Voices of Hope | Kate

I was twelve years old when things in my life started to become different. For years, I believed the adults around me were here to love and support me. My home was a haven. Well, it was, until it wasn't.

It's hard to pinpoint when everything started to shift and change. It was if I went from being a beloved little girl to a desirable woman without growing older. My stepfather, who I love, started to treat me differently. My stepfather, who I trusted, sexually assaulted me.

At first, the extra attention was nice. An unprompted stop at the store to pick out different clothing, or a trip around the corner for an ice cream, was fun. Then the time we spent alone together grew more frequent and longer than it had ever been. The way he spoke to me shifted; he complimented my body while his eyes lingered anywhere but mine. His touch on my leg or lower back lingered too, and soon it became routine for him, but never for me. Who I was to him was shifting from daughter to something else entirely.

Over time, I grew quieter and withdrawn. The haven I had known was gone. I no longer felt safe or comfortable. Each day, the confusion and fear grew heavier. There was a pressure building inside my own body that I couldn't handle, control, or define. Did they even make words for what was happening to me? Would I ever be able to say them out loud?

I lived alone in my silence until someone close to me noticed and asked if I was okay. And courage found the words.

My teacher understood the urgency of my situation right away and acted immediately. That response brought a team of professionals together to support me and my family. Sharing my story led to a mandated report, which brought me to CAN Council.

I didn't know what to expect when I walked through the door. Part of me braced myself for a cold room, multiple strangers asking me overlapping questions in a clinical voice. But it wasn't that. After checking in at the front desk, I was guided into the Children's Advocacy Center. The room was soft — two couches instead of a desk. A small table and chairs in the corner, with coloring books and crayons ready. A basket of stuffed animals nearby, like they knew a kid might need something to hold onto.

A woman introduced herself and asked if I wanted something to drink or if I was hungry. Nerves shot up my spine, but I relaxed as the conversation started and progressed. I was relieved to only have to share my story once with her. It didn't fix what happened, but I did feel like someone was on my side.

CAN Council is the place where the pieces of support for me truly came together. Through the Children's Advocacy Center, law enforcement worked to ensure safety, advocates provided guidance and support, medical and mental health professionals addressed healing, Child Protective Services focused on stability, and so much more.

After the interview, CAN Council scheduled a medical exam. I had shared that the last assault happened that morning, so the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner was hopeful to be able to collect evidence. During the exam, the SANE nurse moved intentionally and slowly, explaining each step before it happened — regularly checking in and stopping whenever I needed a pause. It was still hard. But for the first time, I felt like someone was doing this with me, not to me.  A month later, the lab confirmed a 99% DNA match to my stepfather.

Through CAN Council, I was assigned a CASA, a Court Appointed Special Advocate, who I quickly learned was there to represent my best interests as we navigated our new reality. The abundance of new faces in my life felt a little overwhelming at times, but there was something about my CASA's demeanor that put me at ease. She was warm, welcoming, and determined to do what's best for my siblings and me. She quickly showed that she wasn't simply going to advocate for us in court, but in all aspects of our lives. Thanks to my CASA, my voice was heard in rooms I wasn't even in. I received better support at school. I was connected with a therapist. And I received all the medical attention I truly needed after years of abuse. My CASA was also a support to my mother, who was a survivor of domestic violence and was navigating her own trauma. The weekly visits with my CASA became a source of comfort and joy for all of us.

Over the next two years, CAN Council kept showing up in our lives — not just for me, but for my whole family. One day, my little sister came home talking about a woman who visited her classroom. She learned about safe touch, about her body being her own, about telling a trusted adult if something felt wrong. My sister didn't know the details of what happened to me. But she knew I'd been hurt. And somehow, that made it feel like she was learning it partly for me.

Another time was at a community parade. We recognized the CAN Council logo and knew superheroes worked there. I saw the name tag and knew we were safe with them. The Rolling Family Resource Center (RFRC) team gave my siblings and me hats, gloves, and blankets to keep us warm. It was such a small thing to them, probably. But to us, it meant that someone saw us and was kind to us, even in a crowd, even without them needing to know our whole story.

I sat between my CASA and my mother as the judge read off my stepfather's conviction — eleven counts of Criminal Sexual Conduct across multiple degrees. Tears welled as relief poured over me. My mother squeezed my right hand. My CASA squeezed my left. I stared forward, unable to turn and look at either of them. My thoughts were with my siblings, who are now safe.

The journey to healing and feeling comfortable in my own skin is ongoing. I'm eighteen now, heading off to college, and it seems like there are endless possibilities on the horizon. But the trauma I carry in my body still erupts like a volcano. The memories hit like a flash flood while I'm driving. I sit quietly in a room of my peers talking about their sexual relationships with their partners, unsure of what to share about my history. I know I will always navigate the truth of what happened to me, but I have hope that better things will come to replace and define my life for good. I find comfort in the roots of my mother and my younger siblings. They remind me where I came from, even as I figure out where I'm going. The trauma may always be part of my story. But it will never again be the only thing that defines it.