From silence to self-forgiveness, healing the wound.
I don’t know in which corner of time I remained.
Perhaps hidden behind the wardrobe, where I used to store the secrets I didn’t yet know how to name.
Or maybe I still wander in the shadows of my dreams, collecting the fragments of dignity you stole from me—with dirty hands and hollow words.
Years have passed.
But some wounds don’t obey calendars.
Sometimes, in dreams, the echo of your voice crawls back into my throat—like a poisoned whisper.
And from my chest bursts a cry that never grows old:
Son of a bitch. You broke me.
I had no sword, no shield—
just a little girl trying to exist without being devoured.
And you, wretched man, turned me into a mockery.
A broken doll.
A body you took for yourself—without permission, without soul, without shame.
I hate you.
I don’t say it lightly.
That word—so rough, so dry—
gets tangled on my tongue because I don’t like to use it.
But it’s the only one that does justice
to the abyss you left behind.
I hate you with my insides.
With every remaining shard of me after the wreckage.
And the most absurd—
the most heartbreaking thing—
is that some part of me still hopes you’re all right.
That you haven’t repaid your debt
with another child’s innocence.
Sometimes I pray—not for you—but for her,
for the daughter you might have,
so that she never meets monsters disguised as men.
But no, I don’t want to forgive you.
Don’t ask it of me.
You don’t deserve my tenderness,
nor my compassion,
nor even to be looked at with the clean eyes of my soul.
Because the pain you planted grew roots deep within me,
and sometimes it blooms in my chest like a garden of thorns.
And yes, I know what the sages and books say—
that hate is a cage we build for ourselves,
that healing requires release.
I know.
But you can’t let go of something
that’s still tightening around your neck.
So I begin with the only thing within my reach:
Forgiving myself.
Forgiving myself for staying silent.
For believing it was my fault.
For every day I looked in the mirror
and thought something in me deserved punishment.
For every time I wished I could prove
I was stronger than you.
Because deep down—yes—there was a battle,
a silent competition.
I wanted to see you fall,
to feel you kneel before the strength I thought I had.
But you chose another way to win—
a coward’s way,
an irreversible one.
You stole my power.
And even now, every time I dream of you,
I can’t move.
I can’t scream.
I can’t strike back.
Because somewhere inside,
I still believe you won.
And that belief consumes me.
But I no longer want to be your victim—
not even in my thoughts.
I want to keep the memory, not the wound.
I want to remember without trembling.
I want to speak your name
without poisoning my mouth.
I want to walk
without dragging your shadow.
So now, each day,
I sit and speak with the little girl
who once hid behind the wardrobe.
I tell her it wasn’t her fault.
That she was enough, just as she was.
And that even though the world collapsed,
she’s still here—
bruised heart and all—
still beating.
And little by little…
I am learning to forgive myself.
Nel Duarte – March 05, 2025, Calgary, Alberta
✨ Thank you for reading this reflection. May it help others feel less alone in their own trauma healing. This is my path from silence to voice, from wound to self-forgiveness, from pain to reclaiming power.
Read more about self-forgiveness→ Reborn