Unbreakable (Part II)

While Waiting

When My Healing Journey Began: Part 2

Time, Truth, and the Messiness of Moving Forward

The weekend after I reported what happened was Christmas. A season meant to feel warm, joyful, and connected felt like a convenient cloak for me to hide under. Everyone was busy with family gatherings, church services, traditions. For all they knew, I had COVID — so of course I couldn’t be around anyone. That lie, painful as it was, gave me cover while my world split wide open.

In truth, I felt numb. Disconnected. I knew better than to bottle up a wound like this — I’d learned that isolation never brings healing — so I shared the story with close friends outside of work. But it felt mechanical, like reporting a fact instead of exposing my soul. Inside, I wished I could pretend it had never happened and just keep moving forward.

But when the person who hurts you is someone you work with — someone you’re supposed to trust, respect, even serve alongside — there’s no pretending. Not really. It creates a strange chasm between you and the people you used to feel close to. Speaking up in that setting wasn’t sharing; it was gossip. And that’s a line I refused to cross.

Secrets and Silence

I have no idea what those two weeks looked like in the office while I worked from home. Who knew? Who whispered? Who looked away? When a story like this breaks, it spreads like cancer — uninvited, unwelcome, beyond anyone’s control once it’s out there. It can’t be prevented, and it can’t be blamed on the truth-teller. It just is.

People’s opinions came in every form — from radio silence to blunt suggestions that I press charges and “get money from this.” It struck me how quickly money becomes a go-to solution for some. But no settlement, no dollar amount, could return what this violation stole from me — especially when I wasn’t even sure yet what that was. It wasn’t my job; I still had that. It wasn’t my reputation; I hadn’t done anything wrong. So what was it?

Guilt, Anger, and the Weight of Justice

My emotions swung like a pendulum. I felt guilty for not preventing it — the lie we tell ourselves that we could’ve controlled it all. I felt angry that it fell on me to speak up when someone else should have done something long before. I felt deep sorrow for the ones who came before me, those who might have suffered in silence. I felt empowered that maybe now something would finally change. I felt terrified at how exposed I’d become.

And when my phone rang with work calls, I heard his voice in the background — a reminder that nothing in his life had changed yet, while I stayed home alone, a prisoner of my own truth. We were supposed to be a family, I was told. But true family would never let me bear this burden alone while the person who hurt me went about his days, celebrating Christmas like nothing had happened.

When the Walls Finally Shifted

On New Year’s Day, everything shifted. My boss returned from vacation. The Pastor was called in. He confessed — down to the details on the recording he didn’t know existed — and resigned for immoral conduct. I don’t have proof of the closed-door words or what his wife was told, but I do know that moment cracked open something new.

I grieved for her. I’ve been the wife blindsided by betrayal. The shame. The heartbreak. The helplessness. But her pain wasn’t mine to carry. I had given him a choice to stop hurting people when we last spoke. He chose not to. The fallout was his to own. I could forgive him in my heart — and I did — but forgiveness doesn’t mean controlling or cushioning the consequences. That burden was never mine to carry.

The ‘Hero’ I Never Asked to Be

A day later, I was asked to meet with the two most powerful men in the organization. At my request, we met off-site. My therapist later reminded me: two men in power, one woman reporting sexual abuse — and no other women present. Another oversight that says more about unpreparedness than intention.

They asked about the recording, my relationship with him, when I’d come back. They told me he’d be gone, that mental health help was available, that new HR training would happen. Good steps — needed steps. But then came a word that made me feel invisible all over again: hero. They told me I’d come out of this as a hero.

Hero? There is no medal for surviving abuse. There is no ribbon for being forced to rip off the bandage of secrets and expose raw wounds. I didn’t want to be brave — I had to be. And to be honest, in those moments, I felt like anything but. I felt alone. I felt like the meeting was scripted to tick boxes and keep me calm. My peace didn’t come from their polished words; it came from God, who never left me — not for a moment.

Letting Time Do Its Work

I asked for more time before going back. I feared retaliation. I feared his threats might become real. So I left town, created distance, gave myself space to sleep, pray, and breathe. It was the best decision I could have made.

When I finally returned to the office, the air felt heavy. My coworkers had decades of friendship with him. They shared birthdays, grandkids, holiday games. Nothing could make that less awkward, less heartbreaking, less weird. And yet here I am, one month later, showing up, breathing through the discomfort, letting time do what only time can: heal.

Why I’m Still Telling You This

I share all this not because I need pity or praise — but because I believe there is power in the truth. There is power in saying the quiet parts out loud. There is power in refusing to carry someone else’s shame as your own.

If you’ve been hurt in a place you thought was safe, I see you. If you’ve stayed silent because the truth is too heavy to carry alone, I hear you. Healing is messy. Justice is complicated. And moving forward is never a straight line. But you are not alone.

With honesty and hope,
Paula

💛 Stay on the Journey

➡️ Want to be the first to know when Part 3 is out?
Join my mailing list

➡️ Curious how Pilates can be part of your healing, too?
Explore my classes

➡️ Need support?
Please know help is available. You do not have to hold this alone.