Pssst … #MeToo


jenny rose foster -pssst ... #metoo-3

[TRIGGER WARNING: Mention of sexual abuse.]

“Psssst … me too,” I whispered to myself as I witnessed all the bravery that flooded the nation with the Me Too Movement.

“What?! Say it a little louder.” I felt as if they all beckoned with open arms.

With a louder whisper I said, “Me toooo.” This time, sitting taller.

“What did you say? I can’t hear you! Say it louder, say it for all of us; say it with us.” I felt again a gesture to contribute, an ache to speak up; a call that dared me.

So finally, as I have felt a growing roar inside, I declare, without notice, and with much hesitation: “ME TOO! ME TOO!! ME TOOOOOOO!!!”


I was a child–only six or seven–when I was first molested. I remember feeling so much shame. There was another girl who was also a victim. She bravely told the world …”Me Too” in her own words and in her own little way. She told our mother, who was our world. As a result, our family went to counseling and tried to work through it, but I sat there in silence.

I felt so much embarrassment inside of me. I was determined to not be involved, my reaction was to pretend. My coping mechanism as a child became the daydream of entering into imaginary worlds when any trauma was felt.

But no one knew. I kept my “me too” to myself. It was shame, a shame I wasn’t supposed to own, that I held inside of my tiny human body.

I knew what my sister was saying was true, because it had happened to me, too.  The feelings trapped inside of me hurt beyond words and I carried them for as long as I can remember.  My childhood held a heavy secret kept within the depths of me.

I didn’t want to be a part of any of it–the counseling, the vulnerable family meetings, or the confrontations, so I pretended it never happened to me. I pretended I was still a regular kid, that I was free from the tension.  I left my sister alone in her declaration of #metoo before hashtags were ever hashtags. When we were children, there was no Internet, so any truth-telling was bold and face-to-face. My sister let it out, to get rid of it, to stop it, but I held it in, whispering quietly to myself, “Me too.”

For so long she thought she was the only one. Looking back, I wish I would have understood how important it was to hold her hand and say out loud, “Me too … little sister … me too.”

I remember my mother asking me, “Did it happen to you?”

I answered, “No.”

I carried false guilt for years, which turned into fear. Fear of losing people I loved, fear I had done something wrong … worry and anxiety. So many things felt heavier than they should have. You see, for a child, holding toxic shame on the inside and not knowing what to do with it can cause a nightmare of self-inflicted confusion. I remember not being able to sleep at night because of the pain I felt in my belly.

And finally one night, just like every night, I prayed again for forgiveness; for forgiveness I never needed to pray for. I prayed my stomach would stop hurting and I prayed for peace. I am telling you, on that night, I heard God as clear as the sound of water from a stream, as clear as birds chirping in the air, as clear as my mom tucking me in at night and telling me, “I love you.” I heard God speak to me and say, “You have done nothing wrong …

I was finally able to sleep with peace. For the rest of my childhood, I slept with peace.


But as an adult, after years of holding this secret inside of me, after giving birth to my own daughter, I could feel the fear and anxiety rise up within me again. I tried to let it go. I thought I did, but I have learned it is never that easy when you keep things internally for far too long.  So I began to tell just a handful of people, other women that brought up their own abuse stories. I told my husband. He was the first man I ever trusted to hold my story.

Finally, on the way home from skiing with my sister one night, we got onto the conversation of childhood. I knew that was the moment to share that it had happened to me too.

She said she wished I would have told her when we were kids. All the focus was on her, and in a way it alienated her as the seemingly only victim. She also understood we were only children and I coped in a different way than she did. I can only imagine now how that must have felt for her, wondering why she was the only one, but I have always admired her bravery and audacity.


Later, I began to open up to people on a personal basis that shared their stories of abuse and trauma with me. You see, I have come to recognize that when a victim shares their story, it is right to believe the victim, because I know the kind of courage it takes to actually speak about it. Regardless of how big or “small” the abuse may have been for anyone, there is no such thing as small abuse. A victim would never bare that kind of pain, except for the purpose of becoming free. To heal and release the false shame, we must get the toxin up and out and put it into words.

I held it inside of me for too long. Hidden behind layers of a story-line of life that shadowed over it, I often forgot about it, but then it would always be there, lurking.

I have found myself disillusioned, lost, and baffled by the amount of people in my life that have had a hard time believing other victim’s stories. It has been a slow and quiet work for me to say, “Hey, wake up and believe the victims!” because it has been a slow and quiet work for me to say out loud, “Me too.”


So when last year’s pinnacle time of #metoos began to release truth-stories in the most vulnerable of public spaces, I lingered in it all and waited. I felt it, the power, the tension, and the declarations of freedom.

As you can see, I am slow to move sometimes. I have always been when it comes to things that cause me to feel uncomfortable. I am much more guarded than I let on.

So here I am, maybe a little late, maybe not late at all … here I am all the same.

Do you know how many times I typed out a #metoo statement on my own social media page, only to erase it? I even witnessed some people in my world mock the #metoo hashtags, laughing sarcastically about it all. It shocked me.

But now I have decided to write about it. Because writing is what I do.

I do this for the ones who continue to stay silent, knowing they have every right to choose whether or not they want to share their story. Their own perfect timing is their own.  They say when and where and to whom. It is their right and it is their story.

I do this for the ones like me, who are trying to find the courage to raise their voice and learn to speak a little louder.

I do this for the ones who have already opened up their rib cage and exposed their insides, so I can finally hold their hands and say, “Me too, sisters … me too.” And thank them for being the brave ones who lead the way.

I do this for anyone who may also find themselves saying #metoo. For I have heard too many stories of abuse.

These are a few things I have learned:

As a mother, I will never apologize for being considered “over-protective” of my children. I have boundaries and they will be respected.

As a woman I will never apologize for being considered “over-protective” of my body.

As a victim I will never apologize for being considered “over-protective” of anything that says to my God-made and Holy Spirit-led intuition that something is not right. No, I will not apologize for those gut-knowing reactions and I will not write it off as fear.

I will never apologize for believing, standing for and with other victims.

O, Sisters, I stand with you, holding your hands. For I know the truth hidden inside of us, once released, will set us free.


Jenny Rose Foster
Jenny Rose Foster was born and raised in the rainy green state of Washington. Here she lives a life of adventure with her best friend and husband, Joshua, and their two children, Jade and Jethro. Together, Joshua and Jenny journey through this life as a team; partnering in their own remodeling company and home-schooling the kids. Jenny loves to spend her winter weekends on the mountain slopes skiing and her summers in the great outdoors paddle-boarding, hiking and camping. She treasures opportunities that bring people together and writes with a desire to create beauty that preaches beyond the limits. Find her on Instagram or her blog.
Jenny Rose Foster

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  • Thank you, Jenny, for this affirmation of the right and responsibility we have to draw our boundaries in the way we are led. Blessings to you as you continue to find your voice and to speak beautiful Truth.

    • Thank you Michele, I deeply appreciate your reflections and words of encouragement. Much love!

  • Stephanie Reeves

    Thank you for being brave.

  • Taylor Phillips

    Thank you for sharing your story. Even being verbally abused, there’s a level of shame in sharing, because it seems so small. Thank you for standing up and giving others a voice and encouragement to share.

    • I hear you! I also thought of that as I was writing this, how other forms of abuse cause shame which cause silence. There are many forms of abuse and all of those forms create a false sense of shame that creates an environment that discourages people to release the truth. Whether that be self-shame, shamed by family members, friends, leaders… it is something so important to recognize and to be advocates for those that speak up and to believe them. Thank you for sharing your thoughts, and remember there is no such thing as “small” abuse, even if it seems small or minimized by ourselves or by others. Much love to you.

  • Saskia Wishart

    Brave one. Thank you for sharing your story with us here.