Dear You,
The one who stayed silent because it was safer.
The one who wanted to scream but didn’t know if their voice would survive the sound, or the event before or after.
The one who tried to forget, tried to move on, tried to convince themselves it wasn’t that bad.
The one who still asks, “Why didn’t I say something sooner?”
This letter is for you.
Let’s Be Clear About the Journey
Before we go any further, I need you to know something:
This isn’t just another inspirational dispatch.
It’s not just storytelling.
This is a guided journey, one we will walk through together.
Over the coming weeks, I’ll be sharing a series of reflections, letters, truths, and tools that follow the real phases of healing, from silence to self-trust, from shame to identity, from surviving to purpose.
Each post will come with:
- Scripture to anchor your faith
- Journal prompts to help you process
- Words that confront, comfort, and clarify
- And space to feel without judgment
Whether you’re just beginning or picking up pieces from years ago, this isn’t for performance.
It’s for restoration.
And we start where most healing begins, in the hallowed space between what was done to us and what we’re ready to reclaim.
We start with the first step: acknowledging what was done, and why the silence made sense.
I Need You to Know:
Despite being made to feel, or maybe being asked - “Why didn’t you speak up?”
Your silence wasn’t weakness.
It was wisdom.
A built-in survival instinct.
A God-given mechanism that helped you keep breathing when the world gave you no language, no safety, and no space to speak.
I don’t know what age you were when it happened.
But I know what it does to a child when the truth becomes too heavy to carry-
When your voice is buried beneath fear, confusion, and shame you never asked for.
I know what it feels like to shrink in rooms with people who should’ve protected you.
To wonder if telling would’ve changed anything… or made things worse.
To choose silence because it felt like the only option that didn’t lead to more pain.
But Let Me Be Clear:
You weren’t complicit.
You weren’t responsible.
You weren’t dirty.
You weren’t to blame.
You were a child trying to survive.
You did what you had to do to stay alive.
And that is nothing to be ashamed of.
Maybe you told someone, and they didn’t believe you.
Maybe you tried to tell, and they shamed you back into silence.
Maybe you told and they believed you… but did nothing.
I see you.
I believe you.
And I’m proud of you.
Now that you’re here, reading this, remembering this, maybe weeping through this -
Let me settle this in your spirit:
Your silence may have protected you then.
But now, your truth can free you.
You don’t owe anyone your story.
But you do owe yourself your voice.
You don’t have to shout it from a stage.
You don’t have to post it online.
You don’t even have to say it out loud… yet.
But whisper it if you must.
Write it in your journal.
Name it in prayer.
Because the one who silenced you doesn’t get the final say.
You do.
Words to steady your soul:
Ecclesiastes 3:7
“A time to be silent and a time to speak.”
This is your time to speak.
Questions that changed everything for me:
- What have I been afraid to say out loud?
- What truth am I ready to reclaim?
- What shame am I ready to reassign?
- What would it feel like to believe I am allowed to speak?
From my heart to yours:
You are not weak for staying silent.
You are strong for surviving.
And you are courageous for choosing to speak now, even if your voice shakes.
Speaking your truth doesn’t mean you have to become a poster child for your pain.
It doesn’t mean you owe anyone details or explanations.
Speaking might look like telling a trusted friend what happened.
It might look like writing a letter you never send.
It might look like praying words you’ve never been able to say before.
It might look like drawing boundaries with people who still expect your silence.
It might look like saying “no” without explaining why.
Your voice is yours to steward.
Use it when you’re ready.
Use it how you’re ready.
But use it for you, not to convince anyone of anything, not to fix anyone else’s discomfort, not to minimize the impact so others feel better.
This dispatch isn’t just a letter.
It’s a release.
A reckoning.
A reclamation.
And if no one has ever told you this before, let me say it now:
I believe you.
You did not deserve what happened.
And I’m so glad you’re still here.
We speak now.
Not because we owe anyone an explanation
But because our silence was never consent.
Welcome to your voice.
Welcome home, Disruptor.
Before you go:
If this letter found you, reply and let me know.
Or share it with someone still carrying silence like a second skin.
There’s healing in being heard.
From my heart to yours,
Larissa.
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