A personal story of pain, silence, and the divine fire that led to freedom.
Seventeen Years Later: My Testimony of Fire, Betrayal, and Rising
On June 23, 2008, a stranger entered my home and raped me while my children were sleeping beside me.
I didn’t invite him. I didn’t know him. He was brought into my space by a woman I was helping—another mother from the DV shelter who needed somewhere to stay. I opened my home to her and her children, even while I was raising four of my own with no partner present.
She invited him in after I went to bed. After she was done with him, he came into my room, where I was sleeping with our children, and he raped me. I didn’t scream, not because I wasn’t terrified, but because I didn’t want to wake the babies. My youngest child was right there on the floor beside me. I didn’t know what he might do if they woke up.
When it was over, he went and laid next to her on my futon like nothing had happened. I was left in silence. In shock. In pain. But I called. First an advocate. Then the police. And he was caught while still in my home.
A kind officer stayed with me while I waited for the SART nurse. But he wasn’t arrested for the rape that day. They said I had to wait for the DNA results.
That wait took six years. I had one person that helped me find support and she is a very important part of my life to this day. She listened, helped me find Rainn and prayed with me.
In those six years, I lost support. I was judged harshly by my own community. People thought I was just a white woman trying to get a Black man locked up. Even the father of my children didn’t believe me. He said I must have done something to lead him on. That a Black man wouldn’t just rape a white woman.
But I spoke up anyway.
Not because it was easy. Not because I had support. Not because I had justice on my side.
But because I didn’t want another woman to go through what I went through.
I had to take the bus right after the exam to go get the injunction against harassment served to him while he was in jail for something else. I had no family support. My mother, mentally ill, told me to get over it in a couple weeks. My grandmother said she thought I was doing better than that.
And I still stood.
I later learned I wasn’t the only one he did this to. I was just the only one who stood up.
Six years later, when the cold case finally reopened, it was the same detective who originally took my case. That was the blessing. Because he still believed me. And he stood up for me.
But when the system finally moved? They gave him three months in jail.
Three months.
Because the prosecutor said it was the only way to get him on lifetime probation. The female prosecutor told me, “Don’t worry, he’ll mess up again and get more time.”
I looked her in the eye and said:
“I didn’t speak up and go through all of this so that he could hurt someone else first. I did it so others wouldn’t have to go through what I went through.”
Even the victim advocate said I should be glad he took some responsibility. Like I should be grateful a rapist admitted just enough to cut a deal.
They gave him three months. But I got a lifetime.
A lifetime of healing. A lifetime of remembering. A lifetime of rebuilding my spirit.
But I also got a voice. A testimony. And a husband who protects me.
Because the wild part? That situation is how I met my now-husband. When he first heard about it he believed the rumors. Thought I was just a white girl trying to get a black man locked up. Once he actually heard my truth, He became my protector. And my homie. My peace. My safe place.
Because one thing about my husband? He stands for what’s right even if he’s standing alone. He protects those who need protecting.
And me? I’m no longer a victim.
I’m the one who spoke up when it would’ve been easier to stay silent. I’m the one who stood alone in court and told the truth. I’m the one who rose from the ashes of betrayal, pain, and shame.
It would’ve been easier to stay quiet. It might’ve cost me less. But silence would’ve cost me everything.
Because this wasn’t about revenge. It was about prevention. About protection. About truth.
So even though the system failed me, Even though the sentence was a slap in the face, Even though I walked this road alone—
I have no regrets.
Because today, I stand here not as the broken girl from 2008— But as a mother, a wife, a reverend, and a warrior.
This is my testimony.
Seventeen years later, I am still rising.
And I speak this now so the next woman doesn’t have to fight alone.
I carried this story in silence for seventeen years. I thought speaking it would break me—but holding it in almost did.
Now I know the truth: what tried to destroy me became the fire that refined me.
I didn’t just survive. I rose. And I’m still rising.
Not because I’m stronger than anyone else, but because something sacred inside me refused to stay down.
If you’re reading this and you’ve walked through your own fire—I see you.
You are not invisible. You are not forgotten.
You are sacred. You are seen. You are rising too.
And when you’re ready, your story will light the path for someone else.
“He gives beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness…”
— Isaiah 61:3
Your soul’s purpose is not to remain a victim of the past—but to rise in consciousness and become a light for others.”
— Dr. Paul Leon Masters
Love and light to all… and so it is.
— Rev. Angela July
Still I Rise Ministries
