When the Family Chooses Silence: Surviving the Second Betrayal

A trauma-informed reflection on the abandonment that happens after disclosure—and how survivors begin to rebuild without apology.

Silence Isn’t Neutral

It wasn’t the abuse that broke me—it was their silence after I spoke it out loud.

It hit me like a freight train in the chest and took my breath away. The silence was deafening and grew louder every single day that passed. The disbelief was dumbfounding. And if I had felt alone before, it became terrifyingly clear how the abuse continued for decades, even after speaking up.

The wound of being met with denial, lack of acknowledgement, and avoidance was devastating. I couldn’t believe this was how I was being treated by the people I had loved my entire life—the ones who supposedly would have my back, who understood me best besides my husband and kids.

But above all, these were the people who were there when it started, when I was nine. And it continued even after I spoke up.

Did they make a mistake? Did they hear me? Do they understand? How come no one is saying anything back? They aren’t shocked? OMG—this is how it continued.

They didn’t give a flying fuck what I was going through. They didn’t care that I was on the edge of losing myself. On the edge beyond breakdown.

We were a good family. We laughed. We cared. We encouraged one another. We had a sense of humour and beautiful memories. So why were they pretending I wasn’t struggling? Why were they not understanding?

THE SILENCE WAS DEAFENING AND ISOLATING.

It took me a year to fully internalize that silence. It broke my heart and soul. This was about sexual abuse—and none of you had anything to say. I was enraged.

Abandonment by Omission

You see, my family was close. My parents have been married for over 40 years. My older twin sisters were central in my life. One I spoke to daily—her kids were like mine. My other sister lived far, but we still tried to support each other.

My memories before the CPTSD symptoms engulfed my body were full of love, laughter, and warmth.

But when I questioned the family secret, the people who mattered most had NOTHING to say. Because this wasn’t just my secret. It was all ours. It happened to each of us girls, some cousins, and, later, I learned, my nephew and daughter.

The abandonment didn’t only come from that first refusal to acknowledge—it was in every repeated denial, every minimization, every justification, every silence. Each one felt like being stabbed again.

What Really Happened: Telling the Truth

When I went home, I knew the truth was looming over me. My sister suggested we go talk to Mom and Dad together. She said, We can heal together.

I bent down, gave him a hug, and told him it was nice to see him. Then he made a remark about my clothes. I sat down, arms crossed.

Then he opened the conversation, like he had been waiting: about the “fine line” between a child molester and a rapist. He claimed he was not a rapist.

I cut in: There was sexual abuse in this family. In this home. A lot of it.

My mom tried to smooth things over with a smile. I clarified the denial. He was denying it.

I jumped up, pointed at him, and told him he was lying—that he could go fuck himself. I ran to the door, called him a liar, ran back up the stairs, and shouted more.

My mom tried to stop me, and I told her I’d deal with her later. The look in her eyes—like everything she had been holding together just shattered.

My dad’s last words: Don’t call me Dad ever again.

And I walked out into -10 weather in a skirt and crop top, back to my sister’s house.

I didn’t tell my husband until 14 years into our marriage. And when I did, he told me I needed to confront them. Deep down, I knew it would never be accepted, that it would cost me my place in the family.

Still, I thought maybe talking could bring clarity. Perhaps it could help make sense of something that seems senseless. But there was no explanation that could ever justify what happened to me—or to the others.

And the response? Minimization. Deflection. Surface talk. Silence.

The abuse was unspeakable. Their response was soul-crushing.

What Silence Says to the Nervous System

Silence lands in the body as shame, guilt, panic, and remorse.

When I sent my family a video telling them the abuse had even continued to my daughter, and that I had reported the historical abuse to the RCMP, silence. Not one reply. Not one call.

The message was clear: Suffer this alone. Sit in the rubble. We don’t care that it’s tearing you apart at a soul level.

• No validation = no safety
  
  

• Disregard = abandonment
  
  

At my worst, CPTSD symptoms were a 12 out of 10. I was unravelling, mostly alone. The silence reinforced every negative thought: It must be me. I must be the problem.

The trauma of emotional neglect and abandonment—especially from women, sisters, mothers—is heartbreak, shame, and guilt tangled together. The grief of it is almost unbearable.

“When there’s no witness to your pain, your body holds all the weight of it.”

The Silence Inside My Symptoms

What made the silence even more deafening was that, at the basis of it all—even though this was sexual abuse—I was also living through horrific CPTSD symptoms. Not a single family member questioned it. Not even my sister, who is a first responder.

They didn’t appear concerned. They just labelled me angry.

But I wasn’t angry—not yet. I was drowning in panic, despair, grief, and shame. Anger only came later.

You think that when you bring something this big to the people who love you, they will be compassionate. That they will show up. But it was the exact opposite. Which made it that much worse.

Family Scripts: The Rules That Protect the Abuser

• Don’t talk about it.
  
  

• Keep the peace.
  
  

• Loyalty > truth.
  
  

• Blood is thicker than reality.
  
  

These rules serve the system, not the survivor. They protect the family image, not the children.

Survivors are told to move on. Survivors shame themselves into silence. Survivors get gaslit into believing their pain is too much.

It’s isolating. It’s gaslighting. It’s another form of abuse.

The Second Betrayal

I didn’t want to lose anybody—especially my family. I loved them deeply. I imagined making memories together, enjoying each other as our families grew.

But speaking the truth cost me everything. Disowned. Exiled. Even my role as an aunt.

The realization that they wouldn’t fight for me was heartbreak on heartbreak.

I didn’t sit there asking who I was without them. Instead, I felt crushing guilt and shame, like my life had stopped. Like somehow I was the one who lost it—my mind, my senses, my compassion, my forgiveness. I shamed myself into believing I had made a big deal out of nothing.

Reclaiming Yourself When No One Comes With You

The lesson I never wanted: I am my own ride or die.

I am the one who sat with myself in hell and pulled myself through. I am the one who stood up for myself and my daughter. I am the one who chose truth over silence, right over wrong, and rebuilt piece by piece.

It was never about an apology. Apologies had come before, but the abuse had continued. The silence had continued.

My therapist once asked, 'What if they were just your original family, and now you have the family you've built?'

And I realized—if the price of belonging was silence, I could not belong.

“You may lose the illusion of belonging—but you gain the ground of self-respect.”

Healing Practices for the Second Betrayal

• Journal Prompt: What did I need to hear that I never got?
  
  

• Somatic Practice: While grounding, say aloud: I believe you.
  
  

• Truth Altar: Create a small space with objects or words that affirm your reality.
  
  

• Connection Practice: Identify one safe person—even if it’s your future self.
  
  

Closing Reflection

Silence doesn’t mean you were wrong. It doesn’t erase the truth.

What their silence taught me is that healing cannot wait for anyone else’s permission. I had to learn to sit with the grief, the shame, and the devastation—and still choose myself. I had to learn that rebuilding doesn’t always come with reconciliation. And I had to learn that love, respect, and safety may not come from where you thought they would, but they can still be built.

This betrayal changed me. I’m still learning how to carry it, still learning how to move through the losses, still learning how to soften toward myself. But I know this much: I will not abandon myself the way they abandoned me - because silence ends with me.

With Love, 

~ Jess