One of my earliest memories, I must have been about 4 years old, is of standing in my parents kitchen, a woman crouched in front of me, tears on her face, telling me over and over again that she was sorry. A packed suitcase was behind her.

That’s all there is to my memory. I asked my mother years later what the meaning of this memory was.

My mom let me know that the woman had been a friend of my parents and staying at our house for a visit. At some point I had come to my mother crying, letting her know that her friend had hit me. Presumably to discipline me for something.

“You don’t remember?” my mom asked.

“No”

“Well, you wouldn’t have lied. Besides, you were very upset.”

She had confronted the woman immediately, who admitted that she had indeed hit me. My mom asked her to pack up her things and leave our home. My memory is of her apologizing to me before she left.

* * *

Fast forward to my eighth grade year. We were living in a different city, and we were having dinner at the home of another close family friend. I had been waiting for some other friends with a similar age child to show up. I asked the husband of the house if I could use their phone to call them to hurry them up. I was eager to play the latest Nintendo games with a peer, instead of my little brother and sister.

The man had been drinking. He lead me to the bedroom and locked the door behind me. That’s when I realized something was wrong. I wasn’t too worried because I knew my parents were close by in the living room. They were within screaming distance. He grabbed my shoulders in a kind of rough hug and asked me to kiss him. Ewe! Gross!

“No,” I said sternly. And when he asked again, I said I would scream. I reminded him that my parents were nearby. I demanded that he let me go, and he did. I rejoined my siblings in another bedroom where they were playing Super Mario Brothers.

The man approached us and asked if he could talk to me. I said no. I was still sorting out my thoughts and feelings as I stewed next to my unaware brother and sister. He said, “Please don’t say anything to your parents.”

I responded with a slew of curse words that thirteen year old me probably didn’t even use correctly. My little siblings stared in shock.

Soon, my friend showed up, and we all took turns on the video game console. I stayed close to the kids all evening.

In the car on the way home, I said to my parents in the firmest, strongest voice I had. “My siblings and I are never going to their house again, and I don’t want them to ever come to our house either.”

My parents asked if anything had happened and if I was okay.

I answered “no” and “fine.” Then reiterated my demand.

“Ok. No problem,” they said. And that was that. I never saw those family friends again. I think my parents may have seen him at a few social events, but their friendship petered out pretty quickly since we stopped going to each other’s houses and we no longer socialized as families.

It could have been a trauma, but it wasn’t because my experience and my memory is that when I speak up, people listen and the people who care about me make the changes necessary to help keep me safe. That’s the opposite of trauma. I felt super empowered.

There is a lot that can be said here about the structural issues regarding the treatment of children, sexism, and racism (there were times my parents met with school principals to confront them on racist teacher and student behavior), but that is not the objective of this blog post.

I share this story, not to say anything about my response or even that man’s behavior. But to share the way in which my parents treated me. From one of my earliest memories and repeatedly throughout my childhood, in small actions and dramatic ones, my parents supported my bodily autonomy and my voice. Were they perfect? No. I can think of times where they messed up. Did they always respect my choices? No. We’re South Asian, listening to and following elders is a big part of our culture.

The key is that enough times, they let me know that my body, mind, and spirit were valuable and precious. They let me know that I was more important to them than their other relationships. They let me know that they trusted me.

These messages that they made clear to me are of the utmost importance because these are the primary reasons that I have felt confident speaking up in defense and protection of myself even when I was quite powerless. I have always trusted my ability to evaluate safety because my parents gave me protected autonomy and validated my experiences consistently from a young age.

As parents we cannot protect our children from every bad occurrence, but we can protect their psyches and future ability to protect themselves through how we respond. Instilling a sense of safety, confidence, and reliable intuition begins at a young age. It must be taught by parents because that is our earliest, most long-lasting, and primary attachment. It is taught through parents repeatedly listening, validating, and acting in small and big ways to affirm the autonomy, agency, and strength of their child.