I have an extended, cruel time when my voice failed me. I remembered this morning. I never actually said what my child molester did in the words it needed to be said. The appropriate charges never got filed because I was embarrassed to say what he had done.

I thought I’d be in trouble for knowing what he did was wrong. I thought if I said what he was doing, I’d be seen as immodest for knowing it was a sex act. Like; just the act of knowing what he did was sexual, it would mean I was not pure. He was a reflection of me if I told.

It took two years to say anything and even when I was brave, I couldn’t say “masterbate,” or “penetrate.” They never filed the right charges. During his trial, for the charges the did file, I was finally brave enough to say what he did in detail. By that time, the charges were filed so it was too late.

The truth came out in his trial and the jury cried. He took a plea. He took the wrong plea. I was robbed of my story. One person, just one, needed to say, “No matter what he did, you’re allowed to tell the whole story. It’s okay to speak now. It’s over now.”

Two years later I was on television to talk about the freedom in forgiveness. I was never quiet after the trial. I was on the television, radio, I sang for thousands, I acted for as many. I went out to be a missionary because that was my voice at the time.

I would stand between angry fathers and terrified children before I could drive. I’d tell parents, “I will respect you when you take your hands off your daughter who is my best friend.” I’d be 14 years old. My voice wouldn’t fail anyone else again.

My voice failed me once. And it failed me so horribly, I never let it hold me back again. Not in a way that could benefit anyone else, anyway.