As children are the most vulnerable members of society, it is crucial to ensure their safety and well-being at all times. Unfortunately, there are instances where children find themselves in abusive environments, whether it be at home, school, or within their communities. It is imperative that we as adults take action to help children escape these harmful situations. One of the most important ways to help children escape an abusive environment is to create a safe and supportive space for them to open up about their experiences. It is essential to listen without judgment and provide a compassionate ear for children to share their feelings and fears. This can help build trust and encourage children to seek help when needed. Additionally, it is crucial to educate children about what constitutes abuse and how to recognize the warning signs. By empowering children with knowledge, they can better protect themselves and seek help if they find themselves in an abusive situation. Schools and community organizations can play a significant role in providing education and resources to children on this important topic. Another important step in helping children escape an abusive environment is to provide them with access to resources and support services. This may include counseling, therapy, legal assistance, and shelter options. By connecting children with the appropriate resources, we can help them navigate the complex process of escaping abuse and finding safety. It is also important to involve the authorities and child protective services when necessary. If a child is in immediate danger, it is crucial to report the abuse to the proper authorities so that they can intervene and protect the child. It is our collective responsibility to ensure that children are safe and protected from harm. In conclusion, helping children escape an abusive environment requires a collaborative effort from all members of society. By creating a safe and supportive space for children to open up, educating them about abuse, providing access to resources and support services, and involving the authorities when necessary, we can help children escape the cycle of abuse and find safety and healing. Together, we can make a difference in the lives of children and ensure that they have the opportunity to thrive in a safe and supportive environment.

*trigger warning rape & cancer* I want you to take a second and think about one thing about yourself that -if you had the ability to go back in time and change your life- you would not change for the world. There is an 19th century philosophy, made famous by the movie The Butterfly Effect, that claims that if there is one thing about yourself, one trait or characteristic that you would want to keep if you found yourself suddenly able to go back in time, you would need to re-live the same experiences and make all the same decisions in order to guarantee that in the future you would retain that one quality. And it is this I want you to remember as I share my story. As a child, I did not get into trouble. In fact, the worst infraction I ever made was that I did not spend enough time in the sun, and so my parents would take my books away to force me to go outside. Naturally, I worked out a system to hid them in ziplock bags under the hedge. As I grew older, I also learned that breaking the rules held greater consequences for me than for my friends. While my affluent teenage peers were able to break curfew and notoriously climbed onto the top of the city capital to drink beer, my parents could not afford expensive lawyers to get me out of trouble. There was also a question of my legal residency. When it came time to learn how to drive, my parents taught me that I could not afford to speed or break the speed limit because it could result in my deportation. And while this lesson may have been exaggerated to keep a teenager safe, it became my truth. The key here is that I followed the letter of the law and did nothing wrong. When I was raped, I expected the legal system to protect me. In my darkest hour, when the campus police showed up, I thought that they would be on my side. While no woman should ever have to know how to report a rape, this was certainly not something I was equipped to handle alone. The campus police not only bullied me and warned against ruining the career and future of my rapist, they threatened my legal status and suggested that I might be deported if I wanted to make a formal claim. But MY story is not about my rape. It is about learning to live and remold myself after trauma and after being let down by the system meant to protect me. Two years later, I was diagnosed with skin cancer so severe that if I had not booked a visit to the dermatologist on a whim, I would have lost my eye in less than a year. I drove myself to the surgery and watched as my face was carved from my eyelid to my cheek. But once again MY story is not about getting skin cancer, or the additional two melanoma diagnoses three years later that suggest that I will likely continue to present with skin cancer the rest of my life. It is not even about the fact that I had done nothing wrong, that I had always worn copious amounts of sunscreen, that as a child I had to be forced outside and seldom spent time in the sun. It is not about the fact that the doctors did not believe me when I told them that I had never tanned in my life, because I was slim, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. In 2018 I had my first panic attack. I was attending a conference for work, sitting in a room of over 10 thousand people, and suddenly I felt powerless, lost and like I was sinking. My colleague with me at the time was a Marine veteran and instantly recognized the signs, but I had lived a sheltered and protected life, so it did not occur to me that I had PTSD, for my experience did not seem as valid as that of veterans and survivors of horrific disasters. For although I had never realized it, I fell into the habit of comparing my experience to that of others, to comparing my pain, my stress, my fear and my recovery, and finding it less worthy. But let me tell you that any PTSD is worthy of attention and every experience is valid. I started my tattoos in 2019. One on each shoulder as a reminder that I am not alone. My 'strong women' and 'warrior' tattoos are as much a testament to the resilient woman I have grown to be, as a symbol of the indelible presence of trauma. For although it is not inked into our skins, trauma can present and trigger in unexpected ways, even after years of self-work. I share my story because trauma and PTSD does not make you weak. It doesn't make you incapable of recovery or incapable of working through the episodes. It makes you human. I strongly believe in normalizing mental health for, if nothing else, we are brought together by the similarities of surviving: COVID, quarantine, the injustices and unpredictable illnesses that life throws at us. But we are stronger together. And each of us has that one thing that makes it all worthwhile.

It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment I started having issues with my body image or self esteem, because those struggles are typically culminations of years of negative experiences, self-doubt or blatant insults regarding one's physical appearance. I have had people tell me I am ‘skinny', I have had people my own age and older point out love handles and cellulite, I have also had people grow frustrated and angry at my struggle with seeing myself on camera. People's negative words stubbornly lived in my mind, while compliments I would receive from friends and family were just them “being nice”. When I started allowing the opinions of others to dictate my own view of myself I can't remember, but I can remember when I first started slipping into extremely dangerous, harmful and unhealthy habits. Comparison- we all fall victim to it in some form or another. Whether we are comparing looks, financial status, career or success, we are inadvertently telling ourselves that we are lacking something- that we are not measuring up in some (or all) categories. I first started comparing myself to my friends in middle school. I went to private school, and most of my friends lived in nice houses and were well off. I did not and my family was not. So, there was that. I also realized I was a lot less calm and cool than my friends, louder and, in many people's eyes, just annoying. I remember a boy in my 6th grade class telling me, in front of a group of other kids that, “nobody likes you.” It was a real vote of confidence. I was still lucky, though, because I did have a small group of really supportive friends. Unfortunately, I could not understand why they wanted to be my friends, and I compared myself to them, too. There was a time when I wanted to take pictures with my friends; I even wanted to take pictures of myself. Sure, I had my negative thoughts about not being as pretty as my friends, or pretty enough for the boys in my grade, but I owned who I was and had not yet been infected by the idea that because I didn't look perfect, I was inferior. So one night in 2012, my little 11 year old self posted a picture of myself on the then relatively new instagram. I remember getting hyped up by some of my really sweet friends, but my gratitude quickly disappeared when three boys, simultaneously (they were all friends, and apparently couldn't do anything alone?) commented “ugly”. These boys- who were a very bland spectacle- were popular, well-liked and put on a pedestal by me and other girls. Whether they were ‘joking' or not is unknown and honestly irrelevant, but I was not in on the joke, I was the butt of it. I think I deleted the picture shortly after. While I battled my fair share of self-doubt in middle school, I graduated from 8th grade relatively unscathed and with a decent amount of self-love left. High school was a whole other animal. Again, I had some really good friends, but they couldn't always be there. I definitely looked on the outside how I felt on the inside- nervous, vulnerable and uncomfortable in my own body. And I think some people preyed on that. I was never physically hurt, but rude and personal comments, along with snickers as I would pass by certain people in the hallway were enough to cut through what I had once thought was thick skin. Even with my loving friends and family, my anxiety and essential lack of confidence started to prevail. Somewhere around the end of freshman year, I started to eat. A lot. I was depressed, hurt and empty. In a time where most people my age were savoring youth through football games, and school sports/clubs, I was tucked away in my room, because I truly reached the point where I wanted to stay there. I missed school a lot because of this, and my lovely, incredibly strong mom did not completely understand, but offered endless love and support. This love and support led to me finally seeing a professional about my issues when I was a sophomore, and I did find a lot of peace in that. However, I still had deep rooted issues that I was not addressing. Around the beginning of senior year, things had picked up in terms of socializing, but I had found a new enemy: myself. Once I would get my eating habits on the right track, I would have a bad day and fall right back into my old ways; it wasn't simply physical, it was mental. Eventually, I started making myself vomit, and I would abuse laxatives. I was hurting my mind and my body. This went on for about two years, until I finally reached the point where I couldn't do it to myself anymore. Who am I doing this for?, I asked myself. The answer: not me. I had been so caught up in making sure I was living up to what I thought others wanted, that I had neglected the 11 year old girl inside of me who felt ugly and needed love. I don't think I could do that to her again- I love her too much. This is me closing that door once and for all. I still have struggles, but I know one thing now: I am enough, and I always have been.

Don't blame yourself. No one sees it at first. She's a fifteen-year-old girl on that frozen park bench, sitting on her hands to keep them from getting just as cold as her nose. Your eyes catch sight of the way her hair is dampened and unkempt. Her clothes are torn, hanging off of her body to reveal the story on her skin that she wished no one would ever read. And her face...it's covered in the grime of the city's malice. Did she fall? No one sees it. Her heart is cracked and bloody. The red consequence that pours from it is becoming frozen in these conditions. If she were to tell you that she is growing cold, you would reply you were too. It is, indeed, time for the leaves to take their last leap from the arms of the near-barren trees. Clouds should soon stop crying and instead begin to throw fistfuls of white during their seasonal temper tantrums. But then she'd take you by surprise. She would correct you and say, “No, from the inside. It isn't the outside world causing frost upon my skin. It's my heart, a glacial virus causing my light to fade out into an eternal darkness.” It's all happening so fast in front of everyone's eyes, and still, no one sees it. She didn't fall as once presumed. She was pushed. No one saw it. You didn't either. Not at first. Not until her heart - which had been freezing since he'd first laid a hand on her - cracked. Not until it made a sound so deafening that no one was able to hear another. It was as if lightening struck the ground directly in front of you, and finally, you stopped to pay attention. You were alert. You were looking around for an answer to the question no one has understood: "Why?" And finally, you had the morality to focus on investigating what lay beneath the silence that had followed the explosion of ice from her heart. You realized that she was alone. No mother. No father. No sibling in sight. When you approached her, feet crunching atop the chunks of ice that had flown from her insides like daggers - warnings to stay away - you saw the dirty tears staining her cheeks. You were left to wonder what had happened. Why was she so cold? Maybe she didn't fall. She didn't just stumble because she was clumsy. She was shoved into the calloused, tainted hands of the world. And now you stand in front of her. She sits still on the bench, staring straight ahead with no life left in her eyes. Your chest is level with her face. She doesn't move. You could tell that whoever this girl was is no longer here. A person once known is now a person someone knew. The tears are taking turns rolling down the flushed, red tinted hills named cheeks, but her face is becalmed. A snowflake fallen from the sky lands on her cheek and turns to ice instead of melting away. In a whisper, you ask her what's wrong. She emotionlessly makes eye contact. Your heart clenches and your stomach drops at the visible vacancy inside of her. “I wandered too far,” she replies. “Mother told me the streets weren't safe. She told me not to cross the bridge...I did. I crossed." She looks away again. "I can't go back.” You ask her why. You offer to walk home with her. She could get cleaned up. All better. She'll be fine tomorrow once she gets a new pair of socks and a warm bath. But she rejects you, pushes you away. She says she knows now that strangers are not to be trusted. She can't cross the bridge. For if she does, she will let the wind push her off. She will beg the breeze to be strong enough to cause the ground to disappear from underneath her. She will hit the ground and fall into a pile of beautiful crushed bones and pain. It sounds beautiful to her, anyway. Don't blame yourself. No one sees it at first. Not even you. Maybe you were distracted or just wished to mind your own business. But if you held the candle a little closer, you could see that what she really yearned for was a hand to hold. She was manhandled. Used. Who she used to be was shattered into a thousand pieces and brushed under the rug for no person to ever see again. If they would just look a little closer, they'd see that she is crying out for help. She is not begging to be looked at. She is not begging for the eyes of those around her. She is begging for someone to pull her up from the top before it's too late. She is screaming for someone to toss the rope down before she's stuck in The Pit forever, all alone as she grows colder and colder from the inside out. All alone until she becomes absolutely nothing.

Sometimes I wonder why I'm here, what my purpose is. I'm sure everybody gets these thoughts now and then, perhaps after making a monumental mistake or a gut-churning sacrifice which wasn't worth it. I like to think it's a natural thought to have sparingly, a reminder that there is always that one costly way out- Something which I personally take great comfort in. I think it ties in with a fear of failure or the dread of having to continue swimming through the darkness which suffocates my lungs and gurgles in my oesophagus. They hit me when I'm under the ocean, being dragged through the relentless currents. Keeping me up at night, cruel yet gently, they're an endless mirage of pounding hurdles which smack against the insides of my mind, telling me that it isn't worth it- They scream in an orchestra of falling angels through the white noise. Perhaps it isn't like this for anyone, perhaps some of you can ignore the trickling stream which flows through your mind. But for some of us, those of us who awake to exhaustion, no matter how much sleep they get- It's a bit more complicated than that. “Just one cut, that's all it would take.” “Why don't you drink the bottle? See what it does.” “You think the gas would suffocate you?” “Put your hand on the flame, watch it dance.” Some of you probably find those thoughts disturbing, some of you probably think I should receive help, some of you are probably even wondering why I don't just do it then if it bothers me so much. Well, let me explain then. Throughout my life, I haven't been the happiest camper. Growing up, my childhood was quite difficult, hence why my problems sprouted into bitter aconite from there- The poison thick and deadly in my daily life. With an alcoholic father who couldn't see until it was the end of a bottle and a depressed mother… You could say that it is no surprise that I have developed a pick and mix bag filled with issues. They weren't the best role models out there, social-services were involved more than once. What made them different, however, was that my mum tried- Does try. She tries her hardest to be both guardians at once, with her broken wings and rusted halo. She does what she can with what she has, even if it isn't much. Despite everything which has happened to us, the deaths and illnesses which has knocked on our door, she remains strong for us. Every morning, she gets up to make us our breakfast. Every evening, she makes the kids their supper and then sends them to bed- But, every so often, when she's left alone with her corruptive thoughts which decay her mind- She cries. She cries and she cries until hiccupping breaths are the only things which escape through her clenched teeth. Her eyebrows flatten, her eyes die in a new life, and she's left bottomless, without a goal in sight. It kills me to see it, rips open my insides and pulls my heart from my chest to feast on it with sharp teeth- But there's nothing I can do to help her because I understand. As she sobs over her wine bottle, tears creating angry, red rivers down her face- I understand. I understand more than I would even like to. Therefore, I never enter, never show her that I've seen her sobbing. This is her time to grieve, her time to mourn the potential that she lost, the boyfriends which she has loved and the family which she has raised and failed. So, when you ask why I don't just go through with it, why I don't just bring a knife to my throat and bleed out into the carpet- Let me tell you why. It is because of this beautifully ruined woman that I don't go through with those thoughts. She isn't my rock, my foundation. In fact, she's far from that. If anything, she's an old, dilapidated house, just waiting for that one rush of wind which will cause all her structure to collapse. Her mask is the peeling wallpaper, her mind the abandoned attic which no one bothers to visit- However, she is my mother. She is my wonderful, kind, sacrificing mother, and I refuse to put that on her delicate shoulders. She is the person who noticed my severe weight loss and took me to the doctors. She is the one who noticed the deep, gorged outlines of scarlet which skewered their way through my veins. She is the only person who noticed how far my mental state had deteriorated, leaving but a lonely, empty husk of the daughter she once you. She is the one who has had to watch her daughter lose herself every day, with red-rimmed eyes and hollowed cheeks- So, that's why I remain. I may serve no purpose. My existence may be completely pointless and short- But there is one person in this entire world who cares for me, who gives me the courage to live through another day. She gives me the bravery to feel little moments of happiness, despite how haunting they may be- And that's all I could ever ask for.