My DNA changed last night. Every molecule new and different and stronger.

Safe Connections, the non-profit who provided me free trauma therapy, asked me to be the featured speaker at their yearly fundraising event. It’s one that helps them stay afloat for the following year, to better support the men and women they serve. And, yes, they serve men. Because men are abused too. But, more importantly, the people they serve need the support of locals to continue saving lives. Every year they host an event called Voices Ending Violence. It’s a free dinner event and people are asked to donate money at the end.

As you all know, I haven’t shared my true identity with you. Some know it and others don’t, but it’s not safe for me to discuss my abuse openly as myself. Mike, my abuser, still lives free in society. He’s still successful and still has connections. And, sometimes, he still finds me in my nightmares. To combat this while still further educating society on abuse, I’ve used this pen name since 2010. So, last night I spoke as Sarafina Bianco.

But I attended the event as myself.

This, in part, was to continue ensuring my own safety.

The week before, I went back to Safe Connections and taped my speech. The plan? The night of the event they would post my “Fina” picture on the screens and people would listen to my story, without me having to risk my safety. Meanwhile, I would be sitting in the audience, listening to my own voice while the rest of the room heard it for, quite possibly, the first time.

Upon arriving I saw my individual therapist for the first time since I graduated. It was one of the moments I looked most forward to, to be honest. Although it was great to graduate and feel healed, there are parts of me that will always miss her. After all, she’s stood beside me through this process longer than most. Longer than my husband has been around or long before The House on Sunset was started. And so, seeing her and hugging her brought me more closure. That, in and of itself made the night worth it to me.

As dinner was served and the program began, the audience acknowledged the founders, current and past board members, advocates and long-time supporters. We heard from the president of the organization and a board member. Just as our plates were picked up, I was introduced.

Except nobody stood at the podium.

That’s when my voice took over the room. That’s when people were forced to stop and listen, instead of being distracted by my face or my movement. Only my voice. Sharing my story. Applauding them for their service and encouraging them to donate generously.

While this happened, I was able to take in their response. To see  people at each table shake their heads in disgust or sigh when it became too real. And you could have heard a pin drop. Truly. It’s very surreal to sit and listen to yourself share your story, while simultaneously able to take in every second of the audience’s response in real time. But I got to do that last night, and it was one of the best moments I’ve ever experienced. One of the sweetest victories I’ve ever felt.

The truth is, ever since I released THOS I haven’t truly appreciated it or felt pride. Mostly because, even though the reviews are good and arms have reached out to me, I haven’t physically seen a response to my story. Last night gave that to me. I couldn’t ignore what I’d done. And that was truly what I needed. I realized this in the middle of the presentation and began to feel incredibly emotional. Not because it was too much to hear myself or I was uncomfortable, but because I was physically feeling the things I’ve wanted since before writing my book. And it took everything to stop myself from crying then and there, and giving up my true identity to the 400 other guests in the room.

At the end, I regained my composure and pushed on.

But do you clap for yourself once it’s over? 

That question was one I battled. Do I risk looking ungrateful or moved? Is it weird to clap for yourself? 

But I was left with no choice when the audience decided to give the anonymous party-goer a standing ovation. So there I sat, next to my husband and across from my therapist, as 400+ applauded my story without truly knowing who I was or where I was. And I had to stand for myself and clap.

I clapped. And I felt it. I felt the joy and the sorrow and the overwhelming sense this was the beginning of a new life for me. The end of all-things-recovery. For me to share myself that way, it meant that I was whole and healthy and happy. And it meant I was helping other people.

At the end of the night, the event coordinator hugged me tight.

“We’ve never had anyone get a standing ovation. You did this, Fina. YOU.”

I woke up this morning feeling their applause. I can still see it happening. And I never want to lose this feeling again.

Because, holy shit, I’ve come a long way.