*Disclaimer: Sensitive Topic of Sexual Assault

When my parents were married, attending church every Sunday was a deeply ingrained routine. Dad, a devout Catholic, ensured we never missed a service, and our family’s unique blend of Catholicism and Regla de Ocha kept us firmly rooted in our faith. However, after their divorce, Mom stopped taking us to church regularly. She made sure we completed the essential sacraments—baptism, communion, confirmation—but the days of weekly church visits were behind us.

To avoid the hassle of churchgoing, Mom found a workaround: she enlisted local Jehovah’s Witness women to conduct Bible study sessions at our kitchen table. Surprisingly, I found myself drawn to their stories, sparking a genuine interest in religion within me. As a child brimming with questions, I often engaged in spiritual debates with my Jehovah’s Witness mentors. Their attempts to convince me to trust blindly in God’s word fell flat. Trust was something I struggled with, especially given my skepticism towards my own mother.

My mother’s next move was befriending Nelson, a neighbor who held a prominent position in a Pentecostal church. Nelson seemed like the neighborhood’s spiritual guide—stern but seemingly devoted to his faith. His grocery store, a local hotspot, became our go-to for last-minute snacks. I always begged my sister to grab me some of Nelson’s wife’s heavenly bread pudding—it was a weekly indulgence. Plus, it was at Nelson’s store that I formed my first real friendship with Abigail, his daughter. She was a bit older than me, always dressed in long skirts, and seemed wise beyond her years, given the responsibilities she shouldered at home looking after her younger siblings. Then there was Iris, the spirited girl next door. Despite her always being in trouble, I admired her sassiness and zest for life. She lived with her single mom, who always seemed to have a revolving door of boyfriends.

Nelson, concerned about Iris’s behavior, believed a dose of religion might set her on the right path. So, he persuaded her mom to allow him to take Iris—and a few of us other kids—to his church. Surprisingly, my mother agreed and allowed me to go. I was actually quite excited about it. I thought maybe this church could be a place where I truly belonged.

The first time we piled into Nelson’s van and headed to his church felt like an adventure. Nelson was strict—he’d scold us if we stepped out of line—so I made sure to toe the line. I stuck close to him, partly out of fear and partly out of obedience. We all sat together in the back row, while Nelson’s family enjoyed front-row seats. During the sermon, he’d pull us onto his lap one by one so we could see better. When it was my turn, I got more than I bargained for. He positioned me on his lap, and I felt something strange poking me. Confused and scared, I tried to squirm away, but he held me tighter, his hand slipping where it shouldn’t have. He whispered something about God punishing me if I spoke up, and I felt paralyzed with fear. I scanned the room, hoping for a silent plea to rescue me, but every adult averted their gaze. To this day, I wonder if anyone noticed or chose to ignore what was happening. But in that moment, my entire being shattered—my innocence shattered, my spirit fragmented. I felt myself disconnecting from myself, losing touch with who I was. It was the moment I lost my inner voice, my inner guide, the moment I lost her, and lost me.

As we rode back home, a sense of unease settled over me. Little did I know, that church—a place meant for love and community—would soon become a living nightmare for me and a few others.

To be continued…