Was I too old? Last week I celebrated my fiftieth birthday. It’s been almost 30 years since I was sexually assaulted by a stranger in Paris, where I was living and working as a nanny the year after graduating from college.

It’s been more than five years since I began writing a book about my experience, Toward the Light: A Year in Paris.

I sometimes wonder why it took me so long to write this book.

I hear myself say, “It’s too late. You’re too old.”

The voice is familiar. Fear is her name. She drops by often, doing her best to keep me safe. I’ve gotten better at recognizing her tone over the years. And I’ve learned that I can’t simply ignore her or tell her to go away. I have to be kind and listen. And then choose not to believe every word she says.

When Fear shows up and I realize she’s in the room (which doesn’t always happen right away), I do my best to stop. I listen. Then feel my body breathing. I feel the aliveness that is me. And I allow a kinder, more loving voice to speak.

Some might call this voice God. Some may call it High Self, or Light, or Love, or Wisdom. No matter what it’s called, it is a voice of Truth.

That voice tells me it’s never too late, and I’m not too old.

That voice reminds me that I didn’t have what I needed to write this book 10 years ago, or 20 years ago. It’s only in the last few years that I have begun to fully grasp the effect of trauma on the mind, body and spirit. That knowledge has allowed me to release the shame I carried for so long, and instead see my 22-year-old self through eyes of love.

Time has gifted me with the wisdom to write my story.

There is no expiration date for my story—or anyone else’s. It doesn’t lose its meaning or its potential to help others find healing just because the events of the book took place years ago. As a survivor of trauma, there is no “getting over it.” There’s no forgetting. There is only integrating, learning, and continuing on the spiral of becoming. Writing my story now has been another turn on that spiral, another layer of healing.

I’ve been writing—stories, plays, journal entries, letters, poems, essays, and books—since I can remember. I’ve still got a notebook of stories from sixth grade, with gems like “A Bewitched Kite?” and “Roller Skating Dragons.” My creativity and my desire to express myself with words hasn’t disappeared because I’ve reached a certain age.

The introduction of my book is a letter to my nieces, an expression of my desires for their own lives. Helping the next generation realize the wisdom that comes with hindsight over time is an important lesson to pass on, especially at this moment in our collective history. We can speculate how living through a pandemic might affect young children, adolescents and young adults, but we have no idea what lessons any of us might glean from these days of quarantines and social distancing in ten or twenty years.

These lines from a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke come to mind:

You have not grown old, and it is not too late

To dive into your increasing depths

Where life calmly gives off its own secret

Rilke, and my own inner voice of Wisdom, remind me I’m not too old, and it’s never too late to explore the depths of who I am, to push the boundaries of my creativity, to experiment and to dare.

Let me know what you think. Comment below or connect with me on social media.