“I was only ten years old the night my stepfather came into my room,” Carolina said during a restorative justice session in Medellín. Her voice trembled in a way that tightened the air around us, as if the memory itself were still present in the room. She stared at the floor while describing how he threatened her into silence and how she froze, hoping someone would come, even though she already knew no one would. The next morning, she told her mother because she believed love meant protection, but instead her mother slapped her and accused her of lying. That moment carved a wound deeper than the abuse itself, because disbelief from a caregiver fractures identity in ways pain alone cannot. Research has shown that childhood sexual abuse profoundly disrupts emotional development, creating long-lasting difficulties with trust, self-regulation, and internalized fear (Alves, Leitão, Sani, & Moreira, 2024).

Carolina said she stopped speaking after that day because silence felt safer than being doubted again. She began to fold her emotions into tight corners where no one could find them, and she moved through childhood with a quietness people mistook for defiance. For many survivors, silence becomes armor, not a choice, and it remains long after the danger has ended. When no adult intervenes or acknowledges the pain behind a child’s behavior, the child learns that suffering must be carried alone. Carolina’s silence was not resistance; it was protection from a world that had already betrayed her.

Pain Becoming Behavior

As she grew older, that silence transformed into eruptions she could not control, because unprocessed trauma often spills into the world long before survivors understand what they feel. She slammed doors, lashed out at classmates, and withdrew from anyone who tried to come close. Teachers labeled her “aggressive,” unaware that aggression is often grief disguised as self-defense. Research demonstrates a strong relationship between early trauma and later aggression, especially when children receive little emotional support or acknowledgment of their pain (Cantürk, Faraji, & Tezcan, 2021). Carolina told me she fought because she did not know how else to keep herself safe.

At sixteen, during a moment of provocation, she threw a bottle at a boy who called her a liar, a word that still carried the sting of her mother’s rejection. Police were called, and she was taken into juvenile detention, where her trauma was treated as criminality rather than an emotional injury. She said detention taught her to be harder, not calmer, because vulnerability inside those walls invited danger. When she turned eighteen, she entered the adult system, where she was assaulted again and learned that institutions often repeat the same patterns of neglect and disbelief that shaped her childhood. Her aggression, mistrust, and volatility were perceived as flaws rather than predictable consequences of a system that had never inquired about what had happened to her.

For survivors reading this, Carolina’s reactions may feel painfully familiar. Emotional numbness, sudden anger, withdrawal, fear of intimacy, or overreacting to small triggers are not signs of weakness. They are the body’s learned responses to danger that once felt life-threatening. For teachers, clinicians, parents, and caregivers, it is essential to recognize that behaviors often hold the story a survivor is not yet able to speak. A child who pushes others away is frequently a child who has been pushed beyond their capacity to cope.

The First Moment of Truth

Carolina did not trust restorative justice when she arrived. She sat with her arms crossed, observing every expression around her, prepared for disappointment. Survivors often walk into supportive environments expecting more harm, because their early experiences taught them that disclosure leads to danger, not relief. During the first sessions, she offered little more than short answers, as if measuring whether anyone in the circle could hold the weight of her truth. Then one afternoon, when we invited participants to reflect on their earliest memories of pain, something inside her shifted, and she allowed herself to speak.

“I need to tell the real story,” she said quietly. “Not the one people think they know. The one I’ve been carrying alone.” Her words came slowly at first, then with a force she could no longer contain. She described the night of the assault, the disbelief that followed, the fights in school, the arrests, and the repeated violations inside prison. The room fell silent, not because her story was unfamiliar, but because it revealed the emotional architecture beneath her behavior. Restorative justice research confirms that safe, structured dialogue can help survivors articulate their experiences and move toward emotional clarity, empowerment, and accountability (Nascimento, Andrade, & de Castro Rodrigues, 2022).

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As she spoke, she began to place meaning where there had once been only reaction. She realized her rage was not cruelty but the language she had learned to protect herself. She recognized that distrust was not a personality trait but a survival mechanism carved by betrayal. She saw that the harm she caused others emerged from unhealed wounds rather than intentional malice. In the circle, she confronted the pain she inflicted without denying the pain she endured, and that dual awareness allowed her to see herself as more than the labels she had carried for years.

What Survivors Need

Carolina’s story offers guidance for those who have been harmed and for those who support them. Survivors need to be believed, because belief restores the sense of reality that abusers often steal. They need safety, because trauma reorganizes the nervous system around fear, and only safety allows the body to settle. They need space to speak without judgment, because silence is where trauma thrives. They need adults who understand that behavior carries meaning, because misbehavior is often pain, asking for recognition. They need accountability without shame, because healing does not erase responsibility but reframes it with dignity. They need a new language for emotions that once felt overwhelming. And they need community, because no one heals in isolation, even when isolation once felt protective.

Trauma Essential Reads

When our final session ended, Carolina gathered her papers and looked at me with a steadiness that had not been present when she arrived. “I used to think my story ended the night he hurt me,” she said. “Then I thought it ended when nobody believed me. Then I thought it ended in prison. But now I think the ending is mine to write.” Her voice did not erase her suffering, but it illuminated it with clarity she had never allowed herself to claim. Healing rarely begins with forgiveness or closure. It begins with truth. And sometimes the simple act of being heard becomes the first step toward reclaiming a life.

References

Alves, A. C., Leitão, M., Sani, A. I., & Moreira, D. (2024). Impact of sexual abuse on post-traumatic stress disorder in children and adolescents: A systematic review. Social Sciences, 13(4), 189. https://doi.org/10.3390/socsci13040189

Cantürk, M., Faraji, H., & Tezcan, A. E. (2021). The relationship between childhood traumas and crime in male prisoners. Alpha Psychiatry, 22(1), 56–60. https://doi.org/10.5455/apd.111825

Nascimento, A. M., Andrade, J., & de Castro Rodrigues, A. (2022). The psychological impact of restorative justice practices on victims of crimes. Trauma, Violence, & Abuse, 24(3), 1929–1947. https://doi.org/10.1177/15248380221082085