When did we start teaching people that they are worth less because of something someone else did to them?

I've been thinking about this all day.

Not just because a young woman lost her life.

But because of the shame she seemed to carry after she was raped.

That part breaks my heart.

Rape is already a devastating violation.

Why should someone then have to carry the weight of believing they have become "less than"?

If someone forces themselves on you, they have committed a crime against you.

They have not taken away your dignity.

They have not taken away your humanity.

They have not taken away your worth.

And they certainly have not taken away the value God placed on your life.

One of the hardest things about sexual assault is that people often begin investigating the victim's decisions instead of the perpetrator's actions.

"Why did she go?"

"Why did she trust him?"

"Why was she at a hotel?"

"Why did she leave her state?"

As though those questions somehow explain what happened.

But trust is one of the most human things we do.

We trust mentors.

We trust people we admire.

We trust people who tell us they're going to help.

We trust people who say, "Don't go there. Come to me instead. I'll help you."

Trust is not foolishness.

Betraying someone's trust is.

If someone chooses to use your trust against you, that choice belongs to them, not to you.

Violence is always the responsibility of the person who commits it.

It also makes me wonder about the way we talk about sex.

About purity.

About virginity.

I think we need to be careful that the reasons we give young people don't become burdens they can't carry.

If the loudest message a young girl hears is,

"Don't lose your virginity."

"Don't disappoint your parents."

"Save yourself for your future husband."

What happens when something is taken from her against her will?

Who reminds her that what happened to her is not the same as what she chose?

Who tells her,

"You are still worthy."

"You are still loved."

"None of this was your fault."

Maybe we need to teach young people that their value has never been tied to what another person can take from them.

Maybe we need to raise daughters who know that if the unthinkable happens, they can come home before they feel they have to hide.

Maybe we need to raise families where compassion speaks louder than shame.

Because sexual violence is already devastating enough.

No survivor should have to carry the additional burden of believing their life, their dignity, or their future has been ruined.

We should never confuse violence with consent.

And we should never allow shame to become heavier than compassion.

Maybe the most important thing we can teach young people isn't just how to protect their bodies.

Maybe it's this:

Nothing another person does to you can erase the value God placed on your life.

And maybe we also need to ask different questions.

Instead of,

"Why did she go?"

Maybe ask,

"Why did he choose to violate someone who trusted him?"

Because that's where the responsibility begins.

And that's where the conversation should too.

There was a time I was too shy to ask for the simplest things. Too shy to say, "I don't understand." Too shy to ask for help. Too shy to tell people what I needed.

And now, I genuinely cannot imagine that version of myself.

Because if there's something to be said, I'll say it. If there's a room full of strangers and someone asks for volunteers, my hand is probably already in the air. If there's an opportunity to pitch an idea, I'll pitch it. If I'm uncomfortable, I'll tell you. If someone is being spoken to unfairly, I'll speak up.

Not because I'm fearless. But because I've learned that silence has never opened a door for me. Speaking has.

I think one of the greatest gifts I've given myself is refusing to let shyness make decisions for me.

Has my voice shaken before? Absolutely. Have I said the wrong thing? More times than I can count. Have I embarrassed myself? Probably.

But I survived every single time. And every time I spoke up, it became a little easier to do it again.

A few Sundays ago, I stood in church to give a testimony. I wasn't just thanking God, I was celebrating my friend. I told everyone how much she had been a blessing to me, especially during one of the hardest seasons of my life. Then I asked the entire church to sing Happy Birthday to her.

Before I sat down, I said something I'll probably keep saying for the rest of my life: be vocal about love. Tell people what they mean to you. Celebrate them while they're here. Take the pictures. Send the message. Say the words. Love shouldn't always be assumed. Sometimes it needs to be spoken.

So if you're reading this and you're still waiting for confidence to magically appear, don't. Confidence rarely comes before action. It usually comes because of action.

Raise your hand. Ask the question. Send the email. Walk up and introduce yourself. Apply for the opportunity. Speak.

The worst thing that can happen is that someone says no. The best thing that can happen? Your life changes because you opened your mouth.

And maybe one day, you'll look back like I do now and wonder, "Was I really ever that shy?" 🤍

There was a time I did not think I was ugly.

I just did not think I was beautiful enough.

That difference may sound small, but it shaped how I saw myself for years.

From when I was very young, I avoided mirrors. Not intentionally at first. It just became a habit. I would pass by a mirror and not really look. And anytime I actually stopped and saw my reflection, I felt surprised. Almost shocked.

It always felt like the body I was seeing did not match the person I was inside.

I cannot fully explain it, but for a long time, I felt disconnected from my own appearance. Like my spirit and my body were not introducing themselves properly.

People complimented me growing up. A lot of people called me cute. Don’t get me wrong, a few people called me beautiful too. But very few. And I would sometimes ask myself quietly: why cute? Why not beautiful? Why does my face not show what I feel inside?

They would say I was cute, that I had dimples, that I was smooth and dark-skinned. That I was fine. But strangely, those compliments never really settled in my heart.

I also struggled deeply with my body. I was very slender, and I did not like it. At all.

People would always say things like “eat more” or “you are too thin,” and even when I laughed outside, inside I felt very sensitive about it. I never liked comments about my weight. I still don’t. Not because I am insecure anymore, but because people do not realize how deeply words about the body can sit in someone’s heart.

There were moments I would cry privately and ask myself why my body looked the way it did. Why I was so thin. Why I did not look the way I thought I should.

After secondary school, something slowly changed.

I began to like my face first.

Not my body yet. Just my face.

I started looking in the mirror more. I became softer with myself. But loving my body fully was still a journey that took time, patience, and honesty.

Then I genuinely opened my heart to Christ.

Not in a surface way.

In a deep, personal way.

And as I read the Bible and reflected on being created in the image of God, something inside me began to heal. It was not instant. It took years. Almost three years of intentionally unlearning harsh thoughts about myself and replacing them with truth.

Today, I can say something I never thought I would say before.

I love my body.

I love my slenderness.

I love my skin.

I love my face.

I love the way God created me.

And this confidence did not come from compliments.

It came from acceptance.

Now, I dress well because I enjoy looking good for myself. I like looking clean, put together, and intentional. Not for validation. Not for reactions. But for the quiet joy of seeing myself in the mirror and genuinely liking what I see.

There was even a time I realized I had attached my beauty to small things, like earrings. I felt like I always had to wear them to look complete. One day, I stood in front of the mirror and asked myself a simple question.

Why do I feel like I need this to be beautiful?

So I removed the earrings and went three days without wearing any.

And do you know what happened?

Almost nobody noticed.

That moment taught me something powerful.

People are not observing us as closely as we think.

But we are observing ourselves every single day.

Last year, I went through deep grief and had to cut my hair. My hair meant a lot to me. It was long, thick, and something I genuinely loved. Cutting it the same day I lost someone dear to me was not just a physical change. It was emotional. It was symbolic. It was painful.

The next day, people expected me to cover my hair with a scarf.

I tried it briefly.

Then I looked at myself in the mirror and said to God,

Even like this, I am still beautiful.

That moment was quiet, but it was powerful.

I removed the scarf and stepped out as I was.

Grieving.

Bald.

Soft.

Still beautiful.

And that was when I truly understood that my confidence was no longer tied to hair, earrings, body size, or public opinion.

It was rooted in identity.

Now when people compliment me and say, “You are beautiful,” I often smile and say, “Oh, am I? Thank you.” Not because I doubt it. But because I already know it within myself. There is a quiet assurance that did not exist before.

And when people make comments about my body now, I genuinely laugh. Not out of pretense, but because I am no longer at war with myself.

I am no longer trying to become someone else’s version of beauty.

I am simply living comfortably in the body I was given.

So if you have ever felt like you are not beautiful enough, not full enough, not good enough, or like you need extra things to be worthy of admiration, please hear this gently.

You are already enough.

Not because the world says so.

But because you were created intentionally, in the image of God.

Dress well if you want to.

Look good if it makes you happy.

Do too much if your heart enjoys expression.

But do it for yourself.

For your joy.

For your confidence.

For your peace.

Because the most powerful moment is not when the world calls you beautiful.

It is when you look at yourself, quietly, honestly, and finally believe it.

Also… full transparency, I might add a video of myself bald or probably some pictures of me that way. Please don’t laugh at me 😭😩. I just want to show you how real this journey has been.