Jed Wolf

The news about Jerry Sandusky, the convicted serial child molester and retired college football coach, denying his abuse of 10 boys over 15 years triggers memories I can’t escape. I received my first “secret gift” from a babysitter at age five. The perpetrators may not understand what drives them to abuse children, but I understand the aftermath: a childhood haunted by secrets, decades of depression that feels like an interminable heart cancer.

Today this cancer is flaring up, so I choose to speak rather than hide. Our society is seriously ill, yet we remain trapped in cycles of shame, polarization, and horror at each other. We need to talk about healing – both personal and societal – rather than waiting for miracles or refusing to face uncomfortable truths.

For survivors of sexual abuse, forgiveness becomes a complex necessity – not for the perpetrators’ sake, but for our own sanity. As I carry my “secret gift,” I find myself pondering Molière’s words while listening to this morning’s news:

“My hate is general, I detest all men; some because they are wicked and do evil, others because they tolerate the wicked, refusing them the active vigorous scorn, which vice should stimulate in virtuous minds.”

I’ve tried prayer. I’ve tried speaking out, but nothing has brought the satisfaction, justice or change I seek. For someone like me, unlike Molière, punishment doesn’t feel justified or sufficient to address the unseen damage which would be far easier to handle if society wasn’t so shame-based. I’d like to make a difference but have given up the hope of witnessing true accountability or true healing in anyone besides myself.

They say not being cynical takes heart. But when our hearts carry decades of secrets, trust is a joke and cynicism is all that’s left, where else can we go it alone?