Breaking the Cycle: Reclaiming My Voice

By Victoria Cortez, Author & Curator of Childhood Wisdom | All Good Things N More

The other day, someone who should have known better than to take advantage of a vulnerable 12-year-old girl reached out to me via social media.

My initial reaction was anger—pure, unfiltered rage.

“How dare you?”

How dare an adult cross that line? The fury burned even hotter when I thought of my own daughters. The thought that he has children of his own made me wonder—had he hurt them, too? My mind started spiraling, piecing together painful possibilities.

But then, I stopped myself.

The Weight of What-Ifs

What purpose does that serve me?

Drowning in the what-ifs and could-have-beens is an endless, exhausting cycle. I refuse to let my mind be consumed by ghosts of the past. Instead, I take a step back and ask the harder question:

What made it okay for that to happen in the first place?

And more importantly—what can I do differently as a parent to ensure my own children never feel the need I was so desperately searching for back then?

That’s why I write. That’s why I share my story. Because the truth is—my thoughts, my emotions, my experiences are not abnormal. And if someone out there is struggling with the same feelings, I want them to know they are not alone.

The Silence That Suffocates

For a long time, I carried the weight of that experience like a heavy chain wrapped around my chest—tightening, suffocating. I buried it deep, convincing myself that if I ignored it, it would lose its power.

But pain doesn’t just disappear.

It lingers in the quiet moments. It creeps into the way I parent, the way I trust (or don’t trust), the way I see the world.

For years, I let silence be my armor. I thought that by not speaking about it, I was protecting myself.

But silence doesn’t heal—it festers. It allows shame to take root where it never belonged.

The Culture That Enables

Some might say I pursued it. That I wanted it.

Growing up in Silicon Valley in the ’90s and early 2000s, that “tech bro” mentality was everywhere. It was the seedy underbelly that existed in the space between what was “cool” and “mainstream,” just before it became “weird” and “forgotten.” A breeding ground for unchecked egos, where power was currency, and manipulation was the unspoken language.

That disgusting underbelly—the one where the venom of the powerless seeps into the flesh of the peaceful. Where the desperate grasp at whatever scraps of influence they can wield, no matter the cost. Where blurred lines and whispered justifications made it easy to overlook the damage left in their wake.

But I refuse to be one of their ghosts.

Manifestation and Accountability

One of the things that attracted me to manifestation is the simple fact that I am only accountable to myself when manifesting.

I can never manifest something for someone else.

That’s the point, right?

No shade to those who truly can manifest for others—more power to you. But that’s a big responsibility, isn’t it? Taking care of yourself well enough to still take care of others?

That’s what mothers do every day.

They may not be perfect at it. But they do it. And when they stop taking care of themselves first—even in the smallest of ways, whether it’s to keep the peace or just to get out the door—those minutes, those hours, those days… they turn into years. And those years? They turn into ugly manifestations.

That’s the secret.

Reclaiming My Power

So, I write.

Not because I need pity. Not because I seek validation.

But because my voice matters.

Because telling my truth takes back the power that was stolen from me. Because if even one person reads this and realizes they are not alone, then it’s worth it.

I refuse to be defined by what happened to me.

Instead, I choose to redefine the narrative.

I choose to be the parent I needed when I was that 12-year-old girl, searching for something I didn’t fully understand.

I choose to break the cycle.

And if sharing my story can help someone else do the same, then I will keep writing.

I will keep speaking.

Because the past does not own me anymore.

It never did.