At five years old the only word I had managed to speak was horsie. Before then my voice had been silenced by the man living in my own house, my future trafficker, my father. My psychologist has now informed me that my brain shut off my ability to speak to make survival the main focus of my childhood. My early years were filled with neglect, abuse, and watching pornography with my father to normalize abuse, incest, and rape as part of the grooming process. My father instilled fear in me by withholding food, love, and affection, as well as being physically abusive to ensure that my voice remained silent. And threats, which are a common tactic in most trafficking situations, were a normal part of my daily life too. My father continually threatened me about what would happen if I dared to disclose the horrors taking place within my home. I began to think what was happening to me was normal between a father and daughter and that to get what I needed in life and remain alive, I must obey.
As the years went on the abuse only intensified. Not only was I being forced to watch pornography, but I was also forced to take pornographic photos, as well as act out with my father what was happening in the videos. Not long after he began raping me, I was sold for the first time, which then lead to years of being trafficked by my father.
Although the fear, manipulation, and control kept me silent, I was screaming out with my actions that I needed help. As the abuse intensified, so did my behavior. I was stealing food from other students, stealing books out of a longing to be normal, biting kids, pulling out my hair, drawing inappropriate pictures, scratching myself, and more. Instead of being noticed by the adults around me, I was labeled as “that kid,” the kid filled with lice, the smelly kid, and the kid no one wanted to be around. I was desperately hurting and looking to the world around me to notice me, to speak up for me, to be a voice.
Over the years, many have asked what they can do to help spot the signs of familial trafficking. Here are a few ways you can step in:
As a survivor of this type of trafficking and a former inner-city school teacher, I have lived by the idea that 90 percent of the time when you understand a story behind a kid’s behavior, it won’t make you angry, it will break your heart. I prayed to have eyes to see past the behavior. I did my best to understand the heart behind my students’ actions because this is what I desperately wished someone would have done for me. I was not a bad kid; I was a hurting kid. For some kids, this may be displayed through anger and rage, and for others—like myself—it may be withdrawing and depression. I wish someone would have taken the time to see past the behaviors and simply see me.
Believe children when they speak. I reached out to an uncle and aunt with my very limited vocabulary to make sense of what was happening and told them things were very bad at home. They responded with, “Every family is dysfunctional.” In a moment of courage I had the bravery to seek help, only to be met with an answer that reinforced what I thought to be true—this must be normal and I simply must deal with it. As a result, I told myself I’d never again ask for help.
What I wish they would have done instead is take the time to listen to me, ask questions, and build a trusting and caring relationship so that I could disclose what I meant when I said things were very bad at home. I wish they would have been a consistent and stable presence in my life so that I would have known that I could have called them if I ever needed help or a way out. I wish that they would have told me how much I mattered to them.
A study done by Harvard over the science of resiliency reported, “No matter the source of hardship, the single most common factor for children who end up doing well is having the support of at least one stable and committed relationship with a parent, caregiver, or other adult.”1
Being a safe person in the life of a hurting child matters significantly.
If someone would have been paying attention, they would have noticed the shell of a person I became around my father. I moved when he told me to move, sat when he told me to sit. My life was not my own—it belonged to him. My body language around him spoke volumes; looking back, I see it clearly in pictures from my childhood. I would lean away from him, sit as far away as possible, and freeze up when touched in any way. It is also important to note that many familial trafficking survivors attend school, play sports, and can live a seemingly normal life, just like I did. And many of the traffickers are involved in the community because traffickers work through the power of deception, but no matter what, there are typically red flags. Here are some other signs a young person might be a victim of familial trafficking:
I saw eyes look at me as if they knew something may not be quite right. Men coming in and out of a hotel room with a little girl isn’t right. Be vigilant and observant. Notice when something feels off or suspicious. Recently a friend told me that her dad told her to stay away from my dad when we were kids. Another old family friend sent me a message apologizing to me because I would always beg to stay the night at her house. She said she understands now why I asked so often and that it makes her sick to think she never put together the signs. So many people had gut feelings but did not follow through with making the report. Trust your gut. You don’t need to have all the answers, but I would rather be wrong than miss the opportunity to be a voice for the voiceless and hurting.
At the age of eighteen, I was admitted to the one and only college I applied to. Desperate for a change and fresh start, I eagerly accepted. I was suffering greatly from the pain of my childhood, coping the only way I knew how—through an eating disorder, self-harm, and suicidal ideation, to only name a few.
In an effort to make friends in this newfound life, I walked into an involvement fair. On one side was the atheist agenda and the other side was Younglife. Being approached by both, I knew I had a choice to make between continuing down the path of darkness I had been born into or walking toward the light. The woman who stood at the Younglife table offered me a place at their dinner table that week and I accepted. The difference between their home and my home was significant. I was reluctant to trust, as I had been so wounded in a family setting prior to this, but their continual invitation to sit at their table began to tear down the walls I had worked so hard to build up. Eventually they shared the gospel with me. The darkness of my story propelled me toward the light that offered me hope and purpose for the very first time.
Coming to know the Lord unleashed a beautifully painful unraveling in my life. He loved me too much to leave me where I was. I knew I could not continue to keep my story silent—no healing could happen when those painful memories remained in the dark. So out of His great love for me, God brought to the light the pain of my childhood. Memory after memory flooded my mind, and I knew I needed help. Thus began the heavy lifting of healing that involved a stay in residential treatment care after another failed suicide attempt along with years of counseling, medical care, and more. This process has been long and excruciatingly painful. I’ve battled recurring nightmares, sleepless nights, flashbacks, medical diagnoses, depression . . . and the list goes on.
But every step that I’ve taken toward healing and freedom has been worth it. There are still days where the pain of my story brings me to my knees, but I realized through my healing journey that I was never unseen—I was seen by a good, good Father who has good plans for me. A God who was angry about the pain and injustice of my story, so He sent His Son to redeem it.
While sitting in my seminary class recently, our professor described the definition of the word redemption and that description has completely changed how I view my story. It is a word that means to buy back and restore to original intent. While my body had been bought by many depraved men, our God sent His Son to die on the cross for me, to pay for my sin and the sin done to me, to redeem me. He bought me back. This is such a beautiful picture of the depth of love the Father has for me. A love that has restored my life to the fullness of joy in a way that only He could do. That’s why when I talk about what my path to healing has looked like, it will always include Jesus. He has, and will always be, the single most effective healer in the aftermath of sexual trauma.
Through all of this I’ve learned that suffering, for those who accept the free gift of God’s grace, does not win; it does not have the final word. The curse that infected creation in Genesis is fully and completely eradicated in Revelation. Sadness, anger, pain, abuse, trafficking will be banished forever. This is good news. This is the promise I can build the rest of my life on. I look forward to the finished promise, and until then I know that every tear that I have shed, every broken memory that still lingers, every fearful and lonely night, has been woven into a beautiful story of redemption that God is using for His glory.
1 “The Science of Resilience,” Center on the Developing Child at Harvard University (InBrief, 2015), https://developingchild.harvard.edu/resources/inbrief-the-science-of-resilience/.
