By: Lauren Moe
When I was fourteen, I was sexually assaulted on a school trip abroad. A stranger came up behind me as we were entering the subway and pressed his whole body against mine. I thought he simply needed to get on the train, but as we all crammed into the space, I was completely trapped while this man first began brushing his hand across my behind, then smelling my hair, then pressing his groin into me from behind until I could feel him shaking from the effort. Because of the tight space, I stood pushed against three of my friends, who were facing me, and they helplessly watched my humiliation as I was molested. For several minutes, I alternately waited and steeled myself, as I prepared for his next assault, until I ultimately felt the warmth of his body fluids spreading across the back of my jeans. We exited the train car, and I heard another classmate yell out, “What the hell is that on your butt?”
As I sobbed and described what had happened, one of the chaperones pulled the lead teacher aside and offered to take me back to the hotel. She said it was too far. One of my friends asked if we could at least stop to buy me some new clothes. The teacher said there wasn’t enough time. Respectful of authority and withdrawing into shock, I never thought to question her decisions. So to cover the wet stain, I tied my bulky suede jacket around my waist, hoisting it back into place every few minutes as we continued our sight-seeing and dinner excursion. We never went to the police or hospital, and when we got home, it was left up to me whether to tell my parents (which I didn’t do for two years). The teacher made the school administrators aware, but they never followed up with me personally. The only other times I heard about it were when I was derided in class occasionally, once even by that teacher herself. But the memory haunted me every single day.
Before the incident, I had thought I was the type to punch someone in the nose if they tried to touch me, but I’ve given considerable thought to my petrified reaction in that subway. I’ve also considered all the people who were in a position to help me and didn’t effectively give me the care I deserved. If I was wrong about the type of reaction I assumed I would have in that situation, could it be they were equally unprepared for what to do in a foreign country, with a little-known type of sexual assault, with forty other students to consider? I knew I could have loudly pursued justice, but as a teen, I was mortified at the idea that more people would know I had been touched that way. Later, as a young adult, I was less uneasy about the publicity, but my parents had already privately ensured that the school had better protocols in place for future trips; what did I stand to gain from ruining the life of that teacher? I knew if I pursued litigation, that teacher’s children might not have a chance to go to college, and other chaperones would be dragged through the mud for simply submitting to her authority.
However, I was suffering. I had to do something… so I forgave them. In a very transactional way, I had to look at forgiveness as an opportunity to name the thing I thought I deserved as payment, and to say I’m not expecting it anymore. I don’t need someone’s life, the lives of their children and grandchildren, or even their apology.
Slowly, my anxiety diminished. It turns out, dwelling on the anger was also keeping the trauma fresh and making me constantly afraid. I had said I didn’t need recompense, so when it didn’t come, I wasn’t deflated or defeated. I also realized I was more than my circumstances. If I have the power to release someone from the debt they owe me, I also have the power to shape my own life. I have the ability to tell other women, too. If you’ve been hurt, hear me. It matters. But you have the power to rise above it. The Lord’s Prayer says, “Forgive us our debts AS we forgive our debtors.” Will you continue to decay your soul and relationships for the right to despise someone from afar, or will you take hold of the privilege to be free from the exhaustion of collecting a debt that may never be repaid? I’m free, and it has changed everything.
Lauren is a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, and survivor. She has a career background in corporate training, operations management, and sales, and she volunteers with organizations such as Habitat for Humanity and Lowcountry Pregnancy Center. Lauren has led worship with church bands in South Carolina and California, and—with previous experience as a radio DJ—she still does voice work for commercials. Her burning desire is to inspire others to trust God in all things. You can reach out to her via email at: lmoe717@gmail.com.