The Birthday Post: A Survivor’s Story

Content Warning: This blog contains references to sexual assault and trauma. Please take care while reading.

Every year, without fail, my rapist wishes me a happy birthday on Facebook.

I know. It's as awful and surreal as it sounds.

He writes something innocuous like “Hope it’s a great one!” or “Wishing you all the best.” And every year, I brace myself for it. It shows up just as predictably as the sunrise on my birthday morning—and just as uninvited.

I don’t know why I’ve never unfriended him. Maybe it’s because I’ve never wanted to reject my past. Even the painful parts, the embarrassing parts, the parts I’ve tried to bury. I’ve always believed in owning my story—all of it. But still, every year, when that post appears, it burns. The sting is emotional, yes—but also physical. My body remembers.

A TikTok That Broke Me Open

Yesterday, during a quick scroll break, I stumbled upon a TikTok video that stopped me cold. It featured a clip of poet Kevin Kantor performing their piece “People You May Know.”

"When my rapist showed up under the people you may know tab on Facebook, it felt like the closest to a crime scene I’ve ever been."

I froze.

There it was—my exact experience, spoken aloud by a stranger on the internet. The words I’ve carried in silence, turned into poetry. The pain I had quietly accepted reflected back at me.

That video cracked something open.

What I Remember—and What I Don’t

I don’t remember everything about that night. But I’ll never forget how it felt.

I was in my twenties—young, insecure, naïve, and overly confident all at once. I remember thinking I was invincible. I remember the drink. I remember the fog rolling in fast. The confusion. The dread. I remember insisting I would sleep on the couch—too intoxicated to drive. I remember saying "No."

And yet, I woke up with him inside me.

His body was cold. Mechanical. I was too drugged to fight back. Too frozen to scream. I clenched my jaw and prayed it would end. My mind was racing, my body limp and powerless. Eventually, he stopped. He stumbled back to his bedroom without saying a word.

I lay there on the couch, naked, humiliated, crying.

There was a blizzard outside. But I didn’t care. As soon as I could move, I ran. I grabbed my things and bolted. I climbed into my car and sobbed. Still ruffied. Still drunk. I didn’t care about the storm or the danger. I had to flee.

I called my best friend. I don’t remember what time it was—ungodly hours, east coast time. She picked up. She stayed with me on the phone for the entire drive, her voice the only thing tethering me to reality. I don’t know how I made it home safely that night. But I did.

The trauma didn’t end when I shut the front door behind me. It stayed in my bones. It still does.

A Story Too Many Know

I’ve asked myself all the questions.

What could I have done differently? Did I lead him on? Why did I let myself get into that situation?

But the truth is, I’m not alone. Nearly every woman I know has a story. A moment when their "No" was ignored. When their body was taken. When they were violated, coerced, or drugged. When their dignity was stolen and replaced with shame.

And most of them have stayed quiet.

This Isn’t Just My Story

I don’t know exactly why I’m sharing this now. Maybe it’s because that video reminded me I’m not alone. Maybe it’s because I know someone else reading this has a similar scar. Maybe it’s because the birthday post will come again this year, and I want to reclaim my power before it does.

So I’m speaking it aloud for the first time. Not to relive the pain—but to let it breathe. To name it. To own it.

Because we deserve to live without shame.

Because we deserve to feel safe in our own memories.

Because we are more than what happened to us.

Reflection Prompts for Your Own Healing

If any part of my story resonates with you, I invite you to reflect:

• What pain have I kept hidden, believing no one would understand?

• What messages have I internalized about blame or shame?

• Who in my life can I talk to about my experience—without fear or judgment?

• What truth do I need to speak, even if it shakes?

  
  

A Ritual for Reclamation

You can try this ritual on your own or with support:

• Create a Safe Space: Light a candle or hold a comforting object.

• Write Your Truth: Journal the story you've carried in silence. Don’t worry about grammar or coherence. Just let it out.

• Release It: If it feels safe, read it aloud—to yourself, a trusted friend, or the universe. Then tear it up or burn it (safely), visualizing the shame dissolving.

• Affirm Your Power: Speak this aloud: “What happened to me does not define me. I am healing. I am worthy. I am whole.”

  
  

Before you go, please remember this:

Healing is not linear. There is no right way to process what has happened to you. There is only your way. And every time you choose to speak your truth, to sit with your pain, to take one small step toward healing, you are reclaiming something that was taken.

You are not alone. You never were.

Let’s keep telling our stories—raw, messy, and brave.

Because silence protects the abuser.

And our voices can set us free.

Our voices remind others that healing is possible.

Our stories make space for courage.

Our truth reclaims our power.

And every time one of us speaks, it becomes easier for the next.

So speak. Write. Scream if you need to. Whisper if that’s all you can do.

Your voice matters.

Your healing matters.

And you are never, ever alone.