Several months after I was sexually assaulted, I returned to Ballona Creek where it happened.
My boyfriend and I were on a bike ride when he asked, “Are you sure you want to take this route?” He knew what I’d been through and knew the direction of our ride would take us right past the place where two men had attacked and raped me. I said yes, imagining myself standing strong and undefeated in the spot where I’d been pulled from my bike. I thought going back would prove that I was okay.
But when we reached the area where the assault had occurred, trauma took over. My body remembered what my brain was determined to overcome. I began shaking so violently that I fell off my bike. I couldn’t form words. I seemed to be outside my own body, watching myself from a distance.
Until that very moment, I’d thought I was doing so well. After all, I could talk about the assault; no problem! In fact, talking had become one of my primary coping strategies.
I was 20 years old and relatively new to Los Angeles when I was assaulted. I had no family nearby and no real support system. When I needed someone to pick me up from the hospital where I’d gone for medical care, the only person I could think to call was a woman I’d met at a party only about a week earlier. (She not only picked me up from the hospital but also let me stay with her so I wouldn’t be alone).
I’ve never been particularly extroverted, but after the assault, I couldn’t stop telling people about what had happened to me. I would tell total strangers, “I got raped last month,” as casually as you might describe a movie you’d watched or a restaurant you’d visited. I even joined a social advocacy organization called Young Artists United, and we visited schools, sharing personal experiences that were rarely discussed openly at the time.
For a long time, talking was my only “therapy.” Of course, it didn’t replace professional therapy, but at that time, it was what I was ready for. Talking helped me feel in control. It helped me keep going, keep living, keep finding purpose.
The more I talked, the more I assumed I was healing; that I’d fully processed what I went through. In reality, I was skilled at describing what had happened while remaining emotionally numb. My mind had compartmentalized the experience, but my body still remembered.
Ultimately, speaking out publicly wasn’t enough. Meaningful healing took years of participating in professional therapy, leaning into trusted friendships, and giving myself space to recognize and name everything I’d set aside. Even now, certain sensations can resurface pieces of that day. More than 40 years after I was assaulted, I continue to uncover memories I suppressed.
I am still healing. I’ll always be healing. But, that doesn’t mean I’ve spent four decades stuck or static.
I built a career in advertising and co-founded an agency focused on women. I’m a mom of two children and stepmom of three. I recently returned to acting after decades away, taking classes and performing again. My life has contained creativity, love, ambition, and joy—alongside the effects of trauma.
During a recent day of advocacy with RAINN, I had a moment to speak directly with Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. She talked about turning “pain into purpose,” a phrase closely associated with the late Rep. Elijah Cummings, who urged people to “turn your pain into passion and your passion into purpose.”
For me, purpose means showing up so other survivors don’t have to feel as alone as I did. It means advocating for better laws. It means honoring every survivor’s right to heal in their own time and in their own way.
Not every survivor of sexual violence wants to tell their story, and no one should feel forced to disclose before they are ready, or to speak publicly at all. Simply sitting with others who understand what you’ve been through can mark the beginning of healing. Listening to others who do choose to speak out can help you feel connected, heard, and validated.
There is no deadline for disclosure, and there is no finish line for healing. A survivor can still experience difficult memories decades later and also lead a full, beautiful life.
Both things can be true.
I am living proof.
Erica Fite