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A Note From Jan
Name It
Jan Broberg, Founder
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A note before you read. Jan writes directly about childhood sexual abuse in this piece. If today is not the day, that is allowed. The rest of the issue is waiting further down.
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My birthday is July 31, 1962. I turn 64 today. I did this exercise recently. You could do it too, and don't hold back. Be truthful. Love, Jan
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Name It
I was twelve years old the first time my world was taken out from under me.
Twelve. An age that should mean bike rides and summer musicals and being annoyed at your little sisters. I had a charmed childhood from zero to eleven. Safe, with great friends, roller-skating to the neighborhood park, eating dinner with my almost perfect parents and sisters every night when dad got home from the flower shop.
That life turned on a dime. Twelve became the age. I learned that the people you trust most can be the ones who do you the most harm, and that a predator is usually not a stranger in a van. He can be your neighbor. Your family's best friend. A man who practically had his own chair at the table.
I was kidnapped. Twice. I was manipulated so thoroughly, over so many years, by someone so skilled at it, that I no longer knew which thoughts in my head were mine. I was told fantastical stories about aliens and destiny, stories built specifically to make a trusting, religious, prepubescent girl believe that what was happening to her was not abuse but a kind of magic she couldn't tell anyone about. I was made to believe, for years, that I loved him. That I had been chosen for this.
For a long time I was defined by the worst thing that was ever done to me, because that is what happens when something this size lands on a twelve-year-old. It doesn't stay in one corner of your life. It moves in. It redecorates. It answers the phone when people ask who you are.
I am naming it plainly, without euphemism. It was kidnapping. It was brainwashing. It was rape. I am the one who gets to say so now.
Name the Cost
Time. I lost the ordinary adolescence every kid deserves, the years where you are supposed to be figuring out who you are without a manipulator narrating it for you.
My voice. I was silenced before I was ever old enough to know I had something worth saying. I learned to defer, to please.
My worth. When someone convinces a child that her value lies in being chosen, special, secretly loved by someone dangerous, it warps how she measures herself. I spent years looking for my worth in other people's approval.
My relationships. Four marriages. That number is not a punchline. It is a receipt. It is what happens when something precious is stolen from you before you understand what it is even meant to be.
Somewhere there is a Jan who was never violated at twelve. An actress, a singer, a dancer, a daughter, a sister, who got to become herself on her own timeline, driven by curiosity instead of survival. I will never meet her. That is its own kind of grief, and I am done pretending it isn't one.
Name Who You Are Today
I am a survivor who turned the exact skills my abuser used to break me, storytelling, performance, the ability to hold a room, to read people, to build trust, into tools I now use to protect other people's children. That is not irony. That is reclamation.
I am the founder of the Jan Broberg Foundation, built with my son and co-founder Austen Tanner, who took the worst thing that happened to our family and, instead of running from it, chose to build alongside me.
I am, today, in the room. Not as the girl this happened to, but as the woman who decided what it would mean. I believe, and I have said publicly, that a happy childhood is possible at any age. Healing is not a deadline you missed. It is a door that is still open.
The first thirty-two years of my life were shaped by what someone else decided to do to me. Everything in the last thirty-two has been what I decided to do about it.
That is the part I am still writing.
| Happy birthday to me, and to every survivor who rises from the dust. |
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