Image shown for illustrative purposes and does not depict the subject of this article.
A true story about the intergenerational transmission of trauma, the search for justice, and the difficult path to healing.
Silence as a Starting Point
There are lives that begin in silence, not because words are lacking, but because no one is willing to listen to them. I grew up in a large family where strictness, emotional chaos, and the absence of nurturing support shaped daily life. I was the youngest of six siblings, born at the end of the 70s, in a home where my mother supported the emotional texture in the family, but collapsed spectacularly once the child sexual abuse was uncovered.
My childhood is marked by blurred, fragmented images, a mixture of joyful moments and a dark background that my memory learned to put away, where it remained relatively hidden for many years. I knew from a very young age that the danger was not outside – as I was so often told at home – but within the walls of my own home. My father, the man who should have taken care of me, was the one who took away my innocence. The sexual abuse I experienced began in silence, developed in silence and, from the age of 5 to 13 years old, remained buried in that same silence.
At 13, a simple sex-education class became the moment that finally fractured the silence. Restless and trembling, I confided in my best friend that “my dad did that to me.” Encouraged by the only person who truly heard me, I approached the school psychologist. What followed at home was a reaction I never imagined: my mother’s anger, her disbelief, and the demand to return to silence. Though my mother took practical steps — a divorce, a property settlement, a pension — she never opened a space to talk about what had happened. Not a single word of comfort, protection, or emotional care was offered.
Although my father never molested me again, amazingly, he continued to live under the same roof with me until I turned 25.
Youth in the Shadows: Guilt, Confusion and Survival
Adolescence and early adulthood were tinged with anger, impulsiveness, and a constant sense of not belonging. Without emotional tools, a support network, or therapy, I tried to outrun my past through excess, adrenaline, and life choices that repeatedly pushed me to the edge.
I lived believing I was responsible for “breaking up the family,” carrying guilt that was never mine, and at times even doubting the truth of my own memories. It wasn’t until the birth of my first child — a boy — that I encountered a kind of love that didn’t hurt. That moment created a pause in my torment, a brief refuge, a point of light in a life that until then had been defined by constant struggle.
My father’s death came in 2010. For everyone, it was a moment of mourning; for me, it was an internal liberation I carried quietly. “Life is ironic,” I thought with a mix of relief and anger. “Why didn’t he suffer? Why was he praised as if he were a good man?” Yet that external freedom did not bring emotional clarity. Instead, my body began to bear the weight of the unresolved trauma I had never been able to address. Within months, I was hospitalized with a series of serious ailments — including an autoimmune disorder — and nearly died from the massive complications that followed.
History Reborn in a Daughter: The Cycle That Wouldn’t End
Years later, with a new partner, she welcomed a second child. She believed she might finally build the stable family she had longed for. But cycles don’t vanish on their own; they repeat, reshape themselves, and wait for the smallest fracture to emerge.
Before leaving her daughter’s father, small but alarming signs appeared: recurrent vaginal infections, unexplained irritations, and symptoms that doctors treated in isolation, unable to find a unifying cause. She experienced similar symptoms herself, but dismissed them as stress.
The turning point came when a gynecologist, after a series of tests, confirmed several sexually transmitted infections in the mother. The discovery triggered an immediate alarm: if both shared symptoms, something unthinkably serious was unfolding.
The confirmation shattered her world: her four-year-old daughter also carried a sexually transmitted infection.
Guided by instinct, the mother halted all paternal visits, sought legal and psychiatric support, and removed herself from her surroundings to think clearly. In another state, she found gender-sensitive attorneys and a women’s organization that supported her through those first harrowing weeks.
By late 2021, she filed a complaint for omission of care. She understood that the truth could have consequences for her too, but it was the only way to protect her daughter.
That same day, the girl found her voice. In the presence of the psychologist, the prosecutor, and her mother, she described what her father had done. Slowly. Fearfully. With the confusion of a child who believed obedience was her only option.
As she listened, the mother was pulled back into her own childhood—the fear, the silence, the doubt.
Four Years of Struggle: Justice, Trauma, and Resistance
What followed was an emotional, institutional, and personal ordeal that few families are able to endure. It became four years of interviews, evaluations, hearings, forensic analyses, statements, and sleepless nights. Four years in which the girl developed severe symptoms of trauma: night terrors, hypervigilance, regressions, self-harm, extreme fear, compulsions, and profound difficulties with sleep and trust. Four years in which I was forced to sell the few assets I possessed in order to cover the many expenses—amounting to millions of pesos—required to confront the countless consequences and the full weight of the process.
2025 came with a verdict:
More than twenty years and a few months in prison for the aggressor.
A sentence that, more than a legal victory, became a social declaration: what happened to the girl matters. And what the mother endured matters as well.
Healing: A Continuous and Nonlinear Process
After the sentence came an equally complex stage: rebuilding. The girl remains in specialized therapy and has made significant progress, although the trauma continues to appear in cycles. I, meanwhile, have confronted my own memories and begun a deep process of self-compassion and understanding of intergenerational trauma.
For both of us, healing does not mean forgetting. It means understanding, naming, accompanying, and transforming.
This testimony—anonymous, intimate, and traumatic—is not only a personal story but also a window into a structural problem. It is an urgent call to mothers, fathers, educators, institutions, and authorities: the signs are there, bodies speak, children tell the truth, and justice becomes possible when we listen and the path is not abandoned.
Final Message For Other Survivors
This story is an invitation to break the silence. To trust one’s instincts. To speak out, even when it feels impossible. To believe children. And, above all, to recognize that darkness is not the final destination.
This article does not carry a name. It carries a truth. And it carries a freedom earned at great cost.