I wasn’t expecting this meditation to turn reflective in this way. But instead of visions, my thoughts wandered—unprompted, uninvited—to Virginia Giuffre.

If you know me, you know I write about politics here. I haven’t focused much on the Epstein horror show, though I’ve watched from the edges—eyes open, heart clenched. Maybe I didn’t want to write about it. Maybe I needed time. Maybe that’s why the thoughts came during the quiet.

This post isn’t about Epstein. It’s not about Trump, or his enablers, or the rot that’s been exposed in places once thought untouchable. It’s about the victims. It’s for the survivors.

Because I understand.
Not everything. Not the headlines, not the courtrooms, not the constant public reliving of private agony. But I understand what it means to be young—too young—and to be manipulated by someone older who should have known better. My story isn’t public. And thank the heavens for that. But it’s part of me, and it surfaced during that meditation like a ripple in still water.

I was 16. Not yet a woman—just a young girl navigating a confusing world, still learning what love and trust even meant. And he knew that. He counted on it.

That’s not coincidence. That’s haunting.

The memories don’t pound me in the face every day, but they live under the skin. I’ve done a lot of work to reclaim myself, to sit with the past without letting it consume me. But healing isn’t erasure. It’s acceptance. It’s grace. It’s learning to walk with a limp you’ve taught yourself to hide.

And these women—they have no hiding place.
Their stories are republished, retweeted, dissected, doubted. Every photo, every documentary, every whispered name becomes another landmine they have to step over. That’s not just trauma. That’s retraumatization. Over. And over. Again.

Virginia Giuffre’s death by suicide was recently confirmed by her family in Australia.

Whether you call it C-PTSD, betrayal trauma, or simply too much pain for one person to hold—it’s real. Grooming is a process. A calculation. It doesn’t look like a crime at first. It looks like gifts. It sounds like praise. It feels like you’ve been chosen. Until the mask slips, and by then, you’re already isolated, ashamed, and convinced no one would believe you anyway.

This is the legacy so many survivors carry. The weight. The confusion. The guilt that isn’t theirs. And in the case of women like Virginia, the agony that doesn’t end just because the world moves on.

So I want to say something—not to the monsters, but to the survivors.

I see you.
I hear you.
I believe you.

And I hope you find justice—not just in courts, but in your own life. I hope you find peace. I hope you find moments of quiet joy that no one can take from you. I hope you get to live without apology. Without shame. And with a future of your own choosing.

And now, her family carries the weight.
Virginia is gone—but her fight isn’t. The headlines will move on, but her name still echoes in the voices of her loved ones. Her family now faces the impossible task of defending her truth without her here to speak it. That’s a layer of trauma we don’t talk about enough: the aftermath.

What happened to her—and to countless others—is not okay.
And no matter how many suits or social circles these predators hide behind, we cannot normalize this. We can’t afford to shrug it off. These aren’t isolated events. They are part of a system—designed to protect the powerful and punish the vulnerable. And when survivors fall, it’s not just their stories that collapse—it’s families, futures, and trust in justice itself.

Virginia should be alive. Her family should be allowed peace. They should be free to enjoy their days without the shadows of manipulation, media vultures, and legal games. But because of this sick, twisted cycle—this game played by monsters in high places—the dominos keep falling.

And still, they rise.

Her family is still here. And so are we. Watching. Listening. Speaking.

Because silence helps no one but the abuser.

My Little Grandma Rose used to say, “This too shall pass.”
And she was right. Pain passes. Time passes. But we still remember. Because remembering is part of the healing. Part of the justice. And part of the hope that someday—finally—this twisted cycle will end.

To every survivor: You are not what they did to you. You are more. You always were.