I’m a survivor and I’m proud. It’s taken me almost a year to comfortably tell my story, but I’m writing this because I want to speak out for all the women that are afraid to tell theirs. I was raped the summer before my sophomore year of college by someone I considered a friend. He took me on a date, but it ended with me screaming— begging him to stop. He attended my university, which only made it harder for me to recover. Every day I passed him on campus, my anxiety was out of control and my sense of security was taken away from me. I avoided my school’s dining halls and gym, when I knew he would be there. My life began to revolve around avoiding my assaulter and compromising my schedule and quality of life for his. I distrusted all men and avoided getting close to anyone who could hurt me. I felt tainted and dirty. I constantly questioned how I could have allowed it to happen, how it could have happened, and why he did what he did.

As fall semester came to a close, I took winter break to think things through. Coming back to school for spring semester, I decided I had had enough, specifically that I deserved my vengeance and that I would have it no matter what. No one was going to control my life and make it hell. I started going to all the places I wanted on campus no matter who was there. I stayed firm and strong, even if I was only at the gym for 20 minutes when he was there instead of the hour I would have liked, I made my point to him by staying. He would not control my life in any way. As the semester went on, I had the opportunity to help a survivor and her family cope with her assault. I shared my insight and my story of how I had somehow prospered and remained in school despite everything. This very moment changed my life.

This was my revenge—helping other women to find themselves after experiencing the trauma of assault. I wouldn’t allow it if I could help it—another woman to feel alone and unlovable and ruined.

Three weeks later, my assaulter was expelled for raping another girl. Even though I didn’t have evidence, and he didn’t go to prison for what he did, helping other women who have been through experiences similar to mine is enough for me.

This month it’ll be a year since my assault and after much contemplation, I decided to share my story because I am not ashamed to be a survivor. I was a victim first and now I’m a survivor. What happened to me was horrible, but it does not embody or encompass who I am. I can trust some men. I can still be sexy. I can still hold my head up high with pride. I can still love my life. I can still be happy. Everything comes with time and some days are better than others, but I am still me—nothing less.

As a survivor, I’m still on the road of recovery and suffering. I don’t think this experience will ever leave me, but I am so much more than my assault.

I’ve begun to trust people again. I’ve begun to let people in again. I am strong. I am not weak. I am a survivor and my rape does not define me.

Concluding this article, I want thank some people for this past year no matter how long or short they’ve been a part of this journey; you all deserve recognition.

Thank you, mom—for everything you do—words can’t even begin to describe.

Thank you, Megan O’Connell—for being my other half/best friend/room mate—for holding my hand when everything fell apart; I can’t imagine life without you.

Thank you Lauren Wood—for loving me through all my phases and growing up with me, I'm so thankful and blessed to have you in my life.

Thank you Lauren McGrath—for driving me to the doctor every time I’m sick and being the older sister I always wanted and needed.

Thank you Issy Perin—for the countless hugs and endless support. You're a gem.

Thank you Mimi, Ariel, Bridget—for letting me sleep on your couch for three weeks and all of the girl’s nights filled with cookies, tea, and laughter.

Thank you Meghan Shea—for welcoming me into your home and including me; you're a life-long friend.

Thank you all so much for loving me when I didn’t know how to love myself. Thank you for kind words in moments of sadness.