By Lisa Norgren

I can’t see her face. Just a blur of pastel arms and waist length blonde hair. My attempt to plant an affectionate kiss on her forehead has been met with a swift block.

Although it’s been nearly a year since my daughter has taken a martial arts class, she is strong, skilled, and confident as she bats me away.

“Oh, mom!” She looks surprised by her own reaction. I am, too. I have been summarily rejected, and I am thrilled.

“Was that okay?” She asks tentatively.

It’s been eight years since we stood in this same kitchen, her grandpa raining down affection she did not want. Eight years ago, I was her voice, commanding him to give her some space. Now, she has her own voice and she uses it. 

I pull back from her so she can see my eyes. 

“Yes, Mae. That was more than okay. That was perfect.” I stare at this tween girl, willing her to understand the importance of what I’m saying.

“It’s your body and you don’t need to worry about how anyone else feels when you say no. Your responsibility is to yourself—no one else.”

I am desperate to protect my daughters.

Since becoming a parent, I have tried to carry the blame of having been sexually assaulted in the hopes that I could somehow spare my children the same fate. I was made to believe that because I went to a party, because I flirted, because I drank, it was my fault that I was raped. 

Victim blaming is a protective measure, one I have used against myself for years. If taking the blame meant I could protect my daughters forever, then I was willing to carry this weight for the rest of my life. 

When we blame the victim, it’s easier to believe we live in a world where if you do everything “right” nothing bad will happen. 

My therapist reminds me it doesn’t work like that. 

“How do I keep them safe?” I plead. Our time is up (of course). 

She offers me this, “for next time, start thinking of all the decisions you’ve made that keep them safe.”

The list is long, because my question, and my desire for their safety, is not new. It is constant and it intensifies whenever sexual misconduct is present in the news cycle. 

The extensive network of powerful men implicated in the Epstein files, the depravity of their crimes, and the age of their victims has me looking at my 11-year-old with renewed concern. 

“What else can I do?” I ask myself as I read the latest headlines demonstrating that we still don’t believe women. That despite sworn testimony, documentation, and a dense trail of survivors telling their stories, men will not be held accountable, and many women will ignore the evidence of wrongdoing. 

I have spent years in therapy trying to overcome not just the incident of my sexual assault, but the way people, women, shamed and dismissed me when I shared my story. I feel the sting anew, as I watch Pam Bondi refuse to turn and face the survivors during a house judiciary committee. 

And I vow to be as brave and steadfast as they are.

The next time I come home from therapy red eyed and morose, I do not hide. I tell my daughters the truth. I tell them what happened to me. I tell them that I was not believed by some, and blamed by others. They are outraged. I am too.

“He is a creep!” They cry. 

“He is a criminal!” They agree.

“Yes, he is.” I reply. And I know having this conversation is one of the most important decisions I’ve made to keep them safe.

How on earth are we supposed to raise our daughters as we watch this play out again and again? 

We tell them our stories.

We teach them about consent. We teach them to say no—anytime, to anyone. We teach them the language of their bodies and sex. We teach them to defend themselves, to listen to themselves, and to believe one another. We do not pretend like sexual assault doesn’t happen. We teach them that it does. 

This is how we heal. This is how we fight.

Lisa Norgren is a writer, and yoga teacher living in Ann Arbor, MI, with her husband, children, and houseful of pets. She hopes her work may be cause for less suffering and more safety in our world.

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