“Justice too long delayed is justice denied.” — Martin Luther King Jr., from his Letter from a Birmingham Jail, emphasizing that oppressed groups cannot wait indefinitely for fairness.

Fall 2026

It’s strange watching my oldest child settle into college life while my youngest stands at the exact age I was when everything in my world detonated.

That age is a fault line for me. Twelve. The year I walked into an English classroom and told a teacher what my parents were doing. The year adults, actual adults, chose to protect each other instead of a child. The year a cop decided my pain was inconvenient. The year a multibillion‑dollar institution decided silence was easier than accountability.

I look at my kids now and I cannot fathom them carrying what I carried. I can’t fathom them being forced into the role of whistleblower, survivor, witness, and scapegoat all at once. It was hell. And it wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was a pre‑meditated crime, engineered by people who knew exactly what they were doing. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been stuck inside a never‑ending episode of Dateline where the twist never comes and the credits never roll.

The fallout doesn’t disappear just because decades pass. Trauma has a long half‑life. Some days the PTSD hits like a freight train—memories, body reactions, the whole mess. Meds help sometimes, and sometimes they don’t. My therapist is solid, though. A real anchor. I’m trying. I really am.

But trying in America is its own sport. There’s no real safety net here, not for survivors, not for families, not for anyone who’s been shoved off the edge and told to climb back up alone. Part of me keeps thinking maybe I should lean on my Aussie citizenship and GTFO for a while. Catch my breath somewhere that doesn’t feel like the scene of the crime.

I’m still here. Still pushing forward. Still refusing to be the silence they wanted. And that counts for something.

-love,

Joseph* / Kurdt*