When I think about different seasons of my life, especially sickness and my rape, I notice a difference that’s hard to ignore.

When you’re sick, people show up.
They call you.
They check on you.
They pray for you.
They believe with you.

There’s a kind of built-in support system. People know what to say, how to respond, how to care. Sickness is something the world understands, so sympathy comes naturally.

But when I went through my rape, it was the complete opposite.

I went through it alone.

No calls.
No encouragement.
No one walking me through it.
No one standing beside me saying, “I believe you” or “you’re going to be okay.”

Instead of support, there’s often silence.
Instead of understanding, there can be judgment.
Instead of comfort, there can be assumptions, shame, or avoidance.

And that changes everything.

Because it’s one thing to go through something painful with people holding you up…
it’s another thing to go through something life-altering with no one there to catch you.

That’s why, when I look back, I recognize something clearly:

Getting through my rape required a different kind of strength.

Not because sickness isn’t hard—it is.
But because I had to become everything I needed in that moment.

I had to encourage myself.
I had to process it on my own.
I had to find a way forward without reassurance, without understanding, without support.

And that’s a weight many people don’t see.

Some pain is visible and supported.
Other pain is hidden and carried alone.

But both are real.
And the ones carried in silence deserve just as much—if not more—care, compassion, and understanding.

Today, I can say this: I know what it feels like to have support, and I know what it feels like to go without it.

And that awareness has changed me.

It’s made me more intentional about how I show up for others.
It’s made me value real support—not just words, but presence, belief, and understanding.

Because no one should have to go through something that heavy alone.