A Purpose to My Obstacles

Twelve years ago, something was stolen from me.

Not money. Not possessions. Something far more fragile—my innocence, my choice. And I didn’t just lose it; I handed over the power to everyone else and didn’t take it back for over a decade.

At the time, I was a freshman in college, living in a fog of pain—both the kind you can see on an X-ray and the kind you can’t. A car accident in high school had broken my back and shattered my dream of becoming a professional ballerina. That dream wasn’t just what I did; it was who I was. Losing it was like attending my own funeral.

After the accident, I learned to “stuff.” I packed my grief, my pain, and my disappointment into the deepest corners of myself where no one could see. I smiled. I said, “I’m fine.” I kept the peace—even when it cost me pieces of myself. But you can only hold down a boiling pot for so long before the lid blows.

That day, it did.

It was cold, the kind of cold that stings your cheeks and seeps into your bones. I sat alone on a campus bench between classes, my backpack heavy at my side. My body pulsed with the familiar, deep ache that had become my unwelcome companion. The accident had left me with chronic pain that no over-the-counter drug could truly erase, but that didn’t stop me from trying—Tylenol, ibuprofen, Excedrin, whatever I could find.

I wasn’t naïve. I knew the dosages, the limits. I knew exactly how much it would take to silence the noise in my body and my mind.

And that day, I wanted silence more than anything.

For weeks, the voice in my head had been growing louder, sharper. You’re a disappointment—to your professors, to your family overseas, to yourself.

Then it whispered the words I both feared and understood: You know how to end this. You know exactly how many pills it takes.

So I counted.

I didn’t take them all at once. Some stayed in my palm—my “option.” That’s when I saw him: a classmate I thought was a friend.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concern pulling at his brow.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” I said plainly.

His gaze dropped to my hand. “What’s that?”

“It just… takes away the pain.”

He offered to walk me back to my dorm. I thought that meant safety. But we passed my building.

“Where are we going?”

“I have something that might make you feel better,” he said.

I wanted to believe him. Maybe he cared. Maybe he didn’t want me to be alone. But instead of comfort, he handed me a fifth of Jägermeister. This will help you take it down easier.

And it did.

I’d already taken other pills earlier, but he didn’t know that. Maybe he thought it wasn’t enough to hurt me. Maybe he didn’t care. Because somewhere between the burn of the alcohol and the blur settling over my vision, his words began.

“This is what you wanted. You asked for this.”

He pushed me down, forced my pants off, and grabbed a condom. I remember thinking—absurdly—at least he’s using one. Then he was on me.

At first, I fought. My limbs felt heavy, my muscles slow, but I kicked and pushed anyway. He was stronger. His voice was relentless, a broken record in the dark: You wanted this. You asked for this.

And at some point, I believed him enough to stop fighting.

I woke hours later, disoriented. My body was tangled on a futon in a dorm room I didn’t recognize, my clothes half-on, his body slumped next to mine. The nearly empty bottle of Jäger sat nearby.

I knew I had to get out.

I grabbed my backpack and phone, careful not to leave anything behind. Since each floor had only one bathroom, I ran upstairs, hoping if he came looking, he’d think I’d gone down. My legs were shaky—part adrenaline, part the toxic mix of alcohol and painkillers.

In the bathroom, I collapsed in a stall and vomited until I couldn’t breathe, tears blurring my vision into watery shadows.

It was 3 a.m. I didn’t feel safe walking outside alone, so I called the only friend I thought might answer sober. When she pulled up, her first words cut through me.

“Did you sleep with him?”

I said nothing.

“Did he at least use a condom?” she pressed.

I nodded. She drove me to her sorority house.

What else could I say? Tell her the truth? I was a freshman nobody who had just spent half an hour puking on the floor of the men’s dorm bathroom. Why would anyone believe me? That voice in my head told me to stay quiet, and I obeyed.

She gave me clothes, let me shower. As I sat there in borrowed pajamas, it hit me: I was alive. I wasn’t supposed to be.

I dug through my bag and found the pill bottle. Expired. Four years past date.

Seriously? I couldn’t even do this right? That cruel inner voice sneered, See, Maria, you can’t even kill yourself properly.

And his words replayed, over and over: You wanted this. You deserved this. You asked for this.

For years, I never called it rape. Never called it assault. I told myself his words were true—that I’d asked for it, that I’d deserved it. And I lived like that for 12 years.

Then one afternoon, scrolling social media, I saw a woman share her assault story. Someone commented, You were asking for it by what you were wearing. My chest tightened. That night, I’d been in khakis and an oversized polo. Nothing fitted, nothing revealing.

Not long after, a friend of mine—deeply rooted in faith—said something that cracked the shell of my shame.

“Maria,” she told me, “God doesn’t just give you what you can handle. God gives purpose to your obstacles.”

Purpose? For that day? How could God give meaning to something so horrific?

Then I met Kendra. She told me her story of sexual assault and how she wanted to create this book for other survivors. She asked me to be part of it—like she already knew. I told her my story wasn’t worthy, that other women had suffered more, and that what happened to me was my fault.

She listened, then said softly but firmly, “Honey… that’s sexual assault. That’s rape. You didn’t ask for that. You needed help.”

Then she asked me, “What did that day take from you?”

The question stopped me.

It had taken my voice. My confidence. My ability to make decisions for myself. I had let other people write the script of my life. I had put everyone else’s needs above my own and been left to suffer in silence.

But no more.

That day could have ended me. It didn’t. And if God truly gives purpose to obstacles, then mine is this: to tell the young women I mentor at church that they are loved, valued, and seen. To make sure no one in my reach ever believes the lie that their pain is their fault.

If you’re reading this and you’ve been there—if you’ve felt broken beyond repair—hear me: Your life is worth living. No one can take your light. No one can decide your worth. And no one has the right to take your voice.

I’m not hiding anymore.