If you could travel back in time and be your own guide, what would you tell yourself? This question has haunted me for months and forced me to unearth one of the harshest truths of my childhood.
⚠️Warning ⚠️
This article is about child abuse. I’m writing it from my own experience. I’m not seeking sensationalism or revenge. I’m hoping that just one person will decide to speak to a child or believe someone who has remained silent. If you can’t read this now, save the link for later.
The generational virus
There are basic lessons about the body, consent, and protection that, for some strange reason, aren’t passed down from parents to children in a surprising number of homes. The silence surrounding abuse is inherited like a virus.
It’s a historical hangover: centuries of normalized atrocities and violence silenced because speaking out hurts more than enduring it. Talking about this feels like throwing a match at the entire planet, but it’s necessary for the fire to consume the ignorance.
What happened and I never said
When I look back at my childhood, I’m confronted with the shadow of all the disturbing things that should never have happened. Events that, in a way, feel like a stain.
I don’t remember exactly how old I was, maybe between four and seven. There was an older cousin. I don’t know the exact age difference, I’d guess about five years. It happened in two different places: at my grandmother’s house and at his house. Houses in different cities. It happened more than twice.
He would grab my hand and say, “Come here.” He would take me to a room. He would lie down first. He would lay me down on top of him. He would rub his private parts against mine. Thank God, he was always clothed. I never did anything. I just let him do it. When he got bored, he would tell me, “Don’t tell anyone because they’ll beat you up.” Out of fear, I never said anything.
Today I understand that “doing nothing” wasn’t indifference: it was a freezing response. When a child’s brain is unable to fight or flee in the face of a confusing threat, it shuts down in order to survive.
Passivity is not complicity; it is the body protecting itself from the impact.
Unfortunately, this was not the only experience of this kind. I reserve the right not to make the others public. But an important question arises: Where were the responsible adults during all those moments?
It wasn’t my fault
I feel strange admitting a part of myself I’ve always hidden: my body was aroused. By the obvious stimulation. That added a layer of guilt I carried for years. Now I know: a physiological response isn’t consent. A child’s body responds to stimuli mechanically, like a nervous reflex, without understanding what’s happening. When you’re tickled, you laugh; it’s a reflex.
At the time, it was a heavy burden. As life went on, it was buried in oblivion. Until recently, when it returned like a demon from the past, and I could no longer pretend it wasn’t there. The guilt wasn’t mine. It was placed upon me, and today I choose to return it to the silence.
What went wrong? Who failed?
Leaving aside the fact that there was an absence of responsible adults, this situation could also have been avoided with education for both parties.
The girl should have been told: “No one should touch your private parts. If someone does, tell me and I will protect you.”
The boy should have been told: “Your body is yours, but other people’s bodies belong to them too. Respecting a girl (or anyone) means understanding that their privacy is sacred. You should never touch anyone’s private parts, nor ask them to touch yours, because that’s not a game; it’s crossing a boundary that doesn’t belong to you.”
But here a painful reality emerges: What about the child who does speak up and whose mother does nothing? When an adult ignores a report, they not only fail to protect; they destroy the child’s sense of safety in the entire world. For that child, home ceases to exist.
The nuance of the aggressor: I don’t want to crucify that cousin; he was probably also a child exposed to things he shouldn’t have been, without guidance for his impulses. He was another victim of ignorance, but that doesn’t lessen the severity of the harm he caused in the slightest.
The situation is different with adults (uncles, stepfathers, neighbors) who abuse with full awareness. There, it’s not ignorance, but a darkness that the system must stop covering up. How many more were victims because no one dared to look under the rug?
My reality manifesto
Today I dare to say aloud what no one whispered to me as a child. These are the truths that break the chain:
- My body belongs to me, and I am its sole owner.
- I don’t have to obey an adult or an elder just because they ask me to, if it violates my integrity.
- If I feel afraid, I can speak about it, and my voice matters.
- If something makes me feel strange, it’s not me who’s broken; it’s the situation that’s wrong.
- Silence doesn’t protect me. Silence protects the virus.
Tools for the present
Abuse is not prevented with fear, but with information.
- To parents: Children need clear education about consent from the age of three. They don’t need to be scared; they need to know that their “no” is sacred and that they will always be heard.
- To families: Believe children. Always. An uncomfortable conversation is better than a lifetime of buried trauma.
- To teenagers: They need tools to manage their impulses without harming others.
They’re not magic recipes. They’re basic tools that, for some strange reason, we still haven’t passed on.
why now?
Because if we don’t speak out, the virus persists. Because abuse isn’t prevented with fear, but with information and support. Because someone who is silent right now needs to know they are not alone.
I no longer want to hide to protect a silence that never protected me.
My story is not unique. Unfortunately, it resembles many others. But if just one person reads it and decides to talk to a child, believe someone, or simply not look away… then the spark I lit will have illuminated the darkness.
Final thoughts
I’m not writing this to play the victim or to elicit pity; I’m writing this so we remember. Looking under the rug is disgusting, but it’s the only way to stop breathing in the dust.
If this text stirred something within you and you need to talk, find someone you trust. You don’t have to carry this burden alone.
If you have children and have never spoken to them about this, I urge you to do so as soon as possible. You don’t need to scare them. You just need to give them a tool: to know that their body belongs to them, that they can say “no,” and that they will always be heard.
