Truth-Teller

I want to tell you something no one told me when I was breaking.

It’s not just the predator who harms you.

It’s the ones who watched him do it.

The ones who knew, or half-knew, or felt it in their gut and turned away.

The ones who called themselves your friends.

The ones who held your hand with one and shook his with the other.

The ones who said nothing.

We talk about sexual violence like it happens in a vacuum, as if it begins and ends with the act itself. But that’s not how it works. Abuse is never just one person’s doing. It’s a structure. A stage built plank by plank from silence, excuses, admiration, and denial. It’s every dinner table where someone says “He’s such a nice guy.” Every institution that says “We’re investigating internally.” Every friend who whispers “Are you sure?” when you finally find the courage to speak.

Behind every predator is a line of enablers. Some are well-meaning and manipulated. Others are self-serving and cruel. And many are simply too afraid of losing what they have—status, belonging, a sense of control. But none of them are innocent.

I knew them.

I watched them.

And I watched them destroy others like they tried to destroy me.

I saw how they lifted him up even after the truth came out. I saw how they handed him new platforms, new praise, new victims. I saw how survivors were left to sit in the rubble of their own lives, while he was allowed to rebuild.

Some of the enablers wore power suits. Some wore church clothes. Some wore feminist pins. And some had been harmed themselves. That’s the hardest part to stomach—how some who’ve known pain still choose to protect the predator because they think proximity to power will keep them safe.

It won’t.

The predator doesn’t care who you are, what you’ve survived, or how many times you defended him. He will hurt whoever he needs to maintain control. That’s the truth we don’t want to say out loud: that he doesn’t value you. He uses you. And when he’s done, you’ll be discarded too.

But maybe the most brutal betrayal comes not from the predator, not even from the enabler—but from the bystanders. The family, the friends, the ones who say “We love you” but keep inviting him to the table. The ones who say “That’s not our fight” when you’re bleeding out in front of them.

Let me be clear: silence is not neutrality. It’s complicity.

There is no middle ground in the face of abuse.

There is no “both sides” when one side has crushed the other.

If you say nothing, you’ve chosen.

If you protect the predator for the sake of peace, you’ve chosen.

If you distance yourself from the survivor because their pain makes you uncomfortable, you’ve chosen.

And survivors? We see it.

We hear what you won’t say.

We feel the shunning in your silence.

It’s not enough to hold the predator accountable. We need to dismantle the scaffolding that allowed him to rise. That means naming the enablers. That means confronting the friends, the churches, the institutions that wrapped him in protection while we screamed into the void.

We need a culture where survivors aren’t retraumatized by the aftermath of truth-telling. Where speaking out doesn’t cost you your family, your career, your community. Where the predator is not the one who gets the benefit of the doubt. Where harm is not repackaged as misunderstanding or ambition or charm.

So here’s what I think we need to do:

If you know someone who’s been harmed—believe them.

If you see someone being elevated despite credible harm—speak up.

If you’ve been complicit in silence—own it. Change it. Stop it.

Because healing isn’t just about the survivor finding peace.

It’s about whether the world they return to is willing to see clearly, act justly, and never again make them choose between truth and belonging.

It’s time we stop protecting predators.

It’s time we start protecting each other.