Thirty-five years ago this week, when we were teenagers, my brother made an off-handed remark that rocked my whole world. In a conversation with our mother, he said he only hated one person in the world, and he was pretty sure I hated him, too.

Hate is a harsh word. Mom urged us not to hate, and I quietly reserved hate for the one who had abused me the worst – my uncle. When Rich uttered those words, something inside of me shattered. Until that very moment I’d never considered that anyone other than myself had been victimized by my uncle.

As it turned out, my brother’s remarks were completely unrelated – weeks later he noted he had been referring to a classmate who was bullying him. Had I known, I would have stepped in and thumped the bully. I was not particularly nice to my brother, but I was protective of him.

But I thought he was referring to our uncle, and these words were a call to action. I hated myself for not having realized sooner, whether it was my brother or any other child. I knew it was now my job to thump a different bully. An adult bully. One who had told me for years that if I told anyone what he was doing, they’d simply hate me for being a liar.

I loaded a gun that day. The simple answer was to take him out. I’d never felt such intense rage in my life. Ultimately, I unloaded the gun and put it away, sobbing from feelings I still can’t completely name. If I shot our uncle, I’d go to jail – and wouldn’t be able to protect my brother from my parents or the school bullies. He’d be alone in the world. I couldn’t do that.

In the coming days I tried to figure out what to do, but there was no right answer. I loaded that same gun a couple more times, imagining a tortuous death in pieces parts. Every time, I’d picture my brother facing his other tormentors alone. I couldn’t report my uncle – I didn’t know for sure what my brother had endured. How does a kid report a suspicion that someone else is being abused? I suppose you go to a trusted adult – preferably a parent – but my parents were part of the problem. I was lost.

I finally went to a school counselor and shared my own story, trusting that even though everyone would think I was lying there would have to be an investigation. Maybe my uncle would leave my brother alone. I was believed, and my uncle was arrested. While my brother’s remarks had been about a classmate, he was indeed being abused as I had been.

Reporting led to other arrests – there were other victims, and an interstate trafficking ring. Reporting was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. In some ways it was more traumatic than the abuse itself. The ensuing court hearings, community betrayal and family drama were devastating, but I did get some help. I am proud of myself for how I played this hand, only wishing I’d realized what to do before so many people were hurt.

Sharing our stories can let other know they are not alone, but also, it can be an act of heroism. We never know who or how we might help by simply telling our truth. Someone is waiting to hear what you have to say.