Melissa Verdi is strong, inside and out.

We met after her shift at the hospital. She was squeezing in time to chat with me before her two-hour workout at the gym. We sat in my car at the beach, the rain deterring our plans to walk. Sipping her coffee, she quickly warned me that she knew she would cry during this conversation. She displayed a dueling combination of nervousness and confidence. I think that type of nervousness is triggered by knowing you are about to tread through some rough waters. And the confidence? Well, it comes from knowing the waters are rough, and choosing to tread through them, anyway.

Verdi, 53, spent her early years in Rhode Island, the youngest of three children to a single mom, a nurse. Her dad wasn’t really in the picture…substance abuse and mental illness is what she’s been told. They lived with her grandparents. Her eyes sparkle as she remembers, reflecting on feeling that kind of unconditional love only a good grandma can give. Five solid years of life sparkling.

Melissa was five when her step-father entered her life. She vividly remembers the first time her mom invited him over to dinner. He stared at her through most of the meal. It felt uncomfortable.

They married, and he moved in. As per most instances of childhood sexual abuse, he started out by grooming her. Testing the waters. Sitting on the couch in his robe, exposing himself. Having conversations with her in the bathroom while she bathed in the tub. Eventually, it progressed to full-on abuse. The family moved to Cape Cod, and nothing changed. Except now, her grandparents were nowhere near.

Like most victims of childhood sexual abuse, Melissa kept it to herself. She described being raised by her mom as focusing on “the purse matches the shoes, matches the lipstick” and weekly appearances at church. Authentic conversations were not the norm. It’s hard for her to pinpoint exactly why she didn’t tell. She thinks it was combination of fear, maybe knowing her mother wouldn’t do anything, and more likely…not wanting to be responsible for breaking up the family. Because that’s how trauma affects the brain of a child. It’s so much easier to blame yourself, rather than acknowledge the horror of what’s really happening.

At the age of 11, she reached the point of desperation. She told a few friends at school, asking them to talk to their guidance counselor for her. “I said to them, ‘Can you go talk to her…and tell her that you have a friend that this is happening to and what should she do?’ I wanted it to stop, and I think I knew, on some level, that if I got a message to someone like that, someone of authority, that at the very least, she would tell my friends to tell me what to do.” The police were called. Her stepfather admitted everything and was sent to jail. It was over.

Well, not really.

“My mother made us visit him in jail. We visited in the cafeteria, these super long picnic style tables. I was wearing a dress. She sits on the other side, with my siblings. I’m the only one left sitting next to him. And he’s got me positioned, with a dress on, straddling the picnic style seat, towards him. I can see past him, over his shoulder, that there’s a guard…and there’s one behind me.” She stared at me, and I found myself not wanting to hear what she was going to say next. “He’s got his hand up my dress.” I looked at her, just looking, as there’s truly no words to say. “And no one’s doing anything about it. My mother could see it and she just sat there. And the guards just sat there.” Her voice started to lose some of its breath as she spoke the words “just sat there.” I was starting to lose my breath, too.

I wondered how that would make an eleven year-old girl feel.  I couldn’t imagine. “Worthless,” she whispered. I envisioned a young Melissa, resigned to the fact that there was no one to protect her. No one to trust. We both stared out at the ocean for a bit, sitting in the midst of that heavy memory.

“He came home.”

He came home? I shook my head in disbelief.

Her mother, and the courts, allowed him to return home. No restrictions. Her mother hid behind her good Christian image and forgave him. The only conversation they had about it was that Melissa had to tell her mother if it happened again.

What?

This time, I didn’t have to wonder how that made 12 year-old Melissa feel. “Worthless.” Again. Though, part of her felt happy, because by having her stepfather home, her mother was happy. She loved her mother. Plus, she didn’t feel like she was breaking up the family anymore. Of course, the other part of her was not happy at all. “There’s almost a guilt layer to that, too. You feel guilty for not being happy,” she added. “I was protective of my mother. I was protecting her from knowing what a scumbag she was married to…when I was little, I adored her. I protected her so much more than she ever did me. I’m just saying these words out loud for the very first time. I didn’t even realize that until right now. That I was protecting her. I didn’t even realize that.” She was so strong.

Her step-father tried picking up where he left off, but somehow, she found the courage to not let it happen. She told him no, and it did stop. Finally, someone was sticking up for Melissa. It was herself.

Her mother eventually divorced him. Not because of the abuse. Not for Melissa. No one really knows why. All she knows is her mother arranged for the police to remove him from the home, and he was gone.

Life went on. Melissa ended up marrying, having two children and eventually divorcing. Of course, no one experiences this type of trauma without remnants following them into adulthood. She had depression, and was taking medication. Sometimes, though, that’s just not enough. At one point, she became suicidal. The only thing that stopped her plan was her brother-in-law asking her to check in on his grandmother at the hospital the next day. It’s hard to go through with a plan like that after you’ve promised to check in on someone’s grandma. Don’t forget, grandmas make you sparkle. The plan became derailed. Sometimes, interventions from the universe are as subtle as that.

She began journaling. Writing down her story and emotions was cathartic. After she had collected a few volumes, she decided it was time to confront her step-father. Her mother and brother made the trip with her. She confronted him with all he had done, and all he had taken away from her. He responded with, “yeah, I’m probably going to hell” and then she watched as her mother laughed with him, seemingly trying to get his attention. Her brother said nothing.

Worthless.

Melissa focused on her children, and then herself. Inner strength. She continued writing, and began running as a way to treat her depression. It worked. She ended up completing a marathon. She was choosing to heal, and found her worth. She found love for herself. And true to form, the universe responded appropriately. She met Christian online. Seven years her junior, she didn’t think much would come of it. Yet, here they are, six years later. “The universe gave me everything I needed in a partner, served up to me on a silver platter…someone who’s spiritually connected, ready to have no drama in their life, ready to forge a path, ready to be part of a team…and I didn’t anticipate it. Maybe that’s the best part. I believe that it comes when it’s supposed to come…twenty years earlier? Nope, it wouldn’t have worked then. Not even a little bit.” She laughed. I smiled. I like hearing her talk about Christian.

After joining a gym to try and strengthen her core to prevent running injuries, she noticed some professional body builders, and wondered to herself if she could do it.

Of course she could. Melissa Verdi is strong, remember?

In May 2016, at the age of fifty, she decided to do her first show with Chris as her coach. She came in 4^th place out of four contestants, and earned her first trophy. We laughed. She ended up meeting her current coach, Emily, who she describes as “spiritual and enlightened”…a perfect match. She went on to win her 50+ class in November. “It’s literally…you against you. You can control nothing but what your personal physique looks like when you show up. Which judges are there that day, what they like… and who else shows up, that’s all beyond your control. You only control what you look like and you just hope for the best.” I was impressed. I asked her what she thought fueled her, as this is not just your everyday hobby or outlet. This is a significant and challenging commitment. “I came in second in both my master’s class and my open class. Open class is all ages, so I came in second to a girl that’s in her 20s.” I asked her how it felt to accomplish that. Her face was full of light and confidence as she replied, “Awesome!” She nodded, and we both laughed. “So, I don’t know if it’s that that fuels me, but it’s pursuit of excellence…I know there’s that little girl in me saying ‘I’m going to prove to the world that I am worthy, that I can get on that stage and win’. I know that’s part of what fuels me. And if that’s it, so be it. If that’s the way I’m coping, it’s a lot better than drowning in booze.” She was right. Statistically speaking, it would be expected and common for her to be self-medicating, or exhibiting some other self-harming behavior. “It’s a healthy outlet. It’s actually going to make me want to live longer, instead of wanting to kill myself. And I’m having fun doing it. It’s exciting to me, to meet the next challenge. Some people think it’s crazy, but why does a golfer chase a golf ball around? I think that’s crazy.”

Melissa has come a long way, though she still has days when worth is questionable. “I was feeling it just last week. Literally broke down. Like, I’m just so tired and ….it’s passive suicidality, that what I call it.  Like, I wish I’d just get sick. And I’d chose not to treat it, so I don’t have to do this anymore. And I don’t even remember what the hell I was frustrated about. It’s even little frustrations that can throw me back momentarily, and I get over it a lot quicker than I used to. It’s that little throwback feeling to ‘you’re shit, you’re nothing’…” She snapped her fingers. “I don’t want to be here anymore.” Her fingers snapped again, quickly. “And then I come back out of it, like ‘that’s silly’. It’s almost a weird comfort zone. That place… ‘I’ll marinade in this for a little bit’…” That place is where she feels unworthy. “What used to take weeks to climb back out of takes minutes. Minutes. I see that as progress.” I was nodding my head, as this was just so relatable to me. I talked about how, as human beings, we all have that area of shame within us. Childhood sexual abuse elevates shame levels, but we don’t even have to have experienced trauma for shame to exist. It doesn’t need a big reason, or any reason at all. She agreed. “There’s no person on this planet that walks around happy 24/7. That’s just not a realistic expectation. So if we’re nothing but normal…I feel like if we are learning to cope in as healthy a manner as we can, and we have cognizance of the fact that that’s what we’re doing, we’ve already won, really. It’s an awareness that most people don’t have.” Yes, Melissa. We’ve already won.

“I’d like to be able to let go of the anger a little bit better…I’m angry at my mom.” In January of last year, she wrote her a letter. In it, she held her accountable for all of her actions, or lack thereof, over the years. She wrote, “these are some memories that I can’t let go of.” She was choosing to walk away from her mother. I told her I thought that was courageous. She agreed. “It definitely is. Because the adult me doesn’t need to put up with that bullshit anymore. I have a choice now…and I choose to not be exposed to these people anymore.” Christian told her the most rapid growth he’s seen in her is since she wrote that letter. “I walked on water a little bit, after I sent it, waiting to see what the fallout would be. And there wasn’t any. Which I kind of knew there wouldn’t be…that’s my point, right there.”

“Anger is exhausting to me. It’s a very strong, energy sapping emotion. It makes me tired and I wish I could let it go. I’m working on it.” Some days are easier than others. “Sometimes, I can just see it as she’s just impaired. She’s impaired and she can’t do any better than what she did.” We agreed that this notion somewhat helps one to not take it so personally. Somewhat. “Because if I were someone on the outside looking into the situation, it would be easier for me to say that. ‘Well, she’s just fucked up. It has nothing to do with your worth or self-worth. The mother is just fucked up. End of story.’ But, when you’re the kid, it’s like ‘that’s too easy’…”

And that kid is inside all of us.

I asked her what her inner child needed to hear. She replied, “She’s one of the strongest people I know. Just for her to know that. And that she is worth something. And I guess just to hang on, because better is coming.” She cried, her voice a whisper. “It’s sad. I’m sad for me and I’m sad for her. The abuse was horrible. Don’t get me wrong, but I’ve made peace with it.” We paused for a few moments, making space for the grief, looking at the sailing lessons taking place in front of us. Life going on while we talk about such heavy content. “I always get frustrated with myself for getting so emotional about it, and I don’t know that there will ever come a day that I don’t…I feel like if I can get to the point of being healed…it won’t strike such a harmful chord inside me that it brings me to tears, but maybe that’s unrealistic, too. I don’t know.” Her words express an awareness that often, we don’t end up figuring everything out. “So, that’s how grief is. You come out of it, you live life and you’re happy. And then, you’ll remember whatever it is that you’re grieving and you kind of fall backwards a little…and start crying. I guess that’s okay. That’s the way grief is supposed to be.”

We talked about the balance between healing and pain. “People like us already truly have won. Just that we’re in this space of healing that we’re in, just being aware of it and now being forgiving of the fact that we’re going to have times when we cry, because it’s…sad! And that’s ok, for things to be sad. At the same time, I’m grateful for my grandparents. I am grateful for my boyfriend… I have great relationships with my children, I couldn’t ask for more…I have so much to be grateful for.” Her face looked loved. Relaxed. Peaceful. Worthy. “I feel like it will come full circle. That I just have to live my truth and stay on my path and whatever is meant to come to me will come to me…it’s gonna happen, no matter whether I worry about it or not. It’s just the way it’s supposed to be. At this stage of the game, a big part of my goal is to help others to normalize and heal from their own experiences.”

Spoken like a strong woman, Melissa.

Follow us on Facebook