Throughout my teen years and early adulthood, I carried a fragmented memory—something that happened when I was about four or five, something I didn’t have language for at the time. It involved a sibling. It lived in my body before it had words.

Later, when I finally learned the term molestation, that memory clicked into place. It had a name.

Years later, at 29, I was doing a roleplay exercise where I spoke to my “father”—addressing the unspoken pain. I asked him why he spent so much time warning us about stranger danger, yet failed to protect me from his own son. The danger wasn’t outside. It lived inside our home.

A few weeks after that, I confronted my brother. I asked him if he remembered what happened. He nodded yes.

His response? “I’m sorry this still upsets you.”
It wasn’t accountability. It wasn’t remorse. It was deflection. It was blame-shifting.

Then he brought up something else—another event I hadn’t consciously remembered. He asked if I recalled the time when he hung me upside down out of an upstairs window. I didn’t—at least, not visually. But decades later, my nervous system would remember.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what was missing in his reaction. But now I see it: he didn’t understand the seriousness, the criminal nature, or the lasting physiological damage of what he’d done. He didn’t comprehend the boundary that was crossed—how that violation would echo through my developing brain, nervous system and sense of self. Not understanding as a child is one thing. But as an adult, it becomes a choice—and that choice causes harm.

His apology then was hollow. There was no grief in his voice. No recognition of the harm, no act of repair. No weight. Just words.

How does a toddler grow up feeling safe when she has to eat dinner each night beside her abuser?

How does a child build trust when her pain is minimized, when the grownups she turns to fail to protect her?

The truth is: she doesn’t.

And that’s the journey I’ve been on ever since—navigating life with wounds I didn’t ask for, which impacted everything that I did and choices I made going forward. Even with this monumental handicap I tried. I tried in school; I tried in life – doing my best to understand my story, to be a good mother, a loving wife, a person my God would be proud of.

It took me years to realize the quiet thread woven through every choice I made:

I never felt safe.
Not in my home. Not in my body. Not in the world.

Part of my healing now is just learning what safe feels like.
Letting it in.
Teaching my body that it no longer has to brace itself.
Learning to welcome calm without mistaking it for danger.

As a child, I was teased relentlessly. Called names meant to humiliate. Mocked. Hit. Shamed. The psychological abuse was ongoing. Home life wasn’t easy. I even attempted to unlive at 15 years old. And when I finally asked for help—when I told my parents about the abusive behaviour (the punching and name calling) —the interventions never touched the root of the abuse.

The message was clear:  Lisa’s feelings don’t matter. Lisa doesn’t deserve respect. Lisa doesn’t matter.

But that message isn’t truth.
It was trauma.
And I’m happy to say that I get to write a different one now.

Sibling Abuse: A Wound That Doesn’t Expire

Sibling abuse—whether sexual, emotional, psychological, or physical—leaves deep complex scars that can last a lifetime. Its impact is shaped by many factors: how early it began, how long it lasted, and—perhaps most importantly—whether the survivor received meaningful emotional support. Without that support, the harm compounds.

In my case, the sibling who sexually abused me was 8.5 years older. I was just four.

Was he under 18? Yes.
Did he understand that what he was doing was sexual assault? In 1968, likely not in those terms.
But did he know it was wrong? Yes—because he locked the door.

That memory haunted me for years. I’ve searched for answers that never arrived.
Was he exposed to pornography? Was he abused himself? I don’t know.

What I do know is that a couple of years later, a cousin came to live with us, sibling-like. She was a few years older than me—and she sexually abused me, too.

It’s no surprise I dissociated.
How else can a child survive in a home that’s not emotionally, physically, or psychologically safe?

Where Safety Should Have Been

As we know, abuse of any kind doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Anyone can Google and learn what the factors are that makes fertile soil for sibling abuse of any kind. There are always enablers and enabling circumstances. Things like unaddressed trauma in the caregivers, a patriarchal environment, parental neglect or emotional unavailability, failure to intervene, denial or minimization of situations or events, fear of consequences (shaming punishment), power imbalances, exposure to pornography, emotional illiteracy, and more.

I am aware that decades ago mental health and emotional trauma weren’t part of everyday conversations. Most families didn’t have the resources or understanding to recognize the signs of childhood trauma. Nor was there education for how to offer what parents never received emotionally themselves. As is said, it takes a village to raise a child, but I’ve also learned this: it also takes a village to abuse one.

Unfortunately, the family of origin’s emotional constipation—however unintentional—compounds the trauma.
There was no safety net. I felt. No protective or affectionate gaze. When I looked into others’ eyes, I saw shame, frustration, overwhelm, and judgement. Without the proper emotional education, there was no acknowledgment of harm. I never saw love.

Because of that, I grew up believing I didn’t belong anywhere. The message I received from my experiences was that I wasn’t fully accepted—even in my own family.

Until I began studying trauma, I just assumed something was wrong with me.

A Thousand Tiny Echoes of Abuse

There were other signs, too:

• I struggled in school—socially and academically
• I had difficulty processing what I read and sometimes misheard things.
• I was awkward and painfully shy.
• I believed, with quiet certainty, that I was ugly and unlovable.

That’s what abuse whispers to a child:
You’re unworthy. You’re insignificant. You’re fundamentally wrong. You’re unlovable. It’s all your fault.

 

Interpersonal trauma including emotional neglect—especially when it happens in childhood—disrupts more than cognition. It affects how we relate, attach, communicate, and trust. The brain’s development is severely impacted. The cumulative effect is staggering.

And still, the biggest truth—the elephant in the room—is this:
I was sexually assaulted by my own siblings.
And it changed me in every way imaginable.

 

Breaking the Silence—and the Fallout That Followed

 

In 2019, I shared the truth with the rest of my siblings. I told them what happened. What he did.
What I’d carried. Although he had admitted it to me—and confessed doing something to me that was “reckless” to two of his three wives—he immediately began backpedaling.
He denied it to some and minimized it to others. He twisted the story. Painted me as the villain, as if I were “ruining his life.”

He even wrote: “I shouldn’t have to pay for the rest of my life for one non-malicious act.”

That sentence says everything.

No remorse. No accountability. No understanding of what it means to violate a child’s body, to fracture a family, to carry that wound into every corner of a life.

The Aftershocks

I’ve learned this:
When abusers lose the ability to control their victims physically, they often shift tactics. Psychological manipulation. Denial. DARVO. Grooming others to see them as the “real victim” and to doubt the accuser. Talk about cold-heartedness.

And the shame? It doesn’t just land on the survivor. It becomes part of every family member. And it poisons relationships, corrodes trust, fractures families. His refusal to take responsibility created a ripple effect. And now the rest of his biological family are left sorting through the wreckage. The thing is, who of them is willing to do the work of sorting?

Because when a secret like this comes into the light, it doesn’t just shatter silence.
It shatters illusions. And people don’t always react well when the story they’ve clung to falls apart.

It was difficult to witness the resistance to the truth amongst the siblings. That they just didn’t want to believe me. Rather, they took his side as evidenced by believing his denial and minimizations. They wanted to believe it wasn’t true, so they allowed their ears to be tickled and not cling to the truth. They abandoned me while inviting this abuser brother into their lives and homes to visit. This emotional abandonment is another form of abuse. It hurt worse that the sexual assault.

Owning the Truth, Finding the Light

Spending over five decades hiding the truth fractured me in ways I couldn’t keep living with. The denial, disconnection, and dysfunction became too heavy. That path—the one paved with silence—only leads to self-destruction.

And yet, I understand why people choose it.
Isn’t it easier to pretend it didn’t happen?
To minimize it? Ignore it?
To side with the abuser’s version—because facing the truth means confronting shame, guilt, blame, and powerlessness?

But silence has a cost. And eventually, it comes due. Just because I’ve come to learn that individuals can only meet you where they’re at – at their own capacity, doesn’t mean that how they all responded was right or acceptable. And I will not pretend the abuse never happened ever again. Their comfort, their feelings, are not my responsibility.

When I first disclosed, I received messages from siblings expressing shock, concern, support. They asked how they could help. I gave them all the same answer:
Educate yourself.
On child abuse. On sibling abuse. On DARVO. Learn the pattern. Learn the impact.
With that I hoped. I hoped they would show me—not just with words, but with sustained understanding. Then they’d be able to support me with knowledge and insight, and, above all, with compassion.

But for the most part, that follow-through never came. Not after they asked the abuser brother of it was true…and they chose to believe him.

There’s a familiar family dance when it comes to discomfort:
“If we don’t talk about it, it’ll go away.
If we avoid the tension long enough, maybe everything can go back to normal.”

But that isn’t healing. That’s avoidance. And avoidance silences the survivor. It dishonors the wound. It creates toxicity instead of resolution.

By the time someone finally offered to truly listen, the abandonment had already done its damage. I asked that sibling what they’d be willing to do to help me feel safe. That was in August 2019.

I’m still waiting for a reply.

Yes, a few have reached out since. But their words proved hollow—kind, perhaps, but not connected to empathy or action. It seems they don’t want to do the emotional and self-awareness work.
Because compassion isn’t lip service.
Compassion starts with empathy, which means to suffer with. To feel with. To stay present.

And after years of being gaslit, dismissed, mocked, ignored… my brain and nervous system are still protecting me. They do not feel safe with them. I’ve learned the signs I missed before. Until there is clear, consistent, and courageous effort to repair, I must keep my distance. Their criticism, judgment and somehow making what I’m going through to be about them needs to stop.

Before any relationship can evolve, the elephant in the room must be acknowledged.

There’s a line from Sibling Abuse: Hidden Physical, Emotional, and Sexual Trauma that struck+ me like lightning:

“Emotional abuse, as the child abuse literature states, is more prevalent and potentially even more destructive than other forms of child abuse.”

Emotional neglect doesn’t just hurt—it erodes identity. It teaches you that your existence is too much, or not enough. That who you are is somehow undeserving.

And now, fMRI studies are showing what survivors have always known in their bones: emotional neglect causes damage to the brain that rivals sexual abuse.

The little girl inside still sometimes asks:
Where was my mother? Why didn’t my father protect me?
Was I not lovable enough? Didn’t I matter?

Yes, my mom occasionally scolded a brother or two. But it didn’t stop the abuse. It didn’t make the home safe. And the failure to ensure home was safe and nurturing rang louder than any words.

Trauma experts agree:
The best way to heal childhood trauma is through safe, consistent emotional connection.
Not silence.
Not distance.
Not denial.

And yet—even with all this—I am healing.

I have cried. Prayed. Grieved. Drowned in toxic shame. I’ve stumbled, faltered. I kept picking myself up and kept going.

And I’ve come a long, long way.

I’ve stopped waiting for family to become who I needed. Eventually I learned to let that hope go. I’ve made peace with the idea that they may never understand. This is between them and God.
Instead, I anchor myself to the ones who do:

• Those who have listened without judgment.
• Those who have sat with my tears.
• Those who’ve stayed steady when I’ve felt anything but.
• Those who’ve said, I believe you, and mean it.

They are my blessings.
They are a provision.
They are the answer when I pray for direction—and the reply comes, “Not them. Not now. I am what you need.”

And trust me, I’ve had many very dark moments. I’ve wrestled with monsters and made peace with my past.
I no longer feel unworthy or unlovable.
I don’t carry shame for my wounds or guilt for how others respond to my truth.
Their behaviour is theirs. I choose peace.

I’ve learned that shame often hides behind anger or fear or hurt.
That cruel or dismissive comments and criticism are often propelled by guilt—or ignorance.
And ignorance?
That’s a choice.

Because it’s easier to attack the whistleblower than to face the truth. And I am so tired of being criticized by them.

But I will keep telling my story. I am not ashamed of what happened to me. I am not ashamed of my story. The shame isn’t mine – it’s theirs.

Because I know what it feels like to be the only one in the room carrying the weight of the truth.
And I don’t want other survivors of sibling abuse or childhood trauma to feel as alone as I once did.

I choose to walk beside others as they navigate the winding path toward healing. It is an honor. A sacred trust.

And I want you to know this:

You are not alone in your healing journey.

Thank you for holding space for mine.

Lisa Hilton, CTCP-A, a Trauma & Resilience Specialist, walks along adult survivors of childhood trauma, post therapy, so they can reach their healing goals and live their life joyously shackle free.