20 Years of Joy & Pain in April
2004: It’s a warm April evening in Washington D.C. I am standing in front of almost 200 people and I am weeping. I am sharing my story of sexual assault, which I have done dozens of times before, but it is the first time I have ever cried publicly when sharing my story. I am horrified. I can feel shame burn my cheeks and twist my insides. I want to sit down. I want to stop talking. I do not recognize the words coming out of my mouth. That is a lie. I do not want to recognize these words- I do not want the quiet voices that whisper in my mind to be said aloud, I do not want to hear them, and I do not want hundreds of fellow students I will have to see around campus to hear them, too. I finally stop. Sit down in the front row where my best friend is waiting for me. I bury my face in her shoulder. I want desperately to disappear. I want the tears to finally cease. I did not know this grief still existed in me. I thought I had healed. Overcome. I thought I was “over” what happened to me. The night I was assaulted, 3 years prior, I had all control taken away from me. Becoming so engulfed in grief and rage at an event I had been planning for months felt like I was losing control all over again. My tears eventually slow, my breath becomes less ragged. And I am finally able to hear the other voices- the real voices- in the room. I hear story after story of survival. I learn of my friends’ and mentors’ traumas for the first time. I cry more tears. But the knot of shame is loosening. I walk around the room to offer support to survivors after they speak, many of them sharing their story for the very first time. I sit and hold hands with a stranger. I breathe in the warm and heavy night air. We stay until every voice is heard. It is in the early hours of the morning when we are finished. I feel cleansed. Exhausted. Proud and ashamed. Connected and alone.
It will take me weeks to process my first Take Back the Night event. I had heard about these events while in high school and actually applied to a few colleges because their Take Back the Night programming was well known. But ultimately I decided to go to American University which, until 2004, had never had its own Take Back the Night event. As a first-year student I began asking advisors of mine if it were possible to plan one and was connected to the Multicultural Center’s program coordinator, Melva Jones, who would become a lifelong mentor and friend. Like me, she is a survivor, and she already knew firsthand the power of Take Back the Night events. Together, we founded American University’s Take Back the Night, which in my four years as a student, grew to be the largest in Washington D.C.
That first Take Back the Night taught me so much about healing. I had thrown myself into activism as a way of transforming my trauma from something negative into something actionable and positive. But the healing process is lifelong and not linear. I had gone to therapy for the first two years following my assault, but by the time we held Take Back the Night I had stopped going. I received so much praise for the work I did on campus and in the community to raise awareness and offer messages of hope and inspiration. And while the hope existed, the pain and the grief from what I had experienced and what I had lost was also real, no matter how much I tried to ignore it. I didn’t want to admit when I was triggered or struggling because I felt like I was letting my perpetrator win. But, what we resist persists. Ignoring our pain does not rid us of it. When I spoke at my first Take Back the Night event it was the first time I was giving a testimonial instead of a speech. And the safety I felt in presenting my story in a concise package with a positive message was removed. I was only there to give words to the truth of my experience, and the truth was, no matter how many things I accomplished because and in spite of my trauma, I still wished it had never happened. I was so grateful and proud of where I was, and yet I wish I hadn’t been forced onto this path. That night in 2004 allowed me to acknowledge where I really was on my healing journey, and not just focus on where I thought I should be along that path. Recognizing where I really was allowed me to start moving forward. I was able to redefine my definition of strength and courage and to embrace a new understanding of healing.
2014: It’s a chilly late afternoon in Boston, Massachusetts. The rain, that had poured off and on all day, has finally stopped. Minutes before I walked down the aisle to stand under the chuppah and marry my favorite person, a rainbow struck across the sky. I am holding Gabe’s hands. Melva is watching us, along with about 200 of our friends and family. I tell him, I tell them, that in my darkest moments I could not imagine or believe that I could ever find this happiness, this love. But here I am, standing in all my imperfection, embracing all the hope and joy this life has offered me. Throughout the night several of my loved ones who had walked beside me on my healing journey reflected the joy it gave them to be celebrating at my wedding with me.
2024: There have been many ups and downs. Things I could have predicted and many I couldn’t. The incredible joy of becoming a parent. A global pandemic. Leaving my dream job after 9 years. Health scares. Starting my own business. Creating and living the life I couldn’t have imagined could be mine. I am so proud of the event I helped to create 20 years ago and the thousands of lives it has impacted. I am so proud of the life my husband and I are creating for ourselves and our family. I’m back in therapy and I’m still facing my dark places. And this April, and every April, I am grateful for the gift of healing and bearing witness to the healing of others.
