Silent Scars- Some Wounds Doesn’t Heal with Time.

Every New Year’s Day, a sadness washes over me. I’m 50, yet every year at 11:33 p.m., the memory floods back — being molested at 11.

I remember the train ride to 110th Street, the rattling of the tracks, the laughter of strangers. I remember the man who was like a father to me, rubbing my back and kissing my hand. And I remember what came after.

At 50, the memory is supposed to fade. They say time heals all wounds, but for many adults who have been sexually assaulted, the truth is different. Some wounds don’t heal — they linger. They live inside you.

This memory doesn’t wash away with tears that spill down my face. It doesn’t dissolve in the years that have passed. It is the moment that split my life into before and after. My innocence was stolen, and no amount of time has given it back.

It’s a wound that reopens, over and over again. And no matter how many times I’ve tried to stitch it closed, the scar remains.

As it resurfaces, so do the words — words from someone I love — telling me to let it go.

“You’re fifty. It’s time to move forward.”

But year after year, so many victims of sexual abuse are asked to be silent, to pretend it isn’t a constant ache — the ache of who I might have been if this moment hadn’t splintered me.

The man who molested me whispered those same words: “Be quiet. Forget this ever happened.”

And now, decades later, I hear them again. Only this time, they come from someone I trust. Someone who should know better.

I can’t deny how those words — so casually spoken — felt like a slap, reopening wounds I thought had scabbed over. How they made me feel pushed away, unseen, and unacknowledged.

What they don’t understand is that silence doesn’t heal. It festers. It turns into shadows that stretch and twist, reminding me every day of what was taken.

I’m tired of carrying this burden alone. Tired of being told to bury it.

Because the truth is, I can’t forget. And I shouldn’t have to.

Child molestation leaves scars that last far beyond childhood. It is not a fleeting incident, like falling off a bike and brushing off a scrape. Instead, it carries a lifetime of emotional and mental tolls — PTSD, depression, anxiety, substance abuse, and struggles with relationships. Yet, far too many men and women never seek therapy, even well into adulthood because they are told to forget about. To minimize the severity of the trauma.

Trauma of this magnitude doesn’t simply fade with time; it resurfaces — again and again — demanding to be acknowledged. And it is valid. The answer isn’t always to “get over it,” but to recognize that this pain is real, that it matters, and that healing begins with honoring its weight.