I have a confession to make. I recently met a man named Pat. A mutual friend of ours had arranged for us to play some fun tennis doubles. There were four of us in the group and I was the only woman.

The day was promising to be a beautiful one. The kind where the sky was shockingly blue and the air was nice and dry. We were enjoying ourselves immensely. Pat was witty and engaging. I laughed at his jokes because they were funny and I gave him a high-five when he smashed an overhead.

He responded by swatting my butt.

He used his racquet and he did it playfully, but his action made me freeze. I imagine my eyebrows probably arched high into my hairline out of sheer incredulousness, but I can’t be positive. I know I cringed inwardly. I know it made me feel uncomfortable and confused. Instead of calling attention to his action, though, I know I stayed quiet.

He interpreted my silence as permission. So he did it again. Three more times. I deliberately moved as far away from him as I could after points and between changeovers. The final time, he used his bare hand. Yet, I still said nothing.

Why?

I had a discord of voices shouting in my brain. There was the voice of a little girl who said, “Respect your elders.” The voice of a young woman who endured this kind of treatment in nearly every job she held, whispered, “It’s fine. You’ve had worse things happen.” The mature adult voice faltered and warned, “You don’t want to be the over reactor. He’s harmless. You don’t want to be the one ruining the fun.” The voice of a mother of three daughters screamed, “You just perpetuated the problem by saying and doing nothing! You failed the test.”

Our group finished playing, shook hands, and then I made a huge detour to avoid any further physical contact. I came home, ashamed and disgusted with myself. I told my husband and daughters what happened and they stared at me, jaws hanging open, in absolute disbelief.

You see, by no means am I a shrinking violet. I’m feisty and fierce. I don’t pick fights, but I also don’t step down when challenged. I’ve raised my daughters to stand up for themselves, to have self respect, to say “no” or “stop” with power and conviction. So why did I let Pat put his hands on me?

Here’s the reason.

I am part of the generation that grew up with a “boys will be boys” mentality. Where “grab ‘em by the pussy” is disgusting, but not shocking. Haven’t we all been grabbed there or somewhere else on our bodies? This is what we have learned to accept and expect. This is our normal.

Fresh out of college, I landed a job in publishing. My first boss pinned me in the corner of an elevator and he asked me to kiss him. I didn’t, but the memory remains vivid and it makes me squirm to this day. My third job, the founder of a multi-million dollar company took advantage of a dark bus ride to a corporate event to slide his hands up my skirt. That same night, a different executive followed me back to my hotel room and he asked to be let in so we could “talk.” He was persistent and I ended up running down the hotel corridor to get away. I can go on, but you get the point. What was I wearing? A modest black suit. Did I report the incidents? No, I did not.

Current statistics are still alarming. According to RAINN, there are over 400,000+ documented victims of rape and sexual assault in the United States each year. Only four out of ten rapes get reported. One in every six women will be the victim of rape or attempted rape in her lifetime.

So, what do these statistics mean to me? Sure, I know dozens of women who have been assaulted. We’ve all survived. We are resilient creatures. We’ve learned to hide our scars and wounds. But I have three daughters. The likelihood that one of them will be assaulted is strong. This thought keeps me awake at night.

I don’t hate men and I don’t think all men are bad. I am tired of being on guard, though. If I smile too big or laugh too hard, will it be misconstrued as flirting? I am also wary of both men and women who despise the #MeToo movement. They want it to go away. Well, you know what? So do I, and so do millions of others. But the only way that is going to happen is if we speak up. We need to keep the dialogue going until we eradicate the cultural disease feeding on generations of innocent victims.

And if I ever see Pat again, my voice will be a roar.