I haven’t posted in almost five months. The reason is simple: I’m still in the thick of the court system, and it’s exhausting. Over the summer, there was a significant event in the process that completely drained me. It left me feeling like I had nothing left to give—not to my writing, not to advocacy, not even to myself.
There’s a constant internal battle between pushing forward—writing, advocating, fighting for others—and recognizing when I need to step back and care for myself. For a while, the best way I knew how to cope was by pretending my sexual assault didn’t happen and focusing on living life as normally as possible. And for the most part, I’ve done that to the best of my ability.
But the thing about the court process is that it doesn’t let you ignore what happened. It forces you to confront it over and over again. And when I can’t push it aside anymore, this space—this blog—is where I turn.
This morning, walking into work on a gorgeous, crisp late-fall morning, my phone rang. The trial date is set.
My nervous system didn’t care whether the trial was tomorrow or six months from now. It reacted as though the assault had happened yesterday. The anxiety hit me like a tidal wave—tight chest, shaky hands, heart pounding, as if I were back in the moment that changed everything.
This is the reality of seeking justice. It feels like riding a rollercoaster you never asked to get on—a ride that never seems to end. You try to move forward, to heal, but every step of the legal process pulls you back into the trauma. Each milestone—court hearings, depositions, trial dates—demands that you relive an event that you’ve fought so hard to try to push out of your mind. While trying to rebuild your life, you’re forced to alternate between desperately trying to forget and painstakingly recalling every detail of the most traumatic event you’ve ever endured.
The moments in between court hearings or depositions might offer a false sense of calm. You try to focus on work, friendships, hobbies—anything that feels normal. But normalcy feels fragile and then, the milestones come. A court date. A meeting with your attorney. A deposition. Each one forces you to drag the memories back into sharp focus. Dates, times, conversations, physical sensations—it all has to be recalled and shared in sterile, public settings with people who dissect your words and scrutinize your pain. Even when you’ve tried your hardest to move forward, these moments yank you back to the day everything changed.
It’s not just the act of remembering that’s exhausting. It’s the emotional whiplash. You might feel guilt for how much you’ve forgotten or doubt over how much you remember. You might feel anger at the system for making you relive the worst day of your life, and shame for how much that anger takes out of you.
Then there’s the emotional limbo. Justice feels like it’s always just out of reach. Cases can take months or years, and each delay can chip away at the hope you’re holding onto. You might feel alone, even when surrounded by loved ones, because the process is so deeply personal—and so hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it.
The process is relentless. It’s exhausting. And it’s lonely in ways I struggle to put into words. You want to advocate, to fight, to make something good come from what happened to you—but you also want to protect yourself, to retreat, to rest.
If you’re in this fight, please know you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel tired, to take breaks, to focus on yourself when the weight of it all feels unbearable. The journey toward justice is brutal, but it’s also brave.
For now, I’m giving myself grace. I’m letting myself feel what I need to feel, one day at a time. Writing this post is my way of honoring where I am in this moment, messy and exhausted as it may be.
And if you’re reading this and feeling something similar, I hope you give yourself grace too. There’s no “right” way to navigate it, and there’s no shame in acknowledging how hard it is. Healing is not linear. Fighting for justice is not easy. But together, by sharing our stories and supporting one another, we can remind each other that we are so much more than what happened to us. You are stronger than you feel in these moments of doubt and exhaustion.
Take care of yourself. Seek support when you need it. And remember that pursuing justice—even when it feels like it’s breaking you—is an act of courage that matters, both for yourself and for others who might be walking this road in the future.
You are not just surviving. You are rising.
In love and solidarity,
M
Shattering the Silence 
I so admire you, Melissa, for your strength in dealing with this. Through my career working in a parish, I came into contact with people who had suffered all sorts of trauma, and sexual trauma is something that the court system causes you to relive over and over and over again, as you have pointed out here. But the strength comes in what you do about reliving that trauma and that’s where your braveness and strength really shine brightly. And the fact that you have this blog to help others have a voice, or even just to know that they are not alone, is a tremendous healing presence, even if it doesn’t feel like it at certain times. Keep up the great work and know that I, and many others, are supporting you all the way, even while we wish there was more we could do. Your advocacy is so important. Much love, aunt Kathy
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