The Cost of Speaking Up: Why I Refuse to Stay Silent

Content warning: Childhood sexual abuse, violence, and traumatic loss.

There are moments in life when doing the right thing feels obvious, even when the consequences are anything but.

I've faced that choice more than once.

The first time, I was 18 years old.

For much of my childhood, I experienced sexual abuse by my father. I told my mother when the abuse began, but she did not do enough to stop it. The abuse continued for years.

At 18, I made the decision to report my father to the police.

My mother begged me to drop the charges. I refused.

I remember telling her that one day I wanted children of my own, and I needed them to know that abuse was unacceptable, regardless of who was responsible. Generational trauma had existed among the women in my family for too long. I wanted it to end with me.

What happened next changed my life forever.

Rather than face the consequences, my father killed my mother and then himself.

I was 18, a college student suddenly without parents, trying to understand how to move forward after unimaginable loss.

But even in the midst of that grief, I never regretted speaking up.

Finding My Voice

Over the years, I began sharing my story with students, community audiences, and survivors of sexual violence. I wanted others to know they weren't alone and that what happened to them did not have to define their futures.

As my life evolved, so did I. I graduated from UNC - Chapel Hill, earned my MBA from Harvard Business School, started a company, built a career in leadership, and became a mother.

My experiences shaped me, but they never became the entirety of who I was.

When Speaking Up Came at a Cost (Again)

Years later, I found myself facing a situation I never imagined I would encounter again.

I was serving in a leadership role at an organization dedicated to supporting children. I loved my job, the mission, and the young people we served.

Then I discovered documentation detailing allegations of inappropriate touching by an employee, with concerns spanning years. What disturbed me most was learning that these concerns had reportedly been known within senior leadership.

How could leaders entrusted with the safety and well-being of children know about allegations of sexual misconduct and fail to take appropriate action? How could concerns this serious go unresolved for years? And how could an organization serving children fail to fulfill its mandated reporting responsibilities?

I believed the appropriate course of action was clear. I spoke up, placed the employee on leave, and advocated for termination. There was agreement that termination was appropriate.

But what happened next was something I never anticipated.

Instead of confronting the questions I was raising about leadership's response and whether mandated reporting obligations had been fulfilled, the focus shifted to me.

My personal history of childhood sexual abuse was shared with others. My past became a topic of discussion among senior leadership, and I felt that it was being used to suggest I was too emotionally affected by the situation to assess it objectively.

That was devastating. I had spent years reclaiming my story and building a life and career that demonstrated my past did not define my capabilities. Now, those same experiences seemed to be used to undermine my professional judgment.

And perhaps what hurt most was that the central question remained unanswered: Had we done everything we were legally and morally obligated to do to protect the children entrusted to our care?

Ultimately, I could no longer remain in an environment where I felt my judgment was being questioned rather than the decisions that had allowed these concerns to persist.

So I resigned from a job I loved.

It was one of the most difficult professional decisions I've ever made.

Finding the Courage to Begin Again

Walking away from that role brought back feelings I hadn't experienced in years.

I thought about the 18-year-old version of myself.

She was scared. She was grieving. She didn't know what came next.

But she knew she had done the right thing.

Today, I recognize some of those same feelings.

I don't know exactly what the next chapter of my professional life will look like. But I know I can rebuild.

I've done it before.

For years, I shared my story because I wanted others to understand that healing, growth, and purpose were possible after trauma.

Today, that message feels just as important.

I've also learned that resilience doesn't always look like strength or certainty. Sometimes it looks like making a difficult decision, walking away from something you love, and trusting that you will find your footing again.

If sharing my experiences gives even one person the courage to speak when staying silent would be easier, then sharing them is worth it.

Doing the right thing isn't always easy.

Sometimes it costs you.

But some things are more important than the cost.