After my rape, I remember finally making it back home.

You would think the first thing I’d do is take a shower… wash everything away… try to feel clean again.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t bathe that night.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand why. I just remember being in shock. My mind was overwhelmed, my body didn’t feel like my own, and I didn’t even know what to do with myself… let alone my body.

Looking back now, I realize something deeper was happening.

In a way, I thought I was saving my body.

Not in a logical, planned-out way—but instinctively. It’s like something in me knew this moment mattered, even if I couldn’t fully process it yet. I wasn’t ready to touch what had just been violated. I wasn’t ready to wash it away. I wasn’t ready for anything.

I was just… trying to exist after something that changed me.

People don’t always talk about that part.

They don’t talk about how trauma can leave you frozen.
How your body can feel unfamiliar.
How even the simplest decisions suddenly feel impossible.

I didn’t bathe that night, not because I didn’t care—but because I didn’t know how to care for myself in that moment.

And that matters.

Because healing isn’t always loud or obvious. Sometimes it looks like sitting in silence, confused, trying to hold onto yourself the best way you can.

That night, I wasn’t weak.

I was in shock.
I was processing.
I was surviving.

And even then… in a way I didn’t understand at the time…

I was still trying to protect myself.