Speaking up for those who cannot: a personal note

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When Knowing the Law Still Wasn’t Enough

As a teenager, I wore the uniform of a junior Police Explorer. My mother was a cop, so I grew up with the law in my blood. I knew what was right, I knew what was wrong, and I knew what the rules of protection and justice were supposed to be. On paper, I had the tools.

But in my own home, with my own father, those tools turned to ash in my hands.
I could recite the laws of the land, but I couldn’t enforce them against the man who ruled my childhood with cruelty. Abuse doesn’t bow to knowledge. It twists power, fear, and loyalty until even the strongest truths feel powerless.

I wanted to call 911 more than once. My hand hovered near the phone, my mind screamed “this is wrong,” but my body froze. Because when the abuser is your parent, they’re not just a person—you see them as the ground itself. And when the ground shakes beneath you, you don’t fight it. You cling to survival.

That’s why kids don’t always speak up, even when they “know better.” It’s not weakness. It’s not ignorance. It’s the way abuse rewires survival into silence.

I share this not as a cry for pity, but as an acknowledgment: even those who know the law can be bound by fear. And that’s why we must stop asking, “Why didn’t they speak up?” and start asking, “How can we make it safe enough for them to?”

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