Rewarding Monsters

What happens to the survivors in a world that celebrates the predator and punishes the prey?

What do you say to someone who survived the unthinkable—who endured the kind of pain that rewrites your bones—only to watch the person who hurt them be handed the world?

What do you say when the rapist is cheered, when the trafficker is protected—not by coincidence, but by one of the very predators she once served—sheltered by the power he now wields, and backed by the vast machinery of the United States government?

What do you say to the victim when her abuser becomes president?

What do you say to the girl whose childhood was carved out of her by Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell, when she wakes up and sees the headlines—Maxwell granted limited immunity and likely much more, given freedom in exchange for silence, like her pain was just another bargaining chip?

What do you say to the women who came forward against Donald Trump? To the ones who testified. To the ones who stood up, hands shaking, voices cracking, telling the truth as the world called them liars. Opportunists. Whores.

What do you say when the man who hurt them—who bragged about it, laughed about it, made it part of his brand—isn’t just excused, but celebrated?

I don’t know how to answer that question. But I can tell you exactly what it feels like to ask it.

Because I, too, am a survivor.

And for most of my life, I didn’t tell anyone.

Not a soul.

I was raped in high school. And afterward—I unraveled. I lost my sense of gravity. My days felt like static, my nights like drowning. I wandered through the world untethered, empty, aching to make sense of something senseless. I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t trust. Couldn’t feel like I belonged anywhere or to anyone—not even myself. I was unmoored from who I had been, and unsure if I would ever find a way back.

I struggled to graduate. I struggled to find a place in the world. I struggled with my friends. I struggled with my family. I struggled with my sexuality. I struggled with even the simplest understanding of who I was. It was as if someone had reached inside me and torn the compass out—and I wandered lost for years, pretending I was okay while the truth smoldered just beneath my skin.

I didn’t tell a soul. Not for decades.

I carried that pain inside me like a locked box no one could see. For more than twenty years. Two entire decades of silence. Of shame. Of pretending. Of minimizing what had happened to me because I couldn’t bear the weight of what it truly was.

It took me until my forties—my forties—to finally say it out loud. To anyone. To admit what happened. To speak the words I had buried so deeply I feared they would fossilize inside me.

And when I finally did, I expected relief. But what came first was rage. Rage at myself for waiting so long. Rage at the world for making me feel like I had no choice.

And now—now I look around at what’s happening in this country, and that rage doesn’t just return. It erupts.

Because I see survivors being retraumatized in real time—dragged back down into the darkness they’ve spent years trying to crawl out of.

I didn’t have to live through that.

I didn’t have to turn on the TV and see my rapist celebrated. I didn’t have to watch a nation defend the people who violated me. I didn’t have to see my trauma mocked, dismissed, rewritten, every single day.

But that’s exactly what’s happening to them.

They are being pulled back by the ankle.

Back by the wrist.

Back down into the pit.

Every time Trump is applauded.

Every time Maxwell is protected.

Every time the justice system shrugs and says, “Too bad. This is just the way things work.”

And I can’t stop thinking about what that does to someone’s soul.

How do you heal when the world won’t stop reopening your wounds?

How do you reclaim your voice when the powerful keep shouting over you?

How do you move forward when the people who harmed you are never held back, never punished, never even named?

Jeffrey Epstein is dead. But the rot he left behind still sits at the highest levels of power. Donald Trump spent decades side-by-side with him. They laughed together. They partied together. They shared inside jokes, birthday letters and secrets. And now Trump is president again—found liable for sexual abuse in a court of law, accused by dozens of women, still unrepentant, still untouched.

And instead of distancing himself from Ghislaine Maxwell, he shields her.

The woman who trafficked children. The woman who helped destroy countless lives. The monster who has never once shown remorse.

She is being protected—because she knows too much. Because she knows the truth. Because she knows his truth.

And so, the price for her silence is her freedom.

And the cost of that freedom is another brutal message to every survivor who ever dared to believe justice was possible: Your pain means nothing. YOU mean nothing.

I try to teach my kids that doing the right thing still matters. That telling the truth—especially when it’s uncomfortable—is a kind of bravery. That character isn’t about applause or attention; it’s about who you are when nobody’s looking. I tell them that decency might not get you rewarded right away—or maybe ever—but over time, it’s what keeps you steady. It’s what lets you sleep at night. Like my dad always said: the right thing is always the most worth doing. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

But now, I find myself wondering—how do I look them in the eye?

How do I tell them that the world punishes liars when it keeps elevating the worst ones?

How do I tell them the truth matters when it keeps getting buried beneath power and money and shame?

And how do I tell a survivor to keep going when everything around them screams, “You are irrelevant”?

I am angry.

I am heartbroken.

I am disgusted and disillusioned and exhausted.

But I am no longer ashamed.

And if you are a survivor reading this—neither should you be.

You may feel like your story is too heavy. Like your pain is too much. Like no one will believe you or understand you or love you if they know the truth.

But I promise you: your story matters.

Your truth is not a flaw. It is not a stain. It is not something to hide.

It is sacred.

And even if no courtroom ever speaks your name, even if no headline ever tells your story, even if no apology ever comes, you are not invisible. You are not alone. You are not small. You are not forgotten.

You are worthy.

And your voice still has power.

Even when the system fails you.

Even when justice never arrives.

Even when the world hands your abuser the spotlight and dares you to smile.

Your voice still belongs to you.

And that matters more than anything.

Don’t let them take that from you.

Because yes, I am afraid for this country. I am afraid of what we are normalizing. what we’re letting slide, what we’re looking away from. I am afraid of what we’re teaching our daughters about whose pain matters, and what we’re teaching our sons about what they can get away with. I am afraid of how many survivors will choose silence—not because they lack the courage to speak, but because they’ve seen what this world does to the ones who do. Because they’ve seen the cost of telling the truth, and the ease with which the truth is ignored. And that—more than anything—terrifies me.

And I know—God, I know—how tempting it is right now to give up.

To go quiet.

To look away.

To let the exhaustion win. To bury your story a little deeper. To turn your face toward something easier and say, “It’s just too much.”

And that would be understandable. It would be human.

But we can’t.

We simply can’t.

Because if we turn away, they win.

If we stop telling the truth, they get to rewrite the whole thing.

If we let our pain harden into silence, we surrender the future to the very people who took so much from our past.

And I’m not ready to surrender.

Not for me. Not for my children. Not for every girl and woman and boy and man who is still carrying a locked box in their chest, wondering if it’s ever going to be safe to open it.

If I had seen someone write this decades ago, maybe I wouldn’t have waited so long. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so afraid. Maybe I would have believed that what happened to me didn’t make me unlovable. That I wasn’t broken. That I wasn’t alone.

So I’m writing it now—for you, for them, for the girl I used to be.

You deserve love.

You deserve peace.

You deserve a world that punishes predators, not rewards them.

And you deserve to speak your truth without shame.

We all do.

And we will not stop until the world finally listens.

Even when it feels unbearable.

Especially when it feels unbearable.

Because that is when we must raise our voices the loudest.

And for anyone out there who needs it or knows someone who does - help is available:

National Domestic Violence Hotline

National Sexual Assault Hotline

Also:

• National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: Call 1-800-273-TALK (8255) for immediate support and referrals to local mental health services. This service is free and confidential.

• Crisis Text Line: Text "HELLO" to 741741 to connect with a trained crisis counselor via text message.

You are not alone. You are strong. You matter.

And with that today’s song.

I love you guys.

Stay strong, stay safe, stay supportive of one another.

💙 Jo