A Place at the Table

Back in May 2025, I was sitting with a group of mom friends, gathered around a table with a pitcher of margaritas between us.

We’ve built a tradition of getting together about once a quarter—to unwind, to connect, and to celebrate the work of being a mother. I always look forward to these nights.

On this particular evening, the conversation moved easily between our kids, their sports teams, and the rhythms of everyday life.

And then, in the middle of it, one of the women shared that she was raped when she was 12.

There were five other women at the table.But in that moment, it felt like a spotlight had been turned directly on me.

I felt exposed.

Without thinking, I quickly shifted the conversation. I redirected us to something safer—something lighter. I started talking about the importance Jose and I place on having sex positive conversations with our children.

The conversation moved on.

But I didn’t.

Even as we talked about other things, my mind stayed with what she had said—and more than that, how she had said it.

It didn’t feel like a confession.

A confession carries shame. It’s something you admit when you believe you’ve done something wrong. It asks for forgiveness.

This was different.

She stated it as a fact.

A truth about her life.

Unfortunate, yes—but not something that held power over her in that moment.

She said it with a kind of clarity and conviction that stayed with me long after the night ended.

Driving home, I kept replaying the moment—her words, and my reaction.

Why had I changed the subject so quickly?

At first, I told myself I was protecting her.

I didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable.

But if I’m honest, that wasn’t it.

I was protecting myself.

And everyone else at the table.

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned that as women, it is our job to keep the peace.

To make others feel comfortable.

To smooth over the hard edges of conversation.

In my mind, topics like sexual assault (and especially the word rape) were not meant to be spoken about openly. They lived in a kind of invisible bubble—something to be discussed quietly, carefully, behind closed doors.

But when she spoke those words out loud, she popped that bubble.

She took the weight out of the silence.

She opened a door.

Because what that moment really said was:

I’m here. All of me.

And there is space here for all of you, too.

At a table where we were sharing the realities of motherhood and womanhood, she made room for the full truth of our lives—not just the polished, comfortable parts.

This is what feels so important about that moment to me.

We are just beginning to teach our children—especially our daughters—the power of calling things by their name.

We teach them the correct anatomical terms for their bodies.

Not to be clinical—but to be clear.

Because language creates ownership.

And ownership creates power.

When we stop whispering, avoiding, or hiding the hard parts of our stories, something shifts.

We begin to say, collectively:

We are not afraid to talk about this.

We are not going to carry this in silence.

And we are not going to leave people to hold these experiences alone.

As parents, we often believe that keeping our children safe means watching them closely—monitoring, protecting, preventing.

But I’m beginning to believe something else is just as important, if not more:

We need to nurture their voices.

We need to show them that their truth is allowed to be spoken—fully and without apology.

We need to model that the comfort of others is not the sole responsibility of women.

Our voices matter.

That night in May stayed with me.

In many ways, it became the beginning of a decision I would spend months sitting with.

Because sharing my own story publicly didn’t happen on a whim.

For most people, it may have felt sudden.

For me, it was the result of nearly a year of reflection, questioning, and quiet preparation.

I went back and forth. I asked myself why I would do something so personal, so public.

And I needed to be clear on the answer.

The answer is this:

Our stories matter.

All of them.

Even the hard ones.

Especially the hard ones.

My hope in sharing my story is not to center the pain.

It is to create a bridge.

A bridge for someone else to feel less alone.

A bridge for someone else to find their voice.

A bridge that leads back to the truth that there is space for all of us—exactly as we are.

There is a seat at the table for all of you.

Con Amor,

Elena