UPDATE TWO: due to this article, and supported by the other victims who came forward and shared their stories, Columbia College Chicago hired Mayer Brown, a law firm, to conduct an external investigation into both Sam Weller and CCC’s policies and handlings of this specific and other general situations.

On July 8, 2022, CCC sent an email to all faculty, staff, and students notifying them that Mayer Brown’s findings determined that Sam Weller had violated CCC’s sexual harassment and other policies and, as of that day, Sam Weller was dismissed from his tenured position. Additionally, CCC would be revamping its sexual harassment policies and procedures.

Information found here in an article by the Columbia Chronicle.

To put it simply and concisely: thank you. We can effect change if we are bold enough.

UPDATE: Since I wrote this piece, it’s been read and shared a lot. A lot a lot. And I’ll be honest; I never meant for that to happen. This piece was merely “therapy homework.” But here we are. And I want to thank everyone for giving this matter their time as well as the outpouring of love and support that I’ve received. It’s been overwhelming.

I also want to note that, because of this piece, many other women have now come forward, sharing their nearly identical experiences at the hands of Sam Weller (beginning as early as 2008). I’m told they’ve formally reported to the college as well.

And, all of these other victims were his students.

His. Students.

The bravery shown by these women, adding their stories to mine, helped establish a clear pattern of abuse of power and influence by Sam. In response (and completely, totally, utterly independently of me), current students created a petition to have Sam removed from his faculty position. At this moment in time, almost 4K people have signed it.

The petition can be found here: https://www.change.org/p/columbia-college-chicago-hold-sam-weller-accountable?fbclid=IwAR3WyWPLNK1tQX6BUJ3Vb4WQTJVraUtoARVxuRtkIzbIj7OPwgRh35CXq-A

My only goal when I allowed this to be shared, and my only goal now remains, to help others and prevent this from ever happening again.

From my do-gooding, bleeding, and now HEALING heart, thank you.

What Happened To Me

By: Cara Dehnert

This story goes the way most of these stories do.

Sam Weller and I met while serving on an academic committee, early one fall semester. We both taught at an urban arts college in Chicago for a long time, but in different academic departments, so I’d never met him before. He seemed to find that intriguing as, I would soon find out, he enjoys a certain celebrity status in the writing world. If you’re an obsessive Ray Bradbury fan, which I am not, you will recognize his name. (And if so, you know what I mean when I say that I have to imagine that Bradbury’s coattails are in tatters …)

And I didn’t think much of him, initially. A bit loud, I guess. But soon after our first meeting, he messaged me on Facebook and struck up a conversation. This didn’t seem abnormal to me. I’ve always worked in male-dominated, creative industries, and until Sam, I never had any issue regarding inappropriateness with my colleagues. But also, I’m the first to admit that at that moment, my sensor may have been malfunctioning. I was going through a divorce, which was a sad and lonely and vulnerable time in my life. Sam told me he was going through the same: a divorce, children the same age as mine. Very few of my coworkers or even local friends had children, let alone had children and were going through a divorce. I felt like I’d met someone who actually understood where I was in my life.

But his situation was worse, he said. He told me that his wife was abusive to both him and their children. That he had been verbally beaten down and had his possessions destroyed — a sentimental book ripped apart, a dress shirt shredded with scissors. A hole had been punched in his locked bathroom door, his scared daughter hiding behind it.

Why are you still there!? I implored. Because, he said, his wife had suffered horrendous abuse by her stepfather as a child. The situation and the pending divorce were beyond delicate. He had to protect his children. I said I understood, and I thought I did.

I am a mom. I am a lawyer. I know how these things go. I know moms often get the benefit of the doubt. And, in law school, I worked in Child in Need of Care systems in multiple states. My knee-jerk instinct to protect children is blindingly high. My knee-jerk instinct to protect college students who are ostensibly adults is blindingly high. My do-gooder, bleeding heart broke for Sam and his children.

We bonded fast. He seemed to need my support even more than I needed his. I wasn’t so alone, and that felt good.

By early October, he began to pursue me beyond a collegial relationship, but I just wanted a friend who understood the heartbreak of divorce and the challenge of single parenting. Sam did not take no for an answer (which I would soon learn, to my detriment, was a pattern.) He led with professional carrots on sticks. He told me that he knew how to get me tenure, that he had connections in upper administration with the ability to, just, award it. He gave me examples — colleagues I knew who’d received tenure from the same position I was in. I thought, that’s not how tenure works, but he was adamant. And he was tenured. He seemed so sure that I questioned my understanding of my own position and industry. Maybe it was possible? He was in a higher position of power than I, after all. He was quite a bit older and more experienced. He claimed close friendships with the people in the highest positions. He cited examples. Maybe he knew things I didn’t?

But that wasn’t all. He also involved himself in my other projects. His praise for a children’s book I’d written was effusive, and he insisted he was the guy to mentor me regarding finding an agent and getting it published. He had an agent. He was published. Maybe tenure was a stretch, but this promise seemed possible. Likely, even.

Those were attractive carrots; I was listening.

He then moved on to personal advances. He drew me pictures and brought me flowers. He gave me gifts and showered me with compliments. He even managed to almost win over my very circumspect, very skeptical best friend by promising to introduce her to her favorite author. They were close friends, he and the author, Sam said.

With time, this would prove to be another pattern: overpromise, underdeliver. Puffery. In blunt language, he was completely full of shit.

But I didn’t see it. In hindsight, these promises were quite obviously too good to be true. And, in hindsight, I planted myself firmly in my own way. I am smart and accomplished and strong; too smart and accomplished and strong to fall for false things. Therefore, because I believed them, they had to be true.

Hubris has always been a weakness of mine.

What I saw instead was a seemingly accomplished man, a charismatic man offering up his celebrity and his connections and his influence, paying attention to me during such a sad and lonely and vulnerable time. He raved about my talent, and he pushed me with manic energy to be more creative. He played to my ego and acted captivated by my intellect. He told me I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. He said I glowed like the sun. Remember Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch? It was like that. Funny how something so clearly insane can feel so good when you’re inside the insanity. Eye of the hurricane and whatnot.

By November, he’d worn me down. I agreed to date him. In the beginning, it felt consensual.

We took a day trip to Milwaukee where we visited the art museum and drank champagne and ate oysters. Sitting in a reading room at my favorite bar, he told me he loved me. Around Christmas, we met each other’s children. He invited my daughter and me to dinner at his house, and our children got along immediately. His youngest is only a few months older than my daughter. While they raced to the basement and played, he showed me the hole, unconvincingly hidden behind a child’s drawing, punched in the door. I touched the shredded shirt. Physical proof of the abuse he described was right there in front of my own eyes, and I believed him.

Over the next month, Sam charmed my daughter. He befriended my parents, sending my father — a Bradbury fan — personalized books. In January, he brought me along on a trip to Boston to meet with the front man of one of my favorite punk bands who was signing Sam’s books as a promotion. He took me away on a long weekend to Providence as February turned into March where he was a distinguished speaker at a horror writing convention. A nor’easter stomped New England while we were there, trapping us inside the hotel. But that was okay. The hotel, perched atop a hill, was stunning, and as an honored guest, he was provided a suite so we had plenty of space. We laughed a lot. We brainstormed an article for McSweeney’s, comparing famous authors to models of cars. He gave his talks and indulged his fans. Outside, the storm raged; from a window, I watched the wind blow a parked Honda Civic down the road. In a haunting way fitting for HP Lovecraft’s final resting place, it was absolutely dreamy.

But then, after several days in Rhode Island, he told me I was the one for him and asked if I’d move in with him and marry him. He wanted a child with me. He wrote a poem saying the same. After the past few years, I yearned for such a thing, but also hesitated. It had only been a few months; surely, we needed to give it more time. We both needed to follow through regarding our divorces. We needed to do what was best for our children. Children need time. I needed time. He said okay.

Until the trip home. He brought up commitment again, but my position hadn’t changed and this time we had our first true fight. It was too fast, too soon, I said. Couldn’t he see that? His reaction was full of emotional rage. Didn’t I love him? Whom else was I seeing? Yes, I said. What? No one, I said. He got angry and he raised his voice. The outburst came out of nowhere. I was driving; I stopped in the middle Roosevelt Street, made him get out, and I drove home alone.

I was stunned. This exciting, funny, charming, man who I thought embodied le joie de vivre turned so dark so fast. It was disorienting. It felt wrong. I wish I could say I turned off my phone and never spoke to him again. But I didn’t. Afterall, this story goes the way most of these stories do.

Instead, he called and called. I answered. He fell over himself apologizing. He explained that he was under a lot of stress from his divorce and single parenting and protecting his children. He acted badly because of that pressure, he said. Couldn’t I understand? Of course I could. Who hasn’t acted out during times of extreme emotional distress? I know I had. Couldn’t I forgive him? I did.

But after that, Sam changed. He got increasingly volatile and irrational and controlling. He became explosively jealous. He’d lose his temper if I took too long to respond to texts or calls, especially if I was with friends or engaged in a social event without him. Even work dinners were problematic. A woman like me shouldn’t be out alone, he said. I was too attractive. Too funny. Too charming. Other men would hit on me. That sunny glow should be reserved for only him; other men would get the wrong idea.

Of course, he couldn’t accompany me. His wife would surely find out. You know I can’t! he’d cry. He instructed me to stay home instead.

I wouldn’t stay home. He kept pushing. I was too blonde, he said. Too … blonde? That’s just my hair, I countered. I’m of Norwegian descent. I don’t even dye it! Reserve my sunny glow? It doesn’t work that way. I can’t turn it on and off. This is just who I am. And anyway, so long as he trusted me, who cared what other men thought or did?

But he did. He cared. Any man was a perceived threat, and the jealousy returned again and again. He’d berate me, verbally and in text, especially if he’d been drinking and/or had taken pharmaceuticals. He started telling me who I could hang out with and who I could talk to. He got upset that my (soon to be ex) husband still lived in the same house as I, despite having separate rooms. Despite having separate floors, even. I have several close, platonic male friends. To me, they are my brothers, and I love them just the same as I love my biological brother. And in no world was that was okay to Sam. These sibling relationships, so dear to me, were beyond inappropriate. He felt disrespected. How dare I.

Were they inappropriate? I certainly have more close male friends than most women do. I was raised that way; my mom always had male friends too. Was that bad? Was it disrespectful? I didn’t think so. My (soon to be ex) husband had always supported them. But what if Sam was right and my (soon to be ex) husband was a societal outlier because he never minded? Sam said he should have minded. That I wouldn’t have been so lonely in my marriage if he had. I considered it. It felt wrong, but maybe he was right?

As he asserted more and more control over my life, he became less and less forthcoming about the status of his divorce. Several times, I caught him in what seemed like half-truths. He’d say he was going to meet with a divorce attorney or therapist or friend, and then contradict himself regarding where he was or what he’d been doing during that time. As things felt more wrong, doubt crept in. But I kept it at bay, because if Sam was wrong, then I had been wrong too. I leaned into my hubris.

By mid-March, things felt very wrong. He tried to control everything I did and everyone I saw while simultaneously telling me I couldn’t be open and honest with anyone about him, not until he got the details of his divorce settled. It was still delicate. But he told me not to worry, after that it would fine. Better than fine. Being together would be a dream! We’d be a power couple, he promised. We’d co-write books. He’d rent a convertible from the 50s and we’d drive Route 66 together, listening to music and exploring. It would be an adventure. Didn’t I love an adventure? But not yet, he cautioned. Because now, if I told the truth, it would get back to his wife, and she would harm his children. His marriage was over, he assured me, but she could still hurt his girls.

Be patient, he implored. Okay, I said. Because I believed him — I had seen the door; I had touched the shredded shirt — and I of course would never intentionally do anything that would harm children, his or anyone else’s.

But I couldn’t live my life that way either. I am a free spirit and I cannot stand being caged, and I said so. We’d argue, each argument worse than before, following the same pattern of beratement and belittlement and then the apologies and pleading for forgiveness and promises of never again and assurances of love.

Each time, I told myself it would get better, and I even think I still believed it.

I must also own my part. His treatment led to my behaving in ways that are unbecoming and not aligned with who I am. I found myself choosing to be dishonest with my friends about what I was doing when I was with Sam. They were getting increasingly concerned, then distrustful and even angry. And in their distress, they may have caused a bit of innocent mischief (unless Sam’s favorite crackers really are Triscuits and that fact is indeed Wikipedia-worthy. A small joy that still makes me smirk a bit. To whoever made that innocuous edit, thank you for the smile.)

Dishonesty begets dishonesty, and I am no exception.

To those with whom I was dishonest, you know who you are. You know that I am remorseful. And I know that you forgave me, long ago. But let me say it again: from the depths of everything I am, I am sorry.

Then, on March 25, Sam gave me money when my account had been overdrawn and after, demanded sex. Like an exchange. I said no; I felt uncomfortable with that arrangement. To again be blunt, it made me feel like a whore.

C’mon, he said. He took my arm. He slid his other hand down the front of my pants. He leaned in. He said quietly that I owed it to him — for the money, for the help with my book, for the gifts and trips … Besides, we were together, a couple, even if I couldn’t tell anyone. Even if I had to lie to my friends about it. I stepped back but he tightened his grip. It hurt. He pulled me to him. I can never forget. He was wearing a SubPop tshirt and ripped, light-wash jeans, and he smelled of beer. I close my eyes and I’m there. It was evening, dark out already, and we were in his office. The building’s security guard, the only other person I knew was in the building, was 13 floors below us and a million miles away. Sam is bigger and stronger than I, and he had my arm held tightly in one hand and the other hand still down my pants, and we were completely alone. C’mon, he said.

I had no choice. Of that, I am certain. I could relent, or he would take what he wanted, but either way … I relented, looked away, tears silently welling in my eyes and purple turned yellow bruises still visible on my arm long after it was over and the tears had dried.

I reiterated after how I felt. Sam exploded. How DARE I accuse him of something so horrible. He was a feminist! He would never! I was wrong, and there was no further discussion.

Okay, I said as I wilted, arm aching in my long-sleeves.

Things rapidly deteriorated from there. The control got worse, and I settled into fearful acquiesce. I watched, disassociated from myself, as my sunny glow dimmed. I watched as some friends pulled away. Who could blame them?

My divorce was still moving forward. He’d gone mostly silent about his, and if he did talk about it, it was quite clearly not the whole truth. But by then I didn’t question. I no longer argued much. Just get through, I thought. That pressure will ease, and then it’ll be fine. Better than fine. Sam said it would be a dream! We’d be a power couple! We’ll drive Route 66 in an old car with music! We’d have an adventure. I love an adventure. He’d be back to the guy I met in September. The guy I’d finally said yes to in November. The guy who hung out with rock stars in Boston and who wrote me poetry in Providence. This was a just phase caused by situational stress, and it was temporary. It would pass. It had to; I was too smart and too accomplished and too strong for it to be anything else. Hubris still at the wheel.

In May, he told me that his wife found out about me via his credit card statements. She left and their marriage was over. I was surprised that she was still there in the first place. Sam had gotten so upset about my (soon to be ex) husband living under the same roof, yet here he was, doing the same. I was perplexed that they were still in the “find out about” stage. But I was happy about his sudden transparency. He said they had to sort the details, but it was done, and we — he and I — were so close to working it out, so close to being open, so close to honesty, and I felt a lightness that I hadn’t felt in months. He’d go back to being like he was. My friends would understand. They would forgive me when they saw how great things ended up.

He was a wreck, but he was elated too. After almost 20 years of abuse, he was finally free, he said. He told me that his oldest daughter was angry and his youngest daughter was sad, but that his middle daughter said how peaceful their house was without their mother. He said that his therapist sister supported him and us. He said he was anxious and afraid, and he needed me right by his side. And for days, I was. I was up all night, night after night, talking to him and soothing him.

I wouldn’t make it through this if it weren’t for you, he said. Doubt still whispered in my ear, quieter than before yet still there. Careful, it said. But what I said aloud was, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

He arranged to meet his wife for coffee to work out custody and financial and living and other arrangements. He’d call me in an hour when it was done. My hopes lifted. Things were going to get better.

But this story goes the way most of these stories go, and things did not get better. Three hours later, he and his wife called me together to tell me that they weren’t getting divorced, that they were never getting divorced, they’d never actually been separated, she’d never moved out, and that he was never to speak to me again.

I sat there stunned, murmuring okay? over and over. I heard him let out a sob and heard her say, fucking hang up, and when they hung up on me, I stared at my phone for what felt like would be the rest of my life. I went from having every aspect of my life secretly controlled by him to complete, utter, all-consuming nothingness. I could’ve heard a pin drop. I could’ve heard an owl’s wings. And in the silence, I heard my heart storm in my ears like a New England nor’easter, no longer dreamy in a haunting way. In hindsight, it’s quite clear I was in shock.

At midnight, Sam called, but when I answered, the line was dead. The next day he texted that he was in hell. One solitary call with no one on the other end; one text lamenting his own pain. After that, silence.

Everything became blurry.

Finally able to open up, I told a small number of friends, and they enveloped me in love. They circled themselves around me as women do, protective and outraged. A girlfriend flew my daughter and me across the country to her home, and the rest of our coterie dropped everything, traveling from multiple different countries and across oceans to be all together for me and with me. For two weeks, I took shelter in the beautiful Pacific Northwest surrounded by the most selfless women.

I spent the early summer that way. I ran trails in Portland. I hiked mountains in Southern California. I ate freshly caught fish on the beach in Malibu. I drank too much wine on a trampoline in Indiana and stared at the stars and begged them to tell me why. They didn’t answer; stars never do. I clung to my role as mommy and held my daughter. Her sweet five-year-old self couldn’t understand why that man who drew with her and wrote stories with her, whose kids were her friends, was gone.

Can’t I tell him hi? she asked.

No, I said.

Why? she asked.

Because his wife isn’t a nice person, I explained. I still didn’t understand.

In July, I received an email from him. It was full of apologies and “I love you forever”s and “I see you everywhere”s. I broke down and showed it to my parents whom I was visiting. Together, we deleted it.

(I later un-deleted it and added it to a file documenting all of our communication. I may have been a fool, but I’m no idiot. Even at my worst, my legal training kicked in, and I knew that roads like these are long and winding. Who knew where it would lead, and there was always a chance that I’d want proof wherever I ended up. As I write this, I feel relief that my past-self documented it all.

As the saying goes, I kept the receipts.)

But even with the world’s best people’s love wrapped around me, I was gutted. At first, I put my own hurt aside; I was consumed with overwhelming concern for Sam and his children. My friends gently said knock it off; they said, can’t you see? He’s the abuser, not her. Look at what he’s done to you.

But I could not see. Our entire relationship had been built on the foundation that he had been the victim, and I still believed that all of his bad behavior towards me was because of how he’d been treated in his marriage. I still believed that he wanted to leave and that he was being forced to stay for reasons I couldn’t comprehend. I could not accept that I had actually just been the other woman in the affair of an immature, selfish man. My intentions had been pure; I believed his had too.

I had heard the venom in his wife’s voice when she said, fucking hang up, so I didn’t dare try to get ahold of him beyond leaving two voicemails on his office line, which I doubted he’d even receive. But despite my very best efforts, I couldn’t leave it alone. I was too worried. My do-gooder, bleeding heart, working against me. I reached out to a friend of his; someone whom I didn’t know but someone he had said he’d confided in over the years. This friend is an angel on earth, and someone I am fortunate enough to now call my friend. She has become someone whom I get to love dearly.

There are always silver linings if you look hard enough, life said.

We met and both immediately felt a connection. We began piecing together the truth. Which wasn’t easy; there were so many lies. Not about small things or half-truths either. Big things. About everything. He had even exploited her husband’s battle with cancer in his lies.

That finally drove it home for me: he lied about a good man suffering from cancer, dishonestly using such a condition to his advantage, and I fell for it. So much for smart and accomplished and strong. I knew then and there that my friends had been right; nothing about Sam was real or true or good. He was a poser and a fraud. I didn’t have tenure. I didn’t have an agent and my book wasn’t published. My best friend had not been introduced to her favorite author. He was a liar, and all his lies left me with only nothingness. There was no fine. There was no dream. There was no power couple. There was no happy ending, no old car on a Route 66 road trip with music. This had been the adventure all along?

Maybe I didn’t care so much for adventures after all.

As the shock wore off and my head cleared, the reality of what had happened became vivid. Fear set in. If he was able to lie so effortlessly and so frequently, if he had no problem holding my arm tightly enough to bruise with one hand and sliding the other down my pants saying, c’mon, when I said no, if he would exploit cancer — all while things were good — what would he be capable of now? I quaked at the thought.

When on campus, I was afraid of my own shadow. Sam had had a habit of showing up unexpected to my classes with flowers. He’d have me guest speak in his classes and surprise me with a gift halfway through. It had been unnerving then; what must have the students thought? And now! What if he showed up now? He knew where my office was. He knew how to access my schedule. He knew where I’d be.

I began to actively find ways to avoid going to work.

But that didn’t alleviate my fear. He also knew where I lived. He knew where my daughter went to school. Independent of me, he’d spent time in Oklahoma where I’d grown up. He had my parents’ address from sending them books. He’d been a frequent visitor of Dallas where I lived between college and law school. Nowhere felt safe. Not even Texas!

I thought about going to the police, as if Chicago PD had nothing else to do. I reached out to HR and made an appointment, but I canceled it. I was genuinely terrified that if I went public in any way, I would lose my job. After all, he was tenured; I wasn’t. He had connections with high up administration; connections powerful enough to just award tenure. He had been adamant about that. And I was still going through a divorce; I needed my job. Plus, I loved my job. My job had been my safe space. How cruel that he took that from me.

Further, I was afraid of public backlash. I’ve seen what happens to victims and their families who come forward with such things. Christine Blasey Ford was all over the news. Justice Kavanaugh was confirmed to the US Supreme Court, and Blasey Ford went into hiding. I’d seen the fervor of some of Sam’s fans at the horror convention in Providence. Horror fans are no strangers to darkness. I didn’t want my young, innocent daughter getting death threats. I didn’t want to get death threats myself. Wasn’t I going through enough?

I remained silent.

It was a long, dark year, emotionally white-knuckling it, full of guilt and shame and jumping at any sudden noise or unexpected movement. Time ran together and events blurred. A fair amount of that year’s memories are hazy. Just survive, I told myself. I struggled to sleep. I suffered from nightmares. I self-medicated with alcohol (I’ve now stopped drinking entirely.) But I slowly uncurled and began to reach out. I confided in the rest of my friends. I told my (soon to be ex) husband, who hugged me and who cried with me and who attempted to shoulder the blame. Absolutely not, I said. I want to be crystal clear — my (now) ex-husband is a very good man; none of this was his fault.

My parents couldn’t stand to see the books Sam had gifted them, and since Sam had boasted about their alleged high value, they looked to sell them. To their surprise, they found that not only were the books essentially worthless, a signed and numbered copy of a limited edition (and therefore individually identifiable) had been stolen from a library! Disgusted, they returned the stolen book to its rightful home and discarded the rest.

Everyone said the same thing; it wasn’t my fault. But I couldn’t yet hear that. I still felt responsible. Like I had deserved it. I wasn’t a victim; I was a volunteer. Hubris refusing to let go.

Then my world changed: I started dating my partner. We had been friends for years, and I’d known his family since his brothers and I were kids growing up together. They were good; they were safe. They wouldn’t hurt me. And he had witnessed the decline in my emotional health. Once I opened up to him, he recognized immediately that I was suffering from a deep, significant trauma. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that what happened to me was not consensual. It had never been consensual. Sam used his power and charisma and celebrity and experience and age in a coercive way. He had taken advantage of my sadness and loneliness and vulnerability. Predators love a lamed prey.

And March 25 was rape, full stop.

He stood firmly against my excuses and justifications, my self-blame crashing without impact against his unmovable and absolute certainty. He countered every “I was in control!” ethos with evidence to the contrary. He agreed that I was indeed smart and accomplished and strong, and yet, this bad thing had happened to me and it wasn’t my fault. These two things could both be true … He essentially Good Will Hunting’d me.

And it worked. I finally believed that maybe I didn’t do this. He found a therapist specializing in sexual assault trauma and EMDR treatment, and he made me an appointment. I didn’t want to go, but I did. And then I went again. And again. My therapist taught me about grooming. And love bombing. And victim-blaming. And gaslighting. And the cycle of abuse. She’d seen it all before. She told me I certainly wasn’t the first; she said men like that know what they’re doing. Sure, I had missed red flags. I had even wrapped myself up, tight and cozy, in the biggest one of all — the directive to lie to my loved ones. But everyone misses red flags, my therapist assured me. Other women are smart and accomplished and strong. Like them, I too was smart and accomplished and strong. There wasn’t just nothingness and silence remaining. I still had everything. And I wasn’t alone.

Only then did I start facing the effects of Sam’s abuse. My performance at work was suffering because I was too afraid to even be there. Many of my friendships were still suffering because they didn’t understand what had happened to me, only that I had behaved uncharacteristically. And, I realized, my silence was making it more likely that Sam would have the opportunity to do this again to someone else. Perhaps a student. Perhaps someone who didn’t have such a supportive family or loving, caring network of friends or (ex) husband. Or a partner who insisted I see the truth and accept myself.

That idea was intolerable to me. My do-gooder, bleeding heart insisted that if I could help someone else, I must.

I decided to act, both to get my life fully back on track and to protect others. In December, I acknowledged the decline in my performance at work and I told my Department Chair why. She, like everyone else, was overwhelmingly supportive. She listened. And she believed me. It’s amazing, the relief that comes from the simple act of being believed. And she encouraged me to escalate it farther to HR. So I did. Again, I made an appointment, and this time I followed through. I had a long, tear-filled meeting where I told my whole story. HR asked what I wanted; did I want him fired? I said, I want for this never to happen again to anyone else. Okay, HR said. But if HR ever did anything, I am not aware of it. Maybe they did, and I wasn’t informed. COVID hit a month later; maybe an unprecedented global pandemic derailed everything and now it’s too late. I don’t know.

Meanwhile, my daughter and I COVID-moved home to Oklahoma City to be with my partner. A few months later, my now ex-husband moved too, and I am proud to say we walk the walk. Everything we do, we do in the best interest of our daughter. And it has made us better friends and stronger co-parents. Our respective partners and all our extended families are close as well; one big happy family, and at the center, our daughter. Children first, the way it should be. It is an uncommon situation, but a happy and healthy one for all involved.

I quit my position in Chicago and took one at a university in Oklahoma. Everything is better. I am proud of my job performance. My relationships with everyone in my life are positive and healthy and honest. I am no longer sad or lonely or vulnerable.

My partner tells me I glow like the sun, and that I should share that glow with everyone around me.

As for the wife and the abuse, I cannot say what is real. I saw the hole in the door, I touched the shredded shirt, I held the stolen book. But as it goes with too many of these stories, I do not know what is true and what is not. I do not know who was the abuser, or if there ever even was one. And if those tales were just more lies, then to Sam’s wife, I am deeply sorry, for having believed them and for all the decisions I made relying on them and for the harm that surely caused. I have no doubt that I am the villain in your story. And that’s okay.

But I don’t know if those tales were lies. All I know is what Sam showed me and told me, and that this story I’m telling now is my truth.

But life moves on, and today, I feel overwhelmed with gratitude towards my loved ones. Thank you. Thank you to literally a score of friends who showed up strong, even when I was at my worst with them. Thank you to my new friend, my angel on earth. Thank you to my parents and ex-husband who listened to me with love and absolutely no judgment. Thank you to my therapist. Thank you to my former Department Chair, who believed me.

Thank you to everyone who believes me.

And above all, thank you to my brilliant and fiercely protective partner, so sure of himself and of me. My rugby-playing litigator with an overdeveloped sense of justice. I am no longer afraid as I don’t have much to fear with him standing beside me.

But like too many of these stories, this one doesn’t end, nice and tidy, all wrapped up in a pretty bow. I still struggle to sleep. I still have nightmares. I still care and worry about Sam’s children. But now, I can look my daughter in the eye and say, this bad man did this bad thing to me, but I’m still here. I’m smarter and more accomplished and stronger than ever.

And the next chapter of my story glows like the sun.