I watched the video, you know the one, and felt outraged, though not at all surprised. I always knew Donald Trump was an insecure sexist just the same way you do. He keeps showing us that. So, it wasn’t those words that undid me, wasn’t those words that made me relive my scariest, most degrading moments. I wasn’t sure why I felt hit so hard.

But then a friend posted what should have been an innocuous meme on Facebook—because what was one more?—and I finally broke. I unleashed my frustration in the form of disagreement that hijacked her post. I chose my words carefully. I was respectful. And I apologized for the way I went about it, but I couldn’t apologize for my words. Here’s what I really meant.

I’m angry about the silent men and the deflecting women. I’m utterly baffled that a self-respecting, well-educated, God-fearing man or woman could meet news of those reprehensible words—themselves an admission of repeated, habitual sexual assault—with, “Yeah, but:”

“Yeah, but Clinton isn’t any better…”

“Yeah, but look at what Hillary did when Bill got caught…”

“Yeah, but they’re just words…”

And two that bothered me the most:

“Yeah, but are we actually sure he ever assaulted anyone? Was there ever any proof?”

And, “Yeah, but how come these same women who are upset about this thought nothing of reading Fifty Shades of Grey?”

So, finally, in my own space, with all the courage I can muster, I say, “YEAH, BUT NOTHING.”

Friends, how can this be something we disagree about? What is there to debate? What he said and the actions they betray are abhorrent. Full stop. 

You want to talk about Hillary or Bill? Let’s do that. You want to talk about porn or terrible fiction? Let’s do that. But let’s not intentionally muddy the waters or detract from something that is an abomination all on its own. The consequences are too dire. Let’s not brush off an admission of guilt and demand proof of something that is always done by cowards, almost always in secret and darkness, that takes more bravery than you can imagine to bring into the light.

And by now you've guessed that this is personal, but shouldn’t my words carry more weight because of that? 

Here is where I take a deep breath and ask you to bear with me. Here is where I tell you that when I was seventeen, I was repeatedly harassed at an internship, but at first it was just words. Then one day, he grabbed me by the arm on the stairs and wouldn’t let me go. Another day soon after, he slammed me up against a wall, pinning my hands and pressing against my hips so hard that it hurt. His face so close to mine that I could feel his breath, he threatened to come to my house if I told.

I wrestled and lost sleep, but eventually I told. My parents and sponsor were enraged, but still, in front of a committee of men and women, I had to relive it all in humiliating detail. And then do you know what they asked me?

“Well, did you ask him to stop?”

Even after they admitted that I wasn’t the first to file a complaint, they explained that this was probably just a cultural misunderstanding, since he was an immigrant from the Caribbean. They moved me to a different assignment. As if I were the problem. They assured me he would be fired. "You're not going to press charges, are you?" they said. And somehow I knew, even at seventeen, there would have been no point.

When I was twenty-one, a man I barely knew entered my room while I was sleeping. No, I didn’t ask him to. No, I didn’t invite him into my bed. Yes, of course, I told him to stop. Thank God he finally did. And I carried the shame of that one for most of my adult life, as if it were mine to carry; as if I were the one who had forcefully tried to take what didn’t belong to me.

When I was twenty-five, after attending a mandatory “sensitivity training” about sexual harassment in the workplace in which a white-haired man said, “This is a waste of time. This isn't even a problem anymore," a man at work leered at me from over the top of my cubicle every day for three months. He commented on my appearance crudely, daily, and asked me out repeatedly, though he knew I was married. He told me it was a shame I hadn’t had the chance to “experience him” before I got married. I was the only woman in the department, let alone the office. I hesitated to say anything, knowing it was my word against his, that I had no proof, and that, likely, I’d have to continue to see him every day and even be alone with him regardless of whether I spoke up. Finally, hesitantly, I told the management.

Again, they needed direct quotes, vivid, humiliating details. They interrogated me. They informed me there was nothing they could do “until something happens.” Until something happens, they said.

“Well, did you ask him to stop?” they asked before moving me—not him—to a different office. Mysteriously, a month or two later, my position was no longer needed and I was let go. As if I were the problem. He wasn’t fired until years later, and even then it wasn’t because of the dozens of women who had reported him for sexual harassment; it was because he had lied on his resume.

This is to speak nothing of the other men who found their ways into my room when I was sleeping, though thankfully I was able to yell them out of there. This is to speak nothing of the hands that found their way onto my butt or breasts while in a crowd.

So, when you casually dismiss Trump’s gloating over habitual sexual assault as “locker room banter,” it may be unwitting, but you are complicit in the problem.

When you detract from the horrific nature of not only his words but what it means he has done by changing the subject to someone else's wrongdoing, you may not even realize it, but you are complicit in the problem.

When you try to compare Trump’s words—about repeatedly touching women without their consent—to a fictional series about a woman involved in BDSM with her consent, you are complicit in the problem. My sexual assaults and harassment had one thing in common: I did not give my consent. I can and did choose not to read Fifty Shades of Grey. I did not have that choice when it came to assault. No one does.

And when someone seeking our country’s highest office can get away with these words, when you give him a pass, though you might never dream of doing so, you are telling me, my daughters and yours that our experience doesn’t matter, that our safety doesn’t matter, that our very humanity doesn’t matter.

I know that’s not what you said. You would never say that; of course you wouldn't. But for me and so many millions of other women who have suffered abuse, that’s what we heard.

Good men and women, for the love of God, please be willing to listen to others whose experiences don’t look like yours; please trust them when they tell you what it was like, even if it is hard for you to hear. I promise you, it’s harder for them to say. Please be willing to consider that your words may not be communicating the way you think they are.

I’m walking away from this week feeling bruised. For every prominent Christian leader or conservative who spoke boldly, there seemed to be many more people I actually know who made excuses or encouraged distractions. I’m choosing to unfollow people I like, for the sake of my heart. I’m choosing to post this, the bravest thing I’ve ever written, instead of participating in debates on Facebook. I’m choosing to remind my children—and especially my daughters—at every opportunity that they are the only bosses of their bodies and they alone can determine how and when and by whom they are touched. I am reminding them it is never, ever rude to tell someone to stop. And I am shifting my focus away from “no means no” and teaching my children—and especially my son—to respect the bodies and wishes of others and to look and ask for consent.

It wasn't my intention to make you feel bad, to call you out or to make you angry. I really don't care who you're voting for. I know your opinion of me may change after reading this. Though my husband holds my hand as I launch this into the world, admittedly, I am risking the humiliation of having my father, grandfather, brothers, uncles and friends read this. I am risking having former and potential future employers read this. I’m laying a lot on the line.

But I know who I am: I am loved, treasured, supported and whole. Any potential risk is worth it to me, because I know there are other women unable to share their stories, women who desperately need you to understand that words matter: his, mine and yours.

Predawn this morning, somehow I knew. Even though I had never marked the date down, I opened my eyes and knew that today marked a year since your passing.

Later, without prompting, a text from your husband confirmed the same.

A whole year. And so much has changed.

Most importantly, you’re getting another grandson any day. You would have been over the moon; I know you would have cherished him exactly the way you always did his big brother.

Your devoted husband—what can I say? Surely you knew about his quiet strength. But did you expect him to fulfill those last wishes you said on a whim? Did you think he would brave that lonely journey to Hawaii to lay you to rest? Probably you knew he would have done anything for you. But did you think he would be able to find so much beauty there, tangled amidst all the memories and pain?

Did you expect him to carry on, following the same path you had always planned, but alone? I wish you could have seen him fixing up the house to sell, the way he cared so deeply about the people who would buy it, how he proudly showed them every detail, like how you carved your initials on the bottom of the first bath tub that was finally yours. I wish you could have seen the way your loss brought him closer to your children. How the neighborhood and family gathered around him before he left, to hug him and send him off with love.

You would be so proud of the way he has taken care of himself this year. Oh, I thought of you often as I fussed over him, making sure he had more to eat than just salad or microwaved burritos. As the weeks went by, he not only accepted help, but he even asked for it when he needed it. He did not allow himself too much time for retreat, but sought community and friendship and support. He began attending church and serving the people there faithfully.

​But please don’t think he just moved on, no way. He has mourned for you; he has grieved you beautifully. Of course it wouldn’t surprise you to know he hasn't shied away from his tears. He hasn't let the fear of them hold him back from sharing memories of you, from wondering aloud about his future, from expressing how much he misses you. I’m sure you knew this deep in your bones, but you were his beloved. His sun rose and set with you, so naturally his world has been darker for your departure. But he has used this great loss to propel him to love, to kindness, to generosity and even to joy. I cried the day I first saw him taking a bike ride. He has taken his time relearning how to live his life, how to do things he enjoyed again despite his steady heartache, but he is learning again.
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Our kids still miss you. You were the first person they loved and lost. You’ve made them wonder about God and Heaven, and they talk about it—and you. They remember how kind you were to them; I remember how your face always lit up when you saw them. I will never forget the gift you gave me in the middle of a particularly hectic afternoon: a dish towel with the words “Pardon the mess, the children are making memories.” You were always quick to remind slow down and see the beauty of this stage of life, and your husband now does the same.

“I just don’t like my husband sometimes,” I confessed. “Sometimes, the ways in which he’s so different from me just seem to block out all the things I love. But I’m learning I can’t trust those feelings. And in those times, I need to make sure I’m investing my energy back into our marriage and not outside of it, and that I just stick it out. Because for all those times, there are also the ones where I lie beside him at night and think I couldn’t possibly love anyone more. There’s truth to both the highs and the lows. One couldn’t exist without the other. So, I enjoy those high times and soak them in without letting myself believe they are meant to stay. I remind myself of them in the lows. And we just keep coming back.”

She waved her scissors as she talked, “I can’t tell you how much better you’re making me feel right now,” she said. “I thought something was wrong with us, that maybe we were going to get a divorce. But what you’re saying makes sense.”

These last couple weeks we’ve seen a lot of progress in one of our children, who has started therapy. But then we hit a few-day snag where things got harder and seemed to regress. Our girls have been emotional, one in tears, the other screaming, and I heard Daniel say to them, “You can’t trust your feelings right now.” I wondered if it seemed odd to them, given how much time we spend talking about recognizing, naming and talking about feelings, but I have to believe that’s true.

In the thick of my daughter’s rage, when she is swinging and spewing venom, my feelings are a liar.

When my other daughter is overtired and in need of attention, when she cries with a turn of the wind, my feelings are a liar.

When my son defiantly, deliberately scrapes his metal fork across my heirloom kitchen table, the one my grandfather gave me, my feelings are a liar.

And when my husband, overworked, stressed, losing sleep and seemingly never home long enough, chooses to relax in the home I have made instead of helping me with that moment’s task, my feelings are a liar.

Never have I known the truth of this more clearly than in this season. I find myself poured out, so many times over, throughout every day. Always thinking ahead of what everyone else will need, making lunches and coffee at night for the morning, muffins when I wake up, dinner in the middle of the day. Filling my blocks of time with tasks to fill drawers and cabinets, not to mention cleaning them, fill backpacks and lunchboxes, shape minds and fill hearts. And if I’m not careful, those feelings creep in like they did this week: There’s nothing that’s yours. No one even appreciates what you’re doing. You are no more than the sum of what you are able to do for others.

These thoughts are always a sign that something needs to adjust. This week hasn’t gone the way I intended. This day isn’t going the way I intended. I thought Deacon would wake up well and we’d head to the campground to surprise our family. And instead, Deacon and I found ourselves still in our jammies at 10:30, watching Sesame Street while he whined. He’s not well enough to go anywhere. And so we stay put.

 And, while I’m grateful to finally be in a stage of life where I have the flexibility to pivot when someone dear to me is in need, sometimes the lack of control over my own days wears on me.

So, earlier this week when Daniel said, “What do you mean you’re fine? Just fine?” and I heard those words creep out, I knew I needed to adjust.