When they took my power, I took my body along with them

 Dear Reader,

There’s something no one really prepares you for after sexual assault: how the body that you’ve lived in, laughed in, and loved in suddenly feels foreign. Heavy. Like it's wearing you instead of the other way around. And it’s not just the pain of what happened. It's the echo it leaves. The way it shifts how you see yourself when you pass a mirror. The way you flinch when someone says, “You’re beautiful,” and all you want to say back is, “No, I’m just surviving.”

For many of us, sexual assault isn’t just about violence or violation. It’s also about theft. They didn’t just take something physical, they chipped away at identity, safety, and control. And when all of that goes, what do you have left? A body you want to hide. A body you want to shrink, change, or punish. A body that carries stories you never asked to be written on you.

That’s where body dysmorphia quietly walks in. Not always with loud hatred, sometimes just with doubt. Questioning every curve, every scar, every softness. Wondering, “If I looked different, would it still have happened?” You begin to obsess, not because you’re vain, but because you’re trying to make sense of a senseless experience. You want control. You want ownership. And sometimes that shows up in unhealthy ways, over-exercising, starving, bingeing, hiding under oversized clothes, or never wanting to be touched again.

But healing? It looks like slowly returning to your body. Piece by piece. Permission by permission. It’s relearning to be soft with yourself. To say, “This body is still mine,” even when it doesn’t feel like it. It’s forgiving the way your reflection sometimes scares you. It’s creating safety inside your skin again, not overnight, but over time.

And yes, it’s complicated. Especially in cultures that don’t like to talk about either topic, where sexual assault is shamed into silence and body image is policed through beauty standards soaked in patriarchy. And I know we have so much hate towards the use of that word. We’re taught to be grateful for compliments, to dress "appropriately", and to take up just enough space but not too much. We’re taught to look good even when we don’t feel good.

But you don’t owe anyone your prettiness. You don’t owe anyone healing on a deadline. What you owe, if anything, is to yourself. To believe your body is not broken because someone broke boundaries. To know that your pain is valid, your reflection is worthy, and your healing is sacred.

So maybe this blog is less about answers and more about saying, I see you. I see the war between your skin and your spirit. And I want you to know you’re not alone. We rebuild. We reclaim. And maybe, just maybe, we learn to love ourselves in full again.