I’m a survivor. 30 years later, I’m telling my story.

Hello,

I’ll introduce myself first by way of telling you who I’m not. I’m not Uma Thurman, Rose McGowan, or one of Harvey Weinstein, Matt Lauer, Al Franken, or Roy Moore’s accusers. You haven’t seen me in the pages of the New York Times or on CNN or Fox News. But there’s more than a 70% chance you know me. I might be your wife, niece, or sister, your aunt, or your cousin. I could be your neighbor, your coworker in the next cubicle, the woman who chairs the board of your company, your state Senator…I could be pretty much anybody. I just hope I’m not your daughter…yet. That’s why I’m here.

Pleasure to meet you: my name is #MeToo, and despite the “cultural turning point” at which we’ve currently arrived regarding sexual abuse, harassment, and misconduct by men in power, I don’t think you really understand. For the sake of your aforementioned daughter, and for that matter, your son, too, I’d like to share some thoughts with you.

I was a pretty girl. I wouldn’t have known this, though. For women of a certain age, it was apparently taboo for our parents to tell us things that would have given us “big heads.” Not only was I never told I was pretty, but I was also never told I was smart (I am), funny (ditto), or particularly capable. Instead, I was taught to be modest and to do for and focus on others. What this cultivated in me was a complete lack of self-image, never mind self-worth…as though when I walked by a mirror, I wouldn’t see a reflection. I’m telling you this…