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Four Years Later: My Story Didn't End in That Courtroom Four years ago, I walked out of a courtroom after one of the hardest chapters of my life. I didn't know exactly what healing would look like or how long it would take. I just knew that I wanted to move forward. Four years ago, I stood in a courtroom and shared some of the hardest parts of my life because I had to. Today, I'm choosing to share my story because I want to. I want someone who is struggling to know that they aren't alone, that what happened to them doesn't define their worth, and that there is still so much life waiting for them beyond what they've experienced. I'm not sharing this because everything is okay now or because I've completely healed. I'm sharing it because I've learned that moving forward is possible, even when the effects of what happened are still part of your everyday life. Several years ago, someone I trusted betrayed me in a way that changed my life. He was my cheer coach, someone who was supposed to be a mentor, someone I looked up to, and someone I believed I could trust. Instead, he took advantage of that trust. He was eventually convicted of crimes involving the exploitation of a minor, unlawful photographing of a minor, and attempted child sexual abuse material. I was a victim in that case. I remember how quickly everything changed. One day, I was a young girl going about my normal life, and the next, I was trying to understand something that no child should ever have to experience. The hardest part wasn't just what happened. It was realizing that someone I had trusted had never been the person I believed him to be. I questioned myself. I struggled with trusting people. I felt angry, embarrassed, confused, and overwhelmed. Things that had once felt normal suddenly became difficult. Even places and activities I loved could bring back painful memories. It also changed the way I saw myself. Being a teenage girl is already hard enough when it comes to confidence and body image. You're growing up, figuring out who you are, and learning to feel comfortable with yourself. After everything happened, I became incredibly self-conscious. I struggled with how I viewed my body and with insecurities that were already difficult enough to navigate at that age. What happened added another layer to those feelings, and it took a toll on my confidence and the way I felt about myself. One thing I wish I had understood sooner is that I had nothing to be ashamed of. I was a child who trusted an adult who was supposed to look out for me. The responsibility for what happened was never mine to carry. It took time for me to begin separating the way someone else treated me from the way I viewed myself. I wish I could go back and remind that younger girl that she was never the problem. Then came the court process. I had to face what happened, speak about things I wished I could forget, and watch someone who had caused so much pain show little to no remorse. I never received the apology I deserved. For a long time, I thought getting through court would mean finally getting closure. I thought that once it was over, I could put everything behind me, but I've learned that healing doesn't work that way. A court case can end, but that doesn't mean the emotional effects disappear with it. For the first year or two after court, I had nightmares almost every night. Sometimes they were about what happened, and sometimes they were about what could have happened if he hadn't been caught when he did. Even though the legal process was over and I knew he had been held accountable, my mind didn't seem to understand that I could finally begin moving forward. Sleep became something I struggled with, and even now, four years later, there are nights when I still have trouble sleeping. I was prescribed medication for PTSD, depression, and anxiety as I worked through everything. As of this past June, I'm no longer taking any of those medications, which has been a meaningful milestone in my personal journey. However, I also know that medication was part of the help I needed at the time, and I’ve had to learn that there's no shame in that. Being off medication doesn't mean everything has suddenly disappeared. I still struggle with trusting people. What happened made me question people's intentions, even when they've given me no reason to doubt them. That has affected my relationships. There are times when I find myself hesitant to trust people, not because of something they’ve done, but because of what someone else did years ago. It's frustrating sometimes, knowing that someone who is no longer part of my life can still influence the way I respond to people who genuinely care about me. I still struggle with my body image and confidence. I still have moments when I feel uncomfortable with myself, even though I know I have nothing to be ashamed of. I also find myself constantly aware of my surroundings. Sometimes, I feel like I'm always on alert, questioning situations or people around me. It's as if a part of my mind is still trying to protect me from something that happened years ago. These are things that don't necessarily go away just because a court case ends or because enough time has passed. While all of these things have gotten better, they still haven't completely disappeared. I think that's one of the biggest misconceptions about healing. People sometimes assume that once enough time has passed, you should be okay, but trauma doesn't follow a timeline, and neither does recovery. Something I've learned over these four years is that healing isn't linear. There are times when I feel like I've made so much progress, and then something happens that brings back feelings I thought I had worked through. I used to get frustrated with myself when that happened. I would wonder why I was still struggling, why I couldn't just move on, or why something from years ago could still affect me so deeply. I still struggle with this sometimes, but I'm learning that having a difficult day doesn't mean I'm back where I started. It doesn't undo the work I've done or the progress I've made. For a long time, I was incredibly hard on myself. I felt like I needed to be strong all the time. I didn't want people to see me struggling, and I didn't want to show what I thought was weakness. I was embarrassed by what had happened, even though I had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. So I pushed my feelings down. I pretended I was okay when I wasn't. I convinced myself that I should be able to move on and that I shouldn't still be struggling with something that was already over. Looking back, I wish I hadn't put so much pressure on myself. I wish I had understood that being strong didn't mean hiding how I felt. I wish I had opened up more, allowed myself to cry when I needed to, and stopped feeling like I had to have everything together. I spent so much time trying to convince myself I was okay that I didn't always give myself the chance to actually work through what I was feeling. That's something I wish I could tell my younger self. Let yourself feel. Be angry if you're angry. Be sad if you're sad. Cry if you need to. Talk to someone when things feel overwhelming. You don't have to pretend you're okay just to make yourself or everyone around you more comfortable. You don't have to prove your strength by suffering in silence. Most importantly, stop being so hard on yourself for struggling with something you never should have had to experience in the first place. Another important part of my healing journey has been my relationship with God. Throughout everything I've experienced, I've learned to turn to Him for strength, comfort, and guidance. My relationship with God has grown tremendously over these past four years, and I truly believe He has helped me get to where I am today. I've always believed in the saying, "God gives His toughest battles to His strongest soldiers." I believe that God wouldn't give me anything I couldn't handle, even during the moments when I questioned how I would ever make it through. There have been times when I've felt overwhelmed, when I've questioned why things happened the way they did, and when I didn't understand what my future would look like. Through those moments though, I've found comfort in knowing that I can turn to God. My faith hasn't taken away every difficult day, every painful memory, or every struggle I still face, but it has given me hope when I needed it most. It's reminded me that I don't have to have everything figured out and that I don't have to carry everything on my own. I don't believe that what happened to me was something I deserved or something I needed to experience to become a better person, but I do believe that God has helped me find growth, purpose, and strength in the years that followed, and while I know I still have healing to do, I trust that He will continue guiding me through it. My faith doesn't mean that I never struggle. It means that even when I do, I have somewhere to turn. When I look back at the girl I was four years ago, I wish I could tell her how far she would come. I wish I could tell her that she would find reasons to laugh again, that she would continue making memories, and that the things she experienced would not have to define the rest of her life. Because today, that's what I'm most proud of. I'm proud that I kept going. I'm proud of the person I've become. I'm proud that I've learned to appreciate life in ways I might not have before, and I'm proud that despite everything, I haven't allowed what happened to control my entire life. I don't want to pretend that what I experienced made me stronger every single day. There have been days when I've felt anything but strong. There have been moments of frustration, sadness, and setbacks. However, strength isn't always about feeling fearless or having everything figured out. This is a lesson I’m still trying to teach myself. Sometimes, strength is allowing yourself to be vulnerable. Sometimes, it's asking for help, and sometimes, it's simply recognizing how far you've come, even when you still have a long way to go. One thing I've come to understand is that moving forward doesn't mean forgetting what happened. It means learning that your life can hold so much more than what happened to you. To anyone who has experienced a similar situation, I want you to know that your feelings are valid. Healing isn't a competition, and there is no deadline for when you're supposed to be okay. You don't have to forgive and forget what happened right away. You don't have to pretend it doesn't affect you, and you don't have to share your story before you're ready. You are allowed to have good days and bad days. You're allowed to be proud of your progress while still acknowledging the things you're struggling with. Your experience is part of your story, but it is not the entirety of who you are. When I look back at the statement I wrote for court four years ago, I see a young girl who was hurting, confused, and trying to make sense of something she never should have experienced, but I also see a girl who, despite everything, still had hope for her future. In that statement, I wrote: "I don't believe in somebody being better than somebody else, but I do believe that people's actions define them as a person." Those words still mean something to me today. For so long, I struggled with the decisions someone else made and the ways those decisions affected my life, but I've learned that his actions were a reflection of his choices, not of my worth. I cannot change what happened or the decisions he made, but I can continue choosing how I want to live my own life, how I treat others, and what kind of person I want to become. Near the end of that same statement, I also wrote: "I hope to stay resilient to the pain you've caused me, and I hope to work each day to be a better and stronger person than you ever have been." Reading those words four years later brings up a lot of emotions. At the time, I wanted so badly to be strong. I wanted to prove that what happened wasn't going to destroy me. I wanted to believe that one day, I would become someone I could be proud of. While I still believe in the importance of resilience, my understanding of strength has changed. Back then, I thought being strong meant holding everything together. I thought it meant pushing through the pain, hiding my emotions, and refusing to let anyone see me struggle. Today, I know that strength can look completely different. Sometimes, it's allowing yourself to feel the emotions you've spent so long trying to avoid. Sometimes, it's admitting that you're having a hard day. Sometimes, it's giving yourself permission to heal at your own pace instead of constantly expecting yourself to be further along, and sometimes, it's simply being proud of yourself for how far you've already come. I've also realized that healing isn't about becoming the person you were before something happened. It's about giving yourself the time, patience, and grace to keep growing into the person you're becoming. If I could go back and tell the girl I was then anything, I wouldn't tell her to be stronger. I wouldn't tell her to move on faster or to stop letting things bother her. I'd tell her to be kinder to herself. I'd tell her that she doesn't have to earn the right to be proud of herself by being completely healed, and I'd tell her that one day, she'll look back and realize just how much life she's lived beyond the things she thought would always hold her back. Four years later, I'm still not exactly where I want to be. There are things I'm still learning to work through, feelings I'm still trying to understand, and parts of myself I'm still learning to give grace to, but I'm not where I was four years ago, either. I've grown in ways I couldn't have imagined back then. I've learned to appreciate the good things in life, to recognize my own progress, and to understand that having difficult days doesn't mean I've failed. I know I still have a long way to go, and I'm okay with that. I don't have to have everything figured out right now. I don't have to be completely healed to be proud of myself. He took away things I can never get back, but I didn't let him take everything from me. Four years ago, I was hoping that one day I would become someone I could be proud of. Today, I can say that I already am. While I'm still not where I want to be, I have hope that I'll keep growing, keep healing, and keep building a life that I'm proud to call mine. My story didn't end in that courtroom four years ago. I have a feeling, the best parts of it may still be ahead of me. 2 Corinthians 12:9 (KJV) — “And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” Isaiah 41:10 (KJV) — “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”

I could never remember my childhood well, even as a kid. But I started to be hypersexual at 3, and so thats when I believe me and my brother started touching (hes 3 and a half years older). When I was 12 I remembered and told my parents, my mom freaked out and screamed at me. She said it was my fault and that it wasn't too bad if I didn't tell anyone. I fear thats she's right. When I was 14 and in deep psychosis, I felt like there was more to remember. I started to feel my brother's hands over my body and mouth. I remembered us having sex 3 times. The first time when I was 6 and the last when I was 8. One of those times he was hitting me and pinning me. I dont know how real those memories are because I recovered them in psychosis. I started doing really bad cus all I could think about was me and my brother fucking. A couple of months ago I remembered my brother fucking me with his hands around my neck (which was painful). Im so scared that really happened because I see my brother daily and hes my best friend. Im worried ill remember more.

My name is Survivor and when I was around age 3, my father started raping me. My mother helped hold me down. He was raping her, and she offered me up in her place. This continued until age 23, maybe 24, shortly before my wedding. By the time I was 6, he was raping other members of my family too. He’d come into my room at night and would throw my nightgown up into the headboard and then I’d have to wait my turn in fear and naked shame while others were raped. We had a large waterbed and I still remember the bed rolling up and down, up, and down, up, and down like on a boat. Once done, he wiped me down roughly with a red shop rag he used in cleaning the garage. It allowed him to keep the rag around to smell it and hold it close with no one questioning why it was so dirty with red stains. Most of the time, my dad was friendly and polite. But once he turned into the monster no one did anything to stop him. He never did these things when he was nice. Only when he was the monster. But he used the nice times to make it easier to attack. He would lull you into a false sense of safety and peace which really made you question your intuition and gut instincts that this was a bad man. This made it easier for him to sexually assault other children and adults. As I got older, my parents controlled the narrative of our lives, every aspect was carefully controlled. Like my mom knowing how to force miscarriages. The first abortion forced on me was when I was 15. I don’t know how I managed to make it to adulthood. I continue to remember more and more of the abuse by other family and church members. And other things my dad did within the church where he was pastor and then later deacon. But I still can’t talk about those memories. I think my dad felt like anything he did was inevitable, therefore, never his fault because he couldn’t control himself and when it happened God would forgive him, so it was all right. I know this because I overheard him grooming another family member to do the same things when he was 11 years old. Males in our family were groomed to be abusers too. I was groomed too. To always be the abused. Forced to keep silent, I learned quickly what happens to people who stand up to my dad. They die or get assaulted. As you can imagine, I had terrible anxiety growing up about being sexually assaulted and worked hard to fade into the background. I thought that might help. I thought it mattered what I wore, color of my hair, how much I weighed. It’s taken years and it will probably continue to take years to unlearn the lies I was taught. The worry made me constantly ill with one thing after another-- I got cancer when I was 32 and before that incapacitating vertigo and motion sickness. My parents met while working down in Texas for an independent fundamental Baptist preacher. Lester Roloff—an Independent Fundamental Baptist preacher who opened homes across the country for “troubled” children, teens, and adults. He liked to say he was saving dope fiends, whores, and hippies. I believe many of the children in the homes had already experienced abuse growing up and Lester Roloff homes should have been a safe place to heal. Instead, the kids met caretakers like my parents. My mom was in a charge of the 16 and older home and my dad flew around the country raising money and preaching the party line: men were akin to gods and women were lower than dirt—their only worth was in being a virgin and then baby factories once married. Very masochistic and minimizing of abuse of any kind, my parents ate up the evil rhetoric being preached from the pulpit My parents eventually took their brand of abuse from Lester Roloff’s out into the churches and communities where we lived-from Texas to Washington and eventually into Alaska. He disappeared in a plane over the waters near Anchorage in 2006. The events surrounding his disappearance were always very suspect but intense pressure from my family kept me quiet. Every day for almost three years straight, a family member called and reminded me talking about “our family issues” was causing generational sin to 4 generations. The pressure to keep quiet and do what my family told me to do was so significant I would have rather died than disappoint them. It wasn’t until I set out to heal from all the trauma, that I found out my dad faked his death. I had always been told since he was gone, there was nothing to be done for what I experienced growing up. But let me tell you, knowing he’s still out there perpetrating on other children and men and women really compelled me to come forward. I finally felt free to start talking. Getting past the pressure to stay silent was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Harder, even, than fighting cancer. I have spent many years in intensive CBT, EMDR and Polyvagal therapy learning how to process my wounds in a healthy way. I had pushed for criminal and civil suits against my perpetrators but the Texas statute of limitations don’t allow for justice to be done. So now, I spend my time now speaking on panels, podcasts, and community platforms about the intersections of trauma, faith, and advocacy. One of the biggest honors of my life has been sharing my story and advocating for Trey’s Law on the Texas Senate floor in Spring 2025. Forcing a sexual assault victim to keep quiet is what allowed people like my parents to continue their mistreatment for so many years. I will do what I can to make sure justice isn’t minimized by NDAs and Statute of Limitations. My efforts connect me with survivors, true crime audiences, mental health communities, and faith groups seeking to understand and confront abuse. I invest my time in mentoring survivors, creating resources for healing, and building digital tools to expand access to supportive materials. Because living a life whole and healthy is what I really want for me, all the victims and their families. We make our own opportunities to heal.

I think the reason I need to post now is because I have 3 daughters. They are growing up in a world where Jane Doe is real. When I was 13 years old, I was raped by a boy that was 17 years old. I told him to stop because it hurt, but he didn’t and it was over quickly. Afterwards, he never spoke to me again. I kind of let my brain ever forget about it all my life. But I became very sexually active and slept around with different boys. I told myself I enjoyed it. I was lying to myself now that I have three daughters. I don’t know what to do or say because I don’t want the same thing to happen to them.

I Fell in Love with the Man Who Molested Me About abuse, emotional attachment, and wounds that are not always visible. I used to believe that missing someone meant I loved them. I didn't understand why I wanted the attention of someone who had once made me afraid. Years later, I began to realize that the effects of abuse don't always end when the abuser stops. This is not a story meant to justify the abuser. It is a story about how complicated the effects of childhood abuse can be, and why we should not judge victims simply because their feelings do not match what we expect them to feel. Page 1 — The Man I Should Never Have Fallen for He was my father's friend. When I was little, he often came to our house and treated me kindly. However, behind his kindness, there were things he did that made me uncomfortable. He touched my neck, back, and thighs without my consent. Every time he did it, I always asked him to stop. "Please, stop." "Please, stop." I said those words because I was afraid. I didn't understand why an adult man would be interested in touching a little girl like me. To me, his actions were strange and frightening. I didn't like it, and I didn't want him to touch me. Afterward, I told my father what had happened. He looked angry, but he didn't do anything. He didn't even confront the man. At the time, I felt as though what had happened to me wasn't important enough for my father to take action. When I turned sixteen, his behavior became increasingly disturbing. He often looked at me in ways that made me uncomfortable. One day, he came to our house as usual. By chance, no one else was home except me. I was alone in the living room when he came inside. Without warning, he pushed me onto a chair and gripped my thigh very tightly. "Hey, stop. I'm scared. Please, stop." At first, he ignored my pleas. I kept begging him until he finally saw me crying. Only then did he stop, apologize, and leave. After that incident, he no longer looked at me the way he used to. I thought he had distanced himself because he felt sorry for me. However, later I learned that his own daughter had been sexually abused by someone else and had become pregnant as a result. I don't know for certain what made him change. I can only guess that what happened to his daughter may have made him realize how terrible the things he had done to me were. Whatever his reason, the experience left something behind that was not easy to forget. Page 2 — Three Confusing Years For three years, he no longer showed me any attention. Strangely, as time went by, I began to miss him. I missed his presence. I wanted him to pay attention to me again, talk to me, and be around me as he had before. Those feelings confused me. Hadn't I once been afraid of him? Hadn't I cried and begged him to stop touching me? Then why was I now hoping he would come back? I didn't know the answer. I only knew that something inside me kept waiting for his attention. I even began to wonder whether he no longer wanted me. It was as though the loss of his attention was something I should mourn, rather than something that should have made me feel safer. At the time, I didn't understand my own feelings. I didn't realize that my childhood experiences might have influenced the way I viewed attention and closeness with him. Now, I am eighteen. Whenever he comes to visit my father, I deliberately leave my room just to see him. I hope he will look at me again. But he always looks away. I feel angry with him. Not only because he ignores me, but also because he seems able to carry on with his life without thinking about what he once did to me. Meanwhile, I am still carrying feelings I cannot understand. Part of me resents him because of our past. Yet another part of me still wants his attention. I want to tell him that he has left something inside me. I want him to understand that what happened did not simply end when he left my house three years ago. Unfortunately, I still don't fully understand what is happening inside me. Page 3 — When His Attention Returned After some time, he started looking at me again. I felt happy. He even began speaking to me gently and treating me romantically. I found myself becoming attracted to his face. He seemed different from the other older men I knew. There was a gentleness in the way he spoke to me that made me even more interested in him. I knew something was wrong with my feelings, but at the time, I didn't want to question them too deeply. One day, he came to our house and found me asleep on the sofa, wearing shorts. I wasn't trying to seduce him or get his attention. I had simply fallen asleep, unaware that he would be coming over. He sat near my feet and watched me while I was still asleep. When I woke up, I found him stroking the soles of my feet. I was startled. "How long have you been here?" He smiled and said, "Good morning, my sweet little doll." I let out a small laugh because the nickname sounded strange. "What kind of nickname is that? That's so weird." "You look so much like a doll. You're so beautiful," he replied. I didn't know how to respond. I just felt shy because I was receiving the attention I had wanted for so long. Not long afterward, my older brother arrived. Fortunately, he hadn't heard our conversation. At that moment, I was more focused on how the man was treating me again than on remembering that he had once made me afraid. I didn't realize how easily his attention could make me forget the questions I should have been asking myself. Why did I want his attention so badly? Why did I feel happy when he treated me gently, even though I still remembered the fear I had felt because of him? I didn't have the answers yet. Page 4 — A Relationship That Should Never Have Happened After that incident, he left nervously. When my older brother asked why he was at our house, I said he had only come to ask my father something. I lied because I didn't want my brother to become suspicious of our closeness. From that point on, I thought about him more and more. Small gestures of attention from him could make me blush, while his absence made me miss him. Eventually, we entered into a forbidden relationship. For several months, I allowed myself to become immersed in those feelings. I loved him, or at least that was how I understood what I felt at the time. However, little by little, I began to realize that our relationship was not as simple as I wanted to believe. He wasn't just a man I liked. He was an adult who had molested me when I was still a child. I began questioning our relationship. Did I truly feel safe with him? Did I love him for who he was, or was it because I had spent so long longing for the attention he had once given me? I couldn't answer all those questions. But I knew that this relationship should never have happened. One night, while I was sitting alone, he came over and sat beside me. I took a deep breath before finally speaking. "I think our relationship needs to end here." He looked at me. I could see that he was reluctant to part ways, but I tried to stand by my decision. I didn't want to cry. I wanted to appear strong, as though the decision wasn't hurting me. But my tears fell anyway. "I really love you," I said, my voice trembling. He hugged me and kissed the top of my head. "It's okay. This is the right choice. I'm sorry for making things this way for you. I truly feel guilty." I cried in his arms. For the first time, I tried to choose what I believed was right, even though my own feelings refused to let him go. Page 5 — Feelings Don't Change the Past Before we truly parted ways, I kissed him one last time. Honestly, I didn't want to let go of his embrace. I called his name several times while holding him tightly, as though doing so could delay a goodbye I didn't want. When I looked at his face, I saw a sadness I had never seen before. I didn't know what he was truly feeling. I only knew that, at that moment, we finally had to let go of something we had been holding on to. After we parted, we went on with our separate lives. He spent more time with his family, while I kept myself busy with my work abroad. Life went on. Yet the experiences I had gone through remained part of my story. In the past, I thought my longing was proof that I truly loved him. Now, I'm beginning to understand that human feelings are not always easy to explain. Someone can miss the attention of a person who once hurt them without that making the person's actions acceptable. I don't know whether my feelings back then came entirely from love, a need for attention, or a mixture of many things I didn't yet understand. I only know that I once wanted to be close to someone who had also made me afraid. And that is the hardest part for me to understand. Sometimes, the effects of abuse don't stop when the abuser stops touching the victim. Those effects can carry over into the way a victim sees themselves, understands affection, and builds relationships with others. However, not every victim will experience the same thing. Some distance themselves from the abuser, some hate them, some feel confused, and others develop an emotional attachment. No single response represents every victim. A victim's feelings are not proof that the abuse was wanted. Whatever the victim feels afterward, responsibility for the abuse remains with the abuser. This story is not about proving that love can justify everything. It is about someone trying to understand her own feelings after experiencing something that should never have happened to her. Because sometimes, wounds don't always look like hatred. Sometimes, wounds take the form of longing. And sometimes, it takes a long time for someone to understand that attention, affection, and love should never come at the cost of feeling safe.