Hello, my name is Catherine; I am a survivor of multiple rapes, childhood sexual abuse, covert incest, and domestic violence. If you’re reading this, then perhaps you or someone you know and love has experienced the same or similar. If so, I am so very sorry for your experience. If you have been raped, please know it’s not your fault, but it still happened….so now what? The choice is yours. There is no easy fix, and there is no hope of a better tomorrow unless you decide there is hope and make tomorrow possible.

Tough Love Moment: You have a responsibility and duty to yourself to do something about it. You don’t have to report it; that’s not what I am talking about. Consider this: you do need to take care of yourself and keep living. But how? Everyone is different, and here are some words of encouragement for you to consider.

Somehow, someway you ended up here reading this blog article. I believe in you. I believe you were raped. You can do this. You can keep living afterwards. You are not damaged goods. I know it seems and feels impossible. I know. It feels however it feels. I’m so sorry you have to go through this. I’m here going through my own survival storyline, too. So, in that sense, you are not alone. It is estimated that in the United States alone, 1 in 5 women and 1 in 38 men will become the victim of an attempted or completed rape in their lifetime. I, for one, am done staying silent about this epidemic.

So what do you do when you’ve been raped and after the dust has settled a bit? What do you do when you blame yourself? What do you do when you recover memories of rape from years ago and there is no physical evidence to prove it or the statute of limitations has long since passed?

All the words that follow are not legal advice, they are not medical or mental health advice. The words that follow are the honest ones being shared by a rape survivor who decided to write an open letter to all survivors; I wrote this open letter because when I was raped, I searched high and low for anything that could help me figure out what in the fucking mad hell I was going to do about it. And I found zilch, nada, nothing. I decided to change that.

So, here it goes:

Keep going. . . you’ll make it if you keep trying and refuse to give up. Don’t give up, no matter how hard it gets. If you give up, then they win. The perpetrator, the person who raped you, wins when you give up on life and become a statistic. So don’t become the statistic.

Keep going. Ask for help. Look for organizations in your local area that provide domestic violence services. Find a sympathetic therapist. If you get a bad therapist, then fire them and find another one. How to know when you have a bad therapist? You’ll know; something will feel off. Eventually, Dear One, therapy may cease to work. It may not. It depends on many factors. Ask for help. When one solution stops working well, find another solution.

Keep going. Take an art class. Take a singing class. Write angry letters. Smash something big, safely, and in the company of safe people. If you keep going, you will get somewhere that is different from where you are right now. So, if you don’t like where you are right now, then do something productive about it. Start small.

Feels overwhelming? Good. That’s how you know you’re doing it right. There is no healing without feeling. Eventually, this will get easier. When you first face the demons in your life, they scare the absolute shit out of you. How can you know what to do when you’re reeling from being assaulted? You don’t have to know everything at first, just find the next right thing to do that serves your highest good and feels most loving for yourself. Keep going. Step-by-step.

You are not alone. Below is my story. I share a lot of personal background. Most of it is triggering. Proceed with caution. I am with you on this path. May you find some peace, comfort, and solace in your heart as a result of reading my story. May teams of a thousand angels surround your being and wrap you in a cloak of Unconditional Spiritual Love. You see, Dear One, when something vile like this happens to people in the world, the beings that live beyond our visual reality show up for us en masse; they show up to protect us, to guide us to help and safety; but you must be open to receiving help. . . and sometimes that is just impossible to do, right until it’s not impossible any more.

*Go out into nature and ask the trees for help. Pachamama loves you and wants to help you.*

Here’s my story. I dare you to judge me.

One late September morning, in Taos, NM, I was ironing my pants for my long-awaited Kriya Yoga Initiation in Santa Fe. Two years prior, I had taken a workshop called “Seven Breaths to a New Life.” My initiation into Babaji’s Kriya Yoga was the next step, and I was brave enough to join the lineage and hold the wisdom with respect and humility. It was 5:00 in the morning. I was groggy from the night before. I was pleased with myself about all the big life changes I was making. I quit my job in finance that I absolutely despised, quit smoking cigarettes, quit drinking alcohol, and started to eat fresh and whole foods. I was loosing weight and getting my physical fitness back. Once upon a time, before my career in finance began, I was 135 pounds of pure muscle, bouldered Hueco V5/V6, and was skiing expert-only terrain almost exclusively. Since beginning a job in finance and being raped multiple times, I gained at least 80 pounds, was drinking 2-3 bottles of wine a night, was struggling with disordered eating, and was chain-smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. But I blamed myself. I forgot I was raped. My brain wrapped it up into an un-labeled tightly-sealed steel box and thew it into the river of my past, displaced memories.

“Who am I…” I thought to myself over and over again through the years from 2016 o 2021. “What have I done to myself and why is it SO hard to lose weight now? Why can’t I make friends? Why am I afraid to live? Why am I so depressed and anxious all the time? Why am I having angry sex with dangerous men, and why am doing hard drugs?” I was so confused. I blamed myself for every inch of failure in my life, completely unaware that my struggles were directly related to being raped in 2005, 2016, and 2018. Little did I know then just how deep the wormhole of abuse, assault, neglect, and abandonment really went….

…..because the memories of being raped were completely distorted. And I was, frankly, becoming a wild alcoholic and drug addict. At the end of 2019, I no longer recognized the person staring back at me in the mirror. So I decided to change and get back to my healthy self. Along the way, I got curious about what led to my decline in health.

Two years later, on the morning of my chosen Kriya Yoga Initiation, all the memories came rushing back and literally took my breath away. It was the beginning of an epic and years-long Awakening. Finally, all the meditation I was doing opened up a blocked gate in my mind that recalled that steel box and smashed it wide open.

That’s when I cried out in agony. I fell hard to my knees. I cried out with a deep guttural gasping timbre for what seemed like eternity.

I remembered he laughed at me. I remembered how I told him “NO! STOP! NO! WAIT! DON’T! NO!”

I remembered how he laughed at me after he was done violating my body. He never once looked back.

I remembered how I left my body and was frozen in fear.

I suddenly remembered his hands holding me down by my shoulder and my waist as be bent me over the desk and held me down.

I remembered he laughed at me again when I asked him if he could take me home because I was too drunk to drive.

I remembered feeling panic consume every single cell of my body.

I remembered walking out of the basement to look for my car.

I remembered how I fell to my knees on the gravel because I was too drunk to stand up straight.

I remembered thinking, “I have to get home. I have to get to my dog, Lilly. I have to get home. I can’t stay here. It’s not safe. I can drive. I’ll just go slow. If I can make it to 285, then I just have to stay in the right lane and go slow. The stoplights will help me find my way home. I can do this. I have to go home now. It’s not safe to stay.”

I realized years later, all I had to do was make a left turn instead of a right turn out of the boathouse; taking a left would have dropped me at the Morrison Police Station.

I remembered how I laughed a little when I literally asked Jesus to take the wheel just like that dumb country song said. To be clear: I am not condoning the operation of any motor vehicle whole under the influence. What I did was absolutely stupid, illegal, endangered the safety of others and was fueled by the panic I felt from being raped and my inability to make good decisions because I was drunk.

I remembered how I made it home.

I remembered how I poured myself a glass of wine and rolled a cigarette.

I remembered how I broke down and began to throw things and break things.

I remembered how frightened my dog was.

I remembered I felt consumed with shame.

I remembered I took a large knife out of the knife block in my kitchen and thought, “Down the highway…not across the street…..I can kill myself if I just cut downward like this…”

I remembered how I began to slit my wrists.

I remembered how I looked at my dog, Lilly, and her eyes were wide and deep. Her eyes pierced though to my soul as if to say, “Please don’t.”

I remembered how I dropped the knife and cried out in agony.

I remembered how I called a friend. I called people until someone picked up the phone. It was very late into the night after all. I was too ashamed and afraid to call the police. Plus, I was still wasted and not thinking logically.

I remembered how I told my friend that I would call the police in the morning and report the rape.

I remembered I threw away the short green and beige colored skirt I was wearing that night. I threw away the evidence out of shame.

I remembered how I went to work the next day and pretended like nothing was wrong. I worked at a call center, after all, and was judged on how happy and satisfied any customers were that worked with me; my livelihood depended on me people-pleasing for a massive financial firm in their giant call center.

I remembered he raped me without a condom.

I remembered I bought a Plan B pill the next day and took it immediately.

I remembered how I conveniently forgot to report the rape the next day. I had to live and survive after all. I had just moved to this new city for this new job in finance and was working as a raft guide at a boathouse in Morrison, CO alongside 4x10 hour shifts at the financial call center. Lucky for me, the rafting season was over. My rapist decided to rape me at the end of the season party that denoted the end of commercial boating season.

I thought horrible things about myself, “Will anyone believe me? I’m such a slut. I deserved to be raped. I’m a whore. Why was I so drunk? Why didn’t I leave and go home? Why did I wear that skirt? Why did I accept the last drink he gave me? Why did I believe him when he said I needed to see a photograph in the basement….far away from everyone else at the party; far enough away out of everyone’s earshot? Oh my God! IT’S ALL MY FAULT!”

You see, nearly 6 years had passed from the time I was raped in August of 2016 to the time I fell to the floor sobbing in my home in September 2021 while preparing to attend a very powerful, mystical, and ancient mystery school initiation in Santa Fe.

For nearly 6 years, I drank 2-3 bottles of wine almost every night and chain-smoked hand-rolled, filter-less cigarettes. Within one week of being raped, I had convinced myself that it was my fault and that I must have asked to be fucked. I couldn’t remember the details. So I made up a story to fit the facts I did remember. I blamed myself for wearing a short skirt and looking too sexy. I gained 80 pounds to ensure I’d never look sexy again. I gaslit myself for years and believed it. I l walked away from numerous jobs. I was raped again. I started doing harder drugs. . . to feel something again. I sought out dangerous men. I fucked those dangerous men. Then I would drink more. I would smoke more weed and more tobacco. I started doing cocaine. I became ill often. I hated myself from deep within….and the worst part was that I was so drunk and disoriented for 6 years after those perpetrators raped me that I believed wholeheartedly that I must have asked him to fuck me that night….”I must have… I’m a slut. No one loves me. I hate myself.”

Round and round and round it went.

I became saturated in victimhood consciousness. I continued to gaslight myself. I believed that I deserved it. “I must have asked for it somehow…” I told myself over and over and over again; then I would walk inside and refill my wine glass and get more rolling tobacco.

I was raped in August 2016 at work. I worked for a rafting company in Morrison, Colorado and ran river trips down the very challenging and incredibly dangerous Clear Creek in Colorado. We ran easy trips on the Upper Colorado River. This was my second season working as a raft guide. I was very excited. I was proving how strong us athletic and independent women are. Little did I realize how utterly toxic and bigoted the rafting community really is, or at least this particular company. Women are subservient to men in many but not all commercial rafting companies. Sadly, my story is not unique.

But when the memories returned, I eventually realized how it is my responsibility to find a path forward. Somehow. Someway. No matter how hard it got. No matter how much I wanted to give up on life. I knew I had to keep going.

So I did. I kept going. I tried to report the incident in late 2021, but I called the detective back after a week and asked them to drop the case because I was terrified. I was so afraid of being slut-shamed or even killed. I felt so deeply disempowered. The panic in my body that lingered for 6 years was louder than ever!

So I did what I thought was best for myself. I called and canceled the investigation and went about my life. My rock climbing friends thought I was too intense. They yelled at me, “you need therapy” as they took another swig of whiskey next to the fire. I laughed at them thinking how much better I felt for at least having the courage to face my pain; they were still drinking their pains away.

That’s when I realized I needed new friends.

Not everyone at Hueco sucks, so I found better friends.

I went flat broke. I worked waitress jobs and other odd jobs. I started The Lilly Pad, LLC in El Paso, TX where I was living and working as a bouldering guide at Hueco Tanks State Park. I accepted that my friends would never understand me, and I accepted that many of these people I had climbed with for decades were no longer my true friends. The true friends I did have spoke to me with honesty and respect. I understood that if I chose to relate to the ‘fair-weather-friends’ again it would require I release any and all expectation and hope that they would accept me as I truly am. And I accepted that none of that was my fault.

I kept going. One day in a meditation, I heard “it’s time to go back to the high mountains; the borders will change and bust; there will be much chaos where you are living now and you need quiet. Get up, now, and start applying for jobs in the high mountains….consider going back to work as a ski instructor.” I got hired to teach at Crested Butte Mountain Resort to teach skiing that coming winter, and I was hired instantly. Then, I applied to work a part-time job at a fancy grocery store; the manager hired me over the phone. I began packing my belongings.

I left my cheap and large apartment in downtown El Paso in September 2022 and moved to Gunnison, CO just as the cartels were going on killing sprees in Juarez and all Northern Mexico border towns marking the beginning of another cartel war. El Paso has been known as one of the safest cities in the nation; that’s because the borders are controlled by the cartels and have bought off many US Border Patrol agents. Ask absolutely anyone who lives in EP, and you’ll get the same answer. I remembered looking at the news months later only to see stories of how inundated the homeless shelters were, that thousands of homeless people were roaming the streets, and the violent crime rate in the neighborhood I used to occupy spiked.

I thanked my angels and my team of loving etheric beings for guiding me and keeping me safe.

I thanked myself for listening to my intuition.

You see, rape takes that intuitive sense away. At least, it did for me. My rapist took my ability to fight back away from me. It took years of meditation and practice with my intuition to get back in alignment.

Then December 23rd, 2023 came along.

That’s when I took my fucking power back.

I was sitting in my bed, watching South Park episodes back to back. I was recovering from massive shoulder surgery alone at home with my cat, Professor Fred Zeppelin.

I decided I had enough and that I wasn’t going to be a victim any longer.

I was stuck in bed, wearing a sling immobilizer for another 4 to 18 weeks and the suicidal ideation hit me. This time it was bad. Real bad. I was unsure if I would become disabled permanently from my shoulder injury and by how much. The group of women who agreed to help me recover from surgery all left me after 10 days - when I still could not drive, shower alone safely, or feed myself adequately. This was unexpected. Only one woman remained. An acupuncturist. She helped me out of pity. I had no support system and no support system wanted me. I had cut my father out of my life because he refused to respect my boundaries and was treating me like a child when I was 36-years-old. I was completely alone, save for my cat- Professor Fred Zeppelin - and my inability to run away from myself was just what I needed, even though it was absolutely fucking maddening.

I let my mind wander. To be clear, I did this for myself because I knew I could face whatever came up. I was determined to heal and make it through this devastating injury. I do not recommend doing this, and if you’re going to spelunk into the depths of your mind - do it with someone (preferably a trauma-informed therapist who does not stink at their job) who can pull you out of it. The only reason I did this alone was out of necessity and because I had years of mental training through my meditation practice to stand grounded on. I never wanted to actually kill myself, but I knew I had to see what was bubbling up.

So I asked myself why I wanted to kill myself. And I let my mind show me. I observed what came up without judgement. I listened to my body and my mind. I honored what arose. I loved it and held space for it. I cried, even though it hurt to cry! I meditated even though it hurt to breath.

Then it hit me: It was time to follow-through and report the rape. Again. This time, I knew I had to let the whole investigation play out, no matter what came up and no matter what the outcome was. Even if I was slut-shamed, I was determined to see this process through. Even if my rapist threatened to kill me, I was determined to be heard.

So, on December 23rd of 2023 I picked up my cell phone with my one working hand and called the Morrison Police Department to file the report. I screamed my story into the telephone with intermittent sobbing at 5:30 AM in the morning to the poor overnight investigator. I met with another detective on the phone the next day and repeated my case. Both times I was recorded for investigative purposes.

Not even two months later, the investigation was over. The detective went to the boathouse where I was raped and questioned the owner; he then had to hunt down my rapist who refused to cooperate with the investigation. It’s important to note that for me, I chose not be updated on this by the detective. Honestly, I ran out of courage. So I set a boundary with the detective and my boundary was respected.

I told the detective in our initial phone interview that I was not willing to hear updates; “just tell me what I need to know and when I need to know it. When we’re done with this call, I am going to put this investigation out of my mind as much as I may because I’m scared, and I need to keep living; If I hear updates constantly, I’ll get even more anxious than I am now, and that is dangerous for me.”

The detective obliged. He told me to call him anytime for anything whatsoever. He followed the process. He told me he had trouble getting my rapist to cooperate for questioning and that I need not worry; he’d have the local police show up at his place of work and arrest him if necessary. I got a little kick out of that update.

To this day, I am not sure if my rapist cooperated or had to be arrested. Nonetheless, the investigation was finished within 2 or so months. I was able to get help from a local service provider in Gunnison County. They helped place me with an acupuncturist instead of a talk therapist. The acupuncture was very supportive for me.

Finally, the detective called to tell me what the outcome was.

“I believe you,” the detective said, “I believe you; your descriptions of the scene were all there and incredibly accurate. I saw the basement office and spoke with the owner and with the perpetrator who of course deny anything happened. But for what it’s worth, I believe you. Since there is no physical evidence and since there are no witnesses, it is very hard to prosecute…..but if you want I will absolutely go to the District Attorney’s office and see what else is possible. Sometimes there is more they can do that we can’t. You can take some time to think about it if you want and let me know.”

I cried. I was relived. I knew that without any physical evidence any chance at justice was likely out of the question. I was unfortunately not surprised at the outcome. But I found peace and comfort in the fact that I had the brass lady balls to push back - no matter what the outcome was. I felt like pushing for a trial was a waste of my time and energy. Without that physical evidence and any willing, credible witnesses - it would have been a long, ugly, likely very public display of he said, she said.

…..and I am not a fucking martyr.

Since then, I have come to a few conclusions:

I am very pleased I finally made the report. I feel a great weight lifted off my shoulders. The months following the report were hard, but that eventually shifted. Exercise and hydration and good food helped.
If I had called 911 when I was raped or walked down the street in Morrison from the boathouse to the police station, my rapist would be in prison right now; there would be plenty of physical evidence to show in a court of law. Maybe, just maybe, I would have avoided being raped again in 2018 and all the addiction behavior that nearly killed me. Maybe, just maybe, I could have healed earlier. Maybe, just maybe, I could have fallen in love eventually and had a family.
I am glad I retracted my report in 2021. I wasn’t ready. It would have been too much for me at the time. I didn’t have a support system and felt like I wasn’t strong enough to go through the experience of reporting the rape then without one. My rock climbing friends were calling me crazy whilst getting drunk and sleeping around. I guess since I had stopped that behavior, I was the asshole…
My decision to report led to an investigation in which multiple people from the boathouse were questioned. Attention was given to my story. Others were made aware of my story.
Boaters talk. I am confident word has spread about the incident throughout the boating community. My hope is that it will bring greater awareness to the despicable behavior that comes from this community and society at large; my hope is that greater awareness will foster change.
I learned I care more about my welfare than ever before and have grown into a woman who knows her worth and upholds her boundaries even when it’s difficult or scary; I know better now and cannot be manipulated. I love myself wholeheartedly, especially all my scars!
I wrote this blog article. I am not afraid anymore. I decided it is time to talk and that I do not care about what other people think. All those who ever hurt me cannot hurt me anymore because I took away their power to do so. But as hard as I tried to do this along my healing timeline, it didn’t happen until it finally happened. No amount shaming myself helped. I just had to keep going and find the next right healthy choice - whatever that was.
Political Correctness and Cancel Culture changed “Rape” to “Sexual Assault” which gives semantic power to the perpetrators who violate other human beings’ bodies sexually. It’s disgusting. Your skin crawls when you see the word Rape. Sexual Assault is more kind to say in public, society says. Well folks, our society is toxic! So why would we continue a practice that empowers perpetrators and further silences survivors…?
When 1 in 38 men and 1 in 5 women in the United States experience an attempted or completed RAPE, we better call it what it is; It is called Rape. Some call it Sexual Assault. But it’s far worse than that. Wake up!
Eventually, I realized my silence was compliance. So I stood up for the countless men and women who have been silenced; more importantly, I stood up for myself. I took my power back, and no one will ever again take that from me. Because I am speaking about my story, perhaps it will be easier for others to share theirs. When we come together and share our tough stories consciously, we can begin to heal and grow as a collective society. Don’t you think we’re sick enough?

A brooding moment with my cello in the Gunnison Arts Center in April of 2023. I play now with a determination and vigor I have never experienced before. I believe it is because I learned to fight for my life when I had no will to live left.‍ and no one cared about me being gone.

I want to thank the brave men and women of the Morrison Police Department in Jefferson County Colorado for doing their job as unbiased as possible to bring what justice may come to any and all criminal offenses. I want to thank the State of Colorado for extending the statute of limitations to ten years for survivors of rape to come forward. I want to thank the men and women at Blue Bench and Project Hope of Gunnison Valley for going to great lengths to help me help myself. I want to thank MAYA Center in Gunnison for being a peaceful healing place.

I want to thank the neighborhood boy who molested me in childhood. I want to thank my mother for walking in on it and blaming me for being tricked into playing a game called ‘doctor’; the boy said I had to be naked. To a 5 year-old, this logic stands and since I grew up in a toxic home and missed out on basic emotional and physical care from my mother, I was at higher risk for something like this. Apparently, it was my fault for letting the older boy close the door and letting him tell me how to play the game. This older boy spoke to me like my father spoke to my mother; I didn’t know what I was letting happen was wrong. I thought all girls had to do what older boys told them to do. So, thank you mommy dearest for being the first person to steal my voice.

I want to thank my psychotic older brother for trying to kill my mother when I was 6-years-old with a baseball bat and attempting to recruit me to help him by telling me it was a game. Because I started screaming and crying when I realized dead meant no longer there and thought about who would be there to take care of me, our mother was not caught off guard and my brother got distracted enough to start yelling at me. I never knew I saved my mother’s life in that moment until right now…

I want to thank my brother and my father for physically, emotionally, and sexually abusing me in childhood. You both gave me the reasons I needed to rely on myself and to never become a target.

I want to thank all the bullies who called me fat and ugly and stupid. “Fatty-Fatty two-by-four; You couldn’t fit through the bathroom door,” they would taunt at me. You gave me the strength to persevere.

I want to thank the wretched nurse who slut-shamed me at the University of North Texas on-campus student clinic. I went there my freshman year of college after a friend I had in High School coerced me into having sex with him in his dorm room while I was in a committed relationship with my high school sweetheart. (It broke my heart to tell my BF; I remember I called him immediately and told him what happened. We never recovered). I told my friend who coerced me that I didn’t want to be intimate with him, and he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. I now know why I froze and let him touch me and penetrate me. Thank you mommy dearest! I never wanted it, but I froze. I knew something was wrong, and that is why I went to that clinic the next morning. When I shyly asked the nurse, “how do you know if you’ve been raped?” she looked stunned.

“Did you let it happen?” the judging nurse asked me as she glared down her long, old nose at me.

“I didn’t want it to…but yes…I guess I let him…I told him to stop….and then I just froze…I don’t know what happened…” I replied shamefully and in-between sobs.

“Then you were NOT raped.” she said as she stormed out of the room never to return. I guess that’s the toxic downfall of Christian Evangelism. Bummer. I don’t think that’s what “Jesus” would do. Do you?

She was wrong. I was raped. I want to thank my adolescent friend for raping me in my freshman year of college. Years later, I had heard through the grapevine that he shot his own damn leg off while running from members of a Mexican Cartel in West Texas. I don’t feel bad for him. Not one bit.

I didn’t realize that I WAS raped until the #metoo movement began and braver women than I spoke out to clearly define what rape really is. Sadly, #metoo happened a few months after I was raped….again…and my reaction to being raped was the same as it was my freshman year of college. I froze. I blamed myself. I repeated the same slut-shaming words to myself that the fucking cunt nurse told me back in 2005.

I want to thank my physically and mentally ill mother for dying when I was 24-years-old; you got out of my way so I could attempt to care for myself, finally, after 20 years of taking care of your sorry ass. I want to thank my mother for threatening to have me exorcised by the priest every time I even hinted at being able to perceive that which lies beyond what our eyes and mind calls ‘reality.’ You can’t exorcise me now, bitch!

“The pain goes out the way it came in, Catherine.” my guides would say to me in meditative states.

I will always carry this scar. Just like a surgical scar, eventually the scar tissue breaks up and healing occurs leaving just a mark behind with a story of what used to be. The thing is, that scar tissue won’t break down and the healing won’t occur if you just sit on your ass and don’t do anything about it. You have to rehabilitate it. You have to deal with the discomfort. You have to use your body. You must be patient, and you must consciously check in with yourself often to determine if it’s time for a new exercise, if a rest day is needed, or perhaps a trip to a healer or doctor of some sort. There will be good days and bad. I still have bad days, and I expect that I will always have bad days. But at least now, when I have a bad day, I know that I deserve to keep living through it. Because you never know what tomorrow will bring.

Healing isn’t a destination; it is not some epic ending of your pain and suffering that mutates into pure joy, bliss, and happiness forever fucking more.

Chop wood. Carry water. Keep going. There’s this Buddhist saying, “Before enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water.” As I walk my spiritual path, I see and hear many people claiming that after enlightenment they never had to deal with anything bad or sad. That’s bullshit. And it’s toxic. Life is full of dumpster fires. How you chose to react and respond is what you control. You can cry about your pain and still be a spiritual person. You can watch TV and be entertained here and there and still be a spiritual person. You can fart in public and make mistakes that get you fired from a job you love and still be a spiritual person.

My experience serves me well. It has given me the strength to play my cello with even more passion and fire and determination than ever before. As I edit this blog post on a very hard day, I realize just how ephemeral the healing process is and how important it is to honor whatever is showing up whether it feels good or not.

My abusers and rapists stole my best years, and I may never trust anyone enough to fall in love ever again or ever have that family I always dreamed of having. But I will keep going. I will keep trying. I will continue to open my heart to safe men. And that’s what matters. It matters that I keep showing up and keep trying. Because my rapists and abusers already stole too many of my days. I won’t let them take any more.

That’s all for now.

An open letter to anyone who has been raped…

What’s this blog all about?

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