From Silence to Strength: Life After Sexual Assault

I was born into an Italian American family just outside of Boston. My parents, high school sweethearts, built a home filled with love, laughter, and unwavering connection. It wasn’t just us, our whole family lived only a few miles from each other – we were always together. Sundays meant supper at my grandparents’ house, where voices overlapped, and plates were passed with ease. Friday nights were spent cheering on our home team, while school events—recitals, science fairs, even ski trips—drew a crowd of relatives who never missed a moment of my life. If there was a reason to celebrate, we did. Holidays were full of tradition, but even Valentine’s Day and Halloween became family affairs. 

Summers brought our greatest times together—thirteen of us packed into a four-room cottage on the Maine coast, where long beach days and late-night games cemented our bond. Life was simple and joyful, by all accounts, I was living every little girl’s fairytale life. But even a loving home and family couldn’t protect me from the rest of the world.

Growing Up Too Fast

I was 12 when I learned that no place, not even school, was truly safe. The sad truth is my story is all too common. 1 out of every 8 girls and women alive have experienced rape or sexual assault before the age of 18, that is more than 370 million. These unthinkable dehumanizing atrocities don’t just leave physical scars; they change the way we see the world, trust others and even trust ourselves. 	

It was early fall, just a few weeks into the school year. I was in the gym watching an after-school basketball game and left to use the bathroom.  As I approached the door, I was pushed into it with a force so strong that I fell to my knees. Immediately I felt the clawing of hands, on every part of my body – scratching my skin and tearing at my clothes. Every attempt to break free was met with even more force. I fought with everything I had until I realized the unthinkable: I might not make it. I closed my eyes for what seemed like an eternity and then silence. 

A third boy entered the bathroom, pulled them off me, and stood between us until they ran off.  That third boy picked me up off the ground, cleaned me up and walked me the 2 miles to my home and then walked, what I would later learn, another mile and half to his.  Before that day I never knew the 2 boys that attacked me or the boy who somehow at 13-years old found the courage to do the right thing.  That boy became one of my best friends. He never spoke about that day. But he watched over me for years, quietly making sure I was always safe. 

About a month passed. I carried my secret, trying to make sense of it all, never speaking a word about what happened. I told myself that if I stayed quiet, I could move on. Then, one night, I found myself at Fenway Park with a friend’s family – a welcome distraction, a break from the thoughts I refused to say out loud.

Her parents left us alone for a few minutes to grab snacks. That’s when he sat down. An adult man. He sat down next to me on the stadium stairs, put his arm around my shoulder and began kissing my cheek. His hands moved. I froze. Not again. As quickly as it began, it was over. My friend’s parents were returning, and the second he saw them, he got up and walked away. This time, I wasn’t alone. Someone had seen. That meant I had to talk. To everyone. Her parents. Fenway security. The police. I was sent back to my seat, but now undercover officers sat nearby, waiting. Watching to see if he would come back. And he did.

He was arrested right there in front of me, fighting back, insisting, “I was just being friendly.” “She’s overreacting.” The case went to trial. But when the time came to testify, my family decided not to put me through it. They wanted to protect me. And at the time, maybe I wanted that, too. But I learned something in that silence. It doesn’t always fade – it settles in. It lingers so long that eventually, speaking feels impossible. And so, I stayed quiet. For years.

The Weight of Silence

Like too many survivors, I spent years navigating the aftermath of these experiences. The isolation. The shame. The unbearable reality of walking the same school hallways as my attackers every day. I buried myself in achievement, wearing the mask of a high-functioning student leader while battling an internal war no one could see.

It took me nearly 30 years to fully understand that silence isn’t safety, it’s survival. And I am far from alone. An estimated 69% of sexual assaults go unreported, often due to fear of not being believed, retaliation, or self-blame according to research from RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network). The long-term impacts for survivors of childhood sexual assault are in someways immeasurable. The negative impacts reach into every facet of our lives from physical health to our relationships to socio-economics and certainly emotional well-being. In fact, rates of self-harm have been shown to be as high as 49 percent among adult survivors in treatment (IICSA). What about the many who are not actively seeking help? The thought is almost too much to bear. 

Breaking the Silence at 40

I was 40 years old before I truly found my voice. For decades, I rarely spoke about my assaults – except with my parents and doctors. I had convinced myself that I had moved on. That I had survived. Then, during a leadership program, I was asked to write a 2-page life story. Something inside me shifted. For the first time, I wrote the words: I am a survivor of sexual assault. 

The next time we met as a group, I said it out loud during a book discussion on Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. The words were heavy. They cracked open something I had long buried. And when I finally let them out, I realized: This wasn’t just my story. It was the story of so many others. Speaking my truth – after nearly three decades of silence was the first step in reclaiming my power.

Here’s what I’ve learned about finding your voice after trauma:

• Your words are powerful. You can have  a conversation with a trusted friend, write a journal entry no one will ever read, or find a quiet moment of self-acknowledgment. It all counts. 

• Silence isn’t the only choice. If you’re not ready to share, stand beside someone who is. Listening, believing, and creating space for survivors is just as powerful as using your own voice.

• Healing isn’t linear. The journey from silence to strength is not a straight path. Some days you’ll feel powerful; others, you won’t. Both are okay.

Silence doesn’t heal us, connection does. Healing is deeply personal, we all have our own paths to follow, but that doesn’t mean we have to walk alone. We must make a commitment to show up for ourselves and for each other. I know how hard it is to reclaim your voice, but I also know it’s possible.

Why I’m Using My Voice Now

In 1999, more than 25 years ago, a ruling by the Italian Supreme Court overturned a rape conviction, claiming that because the survivor was wearing tight jeans, she must have helped remove them – implying consent. In protest, women in the Italian Parliament wore denim, and from that act of defiance, Denim Day was born.

This year’s Denim Day theme, "Use Your Voice," is a stark reminder that speaking out against sexual violence is both an act of courage and a tool for change. I am on a journey to help women, like me, find their voice and discover who they were always meant to be.  I feel compelled to amplify my voice, the one I reclaimed not so long ago, for all the girls and women who are still searching for theirs. 

On April 30, I’ll be wearing denim - not just as a symbol, but as a testament to the journey from silence to strength. Will you join me?