As I navigate the complexities of motherhood, I find myself grappling with the lasting effects of my childhood trauma. My experiences as a survivor of sexual abuse shape how I approach parenting, especially as I raise my daughter.
“Mommy, can I wear some makeup?”
I respond, reminding her that she is naturally beautiful, but I still say, “Of course, sweetheart, what’s the harm?” Yet internally, I wrestle with my feelings about beauty, sexuality, and safety, fearing what these elements might mean for her future. My instinct is to say no, to shield her from clothing or makeup that could draw unwanted attention. I want to protect her from the threat of predators, even though I understand that danger often lurks in familiar places, not in the overt actions of strangers.
At her age, I too became an object of unwanted attention, and I’ve learned that it wasn’t about my appearance. It was more about the predatory behavior of a man who had no regard for boundaries. It’s not about how a girl looks; it’s about vulnerability.
Does every woman feel a pang of anxiety when a man compliments her daughter? I know that feeling all too well – it transforms me back into that frightened little girl, questioning if this man might repeat past transgressions. But this isn’t about me anymore; it’s about my daughter and my deep-rooted urge to safeguard her from becoming prey.
I could be mistaken. Perhaps the man at the barbecue who praised her beauty poses no threat. However, when I feel that unsettling instinct, I pay attention. This intuition doesn’t surface every time I’m around men, but it does sometimes. Therefore, I must ensure that whether it’s a friend’s father, the local pastor, or a family member, my daughter is never in a position where she could be groomed.
I aim to teach her to recognize and trust her instincts. The most invaluable tool she can develop is self-trust. We refer to this instinct as the “uh-oh” feeling, a concept introduced to me by a school social worker I once worked with. I relate to that feeling; it kept me silent for years. I want my daughter to embrace that sensation, to not fear it as I once did, but to respond to it with confidence.
The hardest moments arise when my fears are irrational, like when my partner helps our daughter with her bath or engages in playful tickle fights. I must remind myself that, despite what statistics suggest, I will not perpetuate the cycle of abuse – either as a victim or an aggressor. I need to pull myself from the depths of these innocent moments that trigger my anxiety and recognize the unfounded fears creeping in.
After struggling to find narratives about motherhood from the perspective of survivors of childhood sexual abuse, I realize how silent many of us remain. Shame often keeps these stories hidden, but it’s crucial to discuss the resurgence of trauma when we become mothers. These conversations are essential for raising healthy daughters.
“Mommy, if a boy kisses you, does that mean he loves you?”
I think I finally grasp the saying that everything happens for a reason. I see the harm in teaching our daughters that love can be equated with mere physical contact. Love is far deeper than a kiss or any physical interaction. By linking love to physical gestures, we risk undermining their autonomy.
“Sweetheart, a boy kisses you because he decides to, but that doesn’t always mean he loves you. And no one should kiss you unless you want them to. If they do, I encourage you to stand up for yourself!”
I also have a son and understand the importance of protecting all children. This narrative primarily reflects my experiences raising my daughter, but my concern for my son’s well-being is just as strong. It’s vital to acknowledge male survivors and their struggles too.
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In summary, raising a daughter while managing the scars of past abuse is a constant balancing act. It’s essential to foster open dialogue about body autonomy and respect, equipping her with the tools she needs to navigate her world confidently.