you ever need someone to listen your story, I will always be here :)

Nena