For a long time after my rape, I didn’t have the language to say what had happened to me. I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “rape,” even though I had been through something life-changing. Instead, I said I was pregnant. At the time, it was easier to process—and easier to share.

Pregnancy is something tangible, socially recognized, something people respond to. Rape, on the other hand, carries layers of stigma, shame, and disbelief, especially for women. A pregnancy is life-changing; so is rape. But saying “pregnant” allowed me to acknowledge a transformation in my life without having to confront the full, raw reality of what had happened.

It was also easier telling my parents I was pregnant. While they had strong feelings about it, most parents—eventually—can accept a pregnancy. But had I said I was raped, I can’t imagine the way they would have reacted, the disbelief or anger, or the fear and confusion they might have felt. Naming pregnancy gave me a way to communicate something monumental while navigating the reactions of those around me safely.

Looking back, I realize this was my mind’s way of protecting me. Trauma often silences us or reshapes how we communicate. By naming pregnancy, I was naming change, survival, and the shift in my life—but I was also avoiding words that society makes so heavy and unsafe to speak.

Reflecting on this now, I understand something profound: trauma isn’t just about the event itself. It’s also about the ways we navigate it, the words we can and cannot find, and the survival strategies we adopt to make sense of our experiences. Acknowledging the rape, even years later, is part of reclaiming my voice—and understanding how deeply these experiences shape us.

We owe ourselves the space to process our trauma at our own pace. Sometimes that begins with naming the “easier” part first, and sometimes it comes much later. Either way, every step toward clarity, toward truth, is a step toward healing.