Dr. Lysandra Cook
Photography by Cat White
Before reading, please know this letter contains mentions of sexual assault. If you feel reading this kind of content may trigger you, we suggest you read another letter, such as this one.
If you’re reading this, know that your story can heal.
To look at me, you’d think I have it all, and I do: a loving husband; two beautiful, intelligent children; happy dogs; and a career I love at this prestigious institution.
I have all that and more you can’t see: I have Complex PTSD presenting as anxiety, depression, feelings of worthlessness, and shame that stems from unaddressed and complex childhood trauma.
I grew up in a community that looked like a mashup of The Grateful Dead and Little House on the Prairie—odd, even for the early ‘70s. Dirt roads, outhouses, and communal living off grid. This isolated land, the Emerald Triangle in Northern California, was the heart of the US cannabis market.
Our community was one devoid of personal questions, with no wandering on land that wasn’t yours or stopping by unannounced. The cannabis economy created an undercurrent of paranoia but also funded arts, environmental causes, and local businesses.
What you didn’t see, and what the community didn’t speak of, were the dark moments of abuse and neglect. Growing up keeping secrets to protect your family from outsiders and the law was normalized.
In junior high, a friend and I went to a community dance. Some boys invited us out back to hang out. Someone passed me a joint, and the next thing I remember is waking up at home trying to fit broken pieces of my memory back together. We had been drugged and raped.
Everyone had seen us stumble to my older sister’s car, obviously intoxicated and disheveled. We never spoke of it: not my friend, not my sister, not me. Though I was angry at the boys who raped us, I felt mostly humiliation and shame, embarrassed that I’d allowed this to happen.
For the few days that remained of the school year, the boys pushed the narrative that we wanted it, and the whispers of my peers were of how my friend and I might be the slutty girls who’d asked for it. My friend was sent away, her fate and reputation sealed as she was sent to boarding school.
I reinvented myself that summer. I became the sort of girl who would never find herself in such a position. I threw myself into my education, becoming the smart, studious, popular girl who was a valued member of our school community so that my story would not be that of a raped girl.
I became class president, took all honors courses, played sports, volunteered, and raised my hand for every opportunity. I was the first Rotary-sponsored exchange student from my school and spent my senior year in Australia, where I transformed yet again. They called me “Sandy from California.” I let them believe my life was like Baywatch or Full House.
I was constantly seeking validation, and to do that, I kept up the external vision of perfection.
When I returned to California, I drove straight to college, 14 hours away, where I continued to strengthen my armor and project an idealized version of the resilient me. Every few years, though, my protection would crack, and I’d seek therapy to cope with feelings of worthlessness. I never dug into the roots of my pain. That was another self, one I’d never spoken of. “I am a survivor. I am resilient,” I’d tell myself, clinging to this narrative like a lifeline.
But the little damaged girl was still inside, begging to be heard, and I knew I needed to give her a voice so that she could tell her story, too. True resilience, after all, is about facing your trauma, not burying it. Embracing the diagnosis of Complex PTSD has been incredibly healing and empowering.
Through therapy, journaling, yoga, and connecting with others, I'm learning to distinguish my true self from the protective persona I created. I'm now grieving the loss of my innocence and reclaiming the parts of me I had long abandoned. Most importantly, I've learned the truth about what happened to me: It was not my fault.
This is by no means the end of my story. I have so much more work to do until that little girl and I become one again. But I’m sharing it now because these stories—and the people who tell them—matter. Sharing is connecting; connecting is healing.
If you’re reading this, please know that you and your stories matter. Your voices have empowered me to find mine, and I hope mine empowers you to continue writing yours—one that ends in healing and self-acceptance. You are more than your accomplishments and struggles, and you are worthy of love right now, exactly as you are.
Dr. Lysandra Cook, University of Virginia
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