Trigger warning: This letter contains themes of sexual abuse, betrayal, trauma & childhood violation. Please read with care, and honour your limits. Your safety matters more than the story.
Written by Billie Moon | Illustrated by atom
I know what itâs like to carry shame that was never yours, kid.
The silence. The shame. The way the world looked at me like I brought it on myself. Like the wound was my fault. I didnât choose this. And yet somehow, it became mine to carry.
Maybe youâve been trying to make sense of it. To hold it together. To carry on like nothing broke. Maybe youâve even told yourself it was your fault, because that lie was easier than facing the truth:
That someone took something from us.
That someone crossed a line they never shouldâve.
And that the people who were meant to protect us didnât.
That kind of betrayal doesnât just hurt. It rewires how we see the world. How we see ourselves.
But hereâs the thing:
What happened wasnât our fault.
Not the pain. Not the silence. Not the aftermath we had to survive just to make it through another day. What happened to us does not define who we are, or what kind of future we deserve. We are not ruined. We are not broken. We are not too much to be loved.
And we are still here. That is a goddamn miracle.
Someone once stole your power.
But look at you now. Still breathing, still choosing.
Still writing the next chapter.
And this time?
You get to decide what happens next.
Every scarred, fierce, and radiant part of it.
Contributor
Sar x (33, Australia)
Single mum, author, proud neurodivergent
At sixteen, Sar became pregnant. Long before she was ready, and not by choice. The pregnancy came from a situation where she hadnât consented, and she gave birth in the darkest mental space sheâd ever known. But when she saw her son, how he came into the world no longer mattered. She made a vow to break the cycle and give him everything she never had.âThat moment was when I stopped carrying shame for something that was never mine to holdâ, she said. âI realised that none of it had been my faultâbut what came next was my choiceâ.
Now, sheâs raising her son with fierce love and safety.
For the kid still listening
What lie have you been carrying that was never yours to begin with?
Who was supposed to protect you, and how did they fall short?
What beliefs about yourself did you carry because of someone elseâs actions?
What did you need to hear back then, but no one ever said?
What would change if you believed your story is still yours to write?
How to submit your story
Want to get featured in our posts and eventually in our printed books?
Weâre gathering true stories to turn into weekly illustrated letters and a future print anthology. Every 15 letters will become an 80-page illustrated book you can hold, gift, or return to whenever you need to feel less alone. If your story is selected, youâll be tagged as a co-author in every post and credited in the final book.
Itâs simple! No fancy writing skills needed. Just head over to our submission form, and answer three questions:
In 10 words, what do you wish someone told you when you were younger?
What happened that made you realise that?
What do you hope someone else feels when they read this?
Weâll gather a few responses around each theme and shape them into one illustrated message, crediting each voice and including them in the final print volume. Weâll also ask for a few personal detailsâlike your age, location, or roleânot to label you, but to give readers context. To gently prove that this is universal. No matter where weâre from, how old we are, or what we do, we all carry a child who needed more.
Youâre welcome to submit more than once if different themes speak to you. Weâd love to hear them all. However, we only feature each emotional theme once. If a topicâs already been covered, we may reach out to suggest a different prompt.
Letâs build something that matters together.
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Billie, Atomâthank you for building a landing strip wide enough for stories like mine to touch down without shattering. Reading this piece felt like opening a window after years in a sealed room: the rush of fresh air is equal parts relief and revelation.
To every young reader (and every grown-up who still carries a younger self inside): the shame was never yours to shoulder, no matter how long youâve been holding it. Survival isnât âjust getting byââitâs an act of quiet genius, proof that the worst day did not get the final word. The page youâve crafted here turn that proof into a signal fire, shining far enough for the next kid lost in the dark to see.
Iâm gratefulâtrulyâto walk this path beside you and everyone still stitching themselves back together. May we keep handing one another brighter threads, refusing to apologise for the torn places, and insisting on writing the next chapter on our own terms: fierce, unbroken, and unashamed. đ¤
Another deep one.
I may not have a personal story that mirrors yours but reading this stirred something in me â a quiet reminder that nothing is ever wasted.
Thereâs always a deeper spiritual alignment. I donât believe it's a coincidence that I listened to a podcast yesterday by the founder of Auntie Anneâs Pretzels, where she shared her powerful redemption journey. It felt like yet another nudge, a confirmation â that somehow, even in our darkest chapters, everything is working together for good.
Thank you for being brave enough to shine a light on this kind of pain that many carry silently. Youâve created space for others to breathe a little deeper and maybe, just maybe, start to believe in the possibility of healing, too.
Your words are more than just words â theyâre a reminder that the story isnât over. That we are not what happened to us. That healing is holy.
Thank you for choosing to keep writing your story. You're giving others permission to do the same.