I Loved A Boy Who Said He Loved Me Back. 

Written By: Kat Kerr

Seventeen. So wide eyed, hopeful and open hearted - the way you are at that age. I was the little girl that believed in fairytales and the love you saw within them. I believed in love the way you do before it teaches you otherwise - love that lasts forever and love that can fix anything and everything. I thought that loving someone meant giving them your all, even if that meant giving up parts of yourself. I thought that happily ever after was guaranteed if you loved someone hard enough, purely enough, and without reservation.

At seventeen, I fell so deeply in love in a way that felt like destiny. Love felt like a promise that the world had already gifted me.

 He was easy to admire - almost magnetic. The captain of the hockey team. Smart. Charismatic. Going somewhere. To me, he was my dream guy. My best friend. Someone I trusted blindly without fault. I felt chosen. Lucky. As if I had won something prestigious. 

Little did I know that those redeeming qualities - that golden boy shine - would quickly and silently transform into instruments of harm, permanently altering the trajectory of my whole entire life. 

The abuse didn’t announce itself and there was no singular moment when my world came crashing down. It crept in quietly but consistently, disguising itself as something else. Jealousy looked like devotion. Control felt like protection. Boundaries crossed so gradually, I didn’t notice that I had lost them until I had none left. He knew how to love in a way that captivated and trapped, but he also knew how to hurt in ways that left irreversible scars. 

There were moments that his actions were anything but gentle. There were times that I was scared. Really, really scared. But it wasn’t those moments of fear that caused me to slowly wither away. 

His words cut like daggers - saying not your everyday insults but words that made sense. Particularly the words that would weaponize my adoption against me, giving me every reason why I did not deserve my place here on earth. His words became burrowed deep inside my mind before becoming my own personal inner-dialogue. They became the voice I heard when I looked in the mirror, when I made a mistake and when I tried to do something brave. I began to question myself, before I questioned him. I learned to justify the unease, and I believed my own discomfort was immaturity.  The words were constant and relentless until they had rewrote my reality and who I knew myself to be. He didn’t just tell me I was worthless - he wholeheartedly made me believe I was worthless. 

At the young age I was, I did not yet understand how the world shields the powerful. I did not yet grasp that status can function as armor and charm can blur the line between care and control. I did not yet understand that harm rarely announces itself as harm. More often than not, it looks like someone familiar - someone trusted - someone impressive. 

By the age of nineteen, I stood at a crossroads that would go on to reshape my entire life. I could no longer pretend that my silence was protecting anyone. Not him, not me, and not anyone else who followed. I naively came forward, unaware of the tortuous road that lay ahead of me. 

I came forward not to punish. Not to destroy. But because I believed that accountability and compassion could coexist. We were nineteen years old - still so young, still becoming who we were meant to become. I believed in second chances and I believed that people could learn and become better than their worst moments. Especially at nineteen years old. 

But he was an active police cadet at the time, on the cusp of creating a career that centred around trust and protection. At that point, it was no longer just a fight for my own personal protection, but also a fight for my own community's protection and the young hearts that live within.  

I believed that speaking the truth could change the direction of a future. That if I spoke up, there would be a pause - long enough for accountability to arrive before power did. 

I was wrong. Devastatingly, irreversibly wrong. 

I started an investigation. I sat in rooms and answered questions about the moments my brain was actively trying to block out. I did everything that I was supposed to do. I told the truth. 

In the end, no charges were pursued. He was sworn in and handed a powerful badge. A firearm then followed. And because my complaint involved someone within the department, no lawyer would return my call. 

Both him and the system moved forward with confidence as if nothing ever happened. I did not. What broke me most was not just the outcome, but the disorientation that followed. I lost footing in my reality - as if the hurt he had caused had just been validated by something larger, something official. I felt crazy. As if the doubts he had planted finally found proof. 

Growing up you’re taught that if you have an emergency, call 911 - they’ll be there to help! I had thought that systems like this existed to protect people like myself. Realizing that this is not always true was destabilizing in a way that I wish I did not know existed. It felt like being harmed all over again, except this time with procedure, paperwork and authority. 

My world was flipped upside down. Again. I did not feel believed. At the time, I was a quiet, shy girl - small in stature and in voice, trying to navigate a world that I barely understood, standing opposite to someone that the world had already deemed worthy. It was easier to paint me as the liar than to confront the chilling truth that I carried.

 The pain didn’t stop there, it rippled. The after effects of the investigation were just as painful as the events that were being investigated. I lost people - people that I wholeheartedly thought would stay, it shattered my sense of belonging and my faith in fairness. 

I don’t believe in living with a heart filled with regret. I try to find meaning and learning in every chapter of life. Yet still, part of me will always really regret confiding in the police department. Not because I regret coming forward and speaking my truth - I’m proud of myself for that,  but because of how little my truth mattered once it entered the system. When a system fails to protect you and protects the person who caused the harm over you, that wound cuts differently. It doesn't bruise. It cuts through every layer of who you know yourself to be, all while rearranging how you see yourself and the world as you once knew it to be. It’s the kind of betrayal that permanently steals parts of yourself that were never up for sale. 

After the dust had settled and after everything had been so viciously stolen from me, I was left in a body that no longer trusted the world that was moving around me. My heart skipped a beat at noises most don't even notice and my stomach still twists at the sight of a uniform and the sound of sirens. I learned to scan rooms before entering, to notice who held power and who I needed to shrink myself for. 

From the outside looking in, most would say “what a bubbly and bright young lady”. I learned how to smile on cue, how to reassure people that I was “okay”, and how to move through life without being asked too much. But on the inside, I felt numb, paralyzed - suspended somewhere between what had happened, and what I was expected to do next. The world expected me to continue on as if something hadn't just been fundamentally broken, and I did my best to meet that expectation. 

I realized I had two choices : I could stay trapped inside myself, swallowed by fear and sorrow, or I could take a chance on life. I could step into the world and pour that fear, that sadness, into something alive, meaningful and adventurous. I chose the latter.

So I ran. Not away from life but into it. Gravitating towards working with youth and the fascinations that the world has to offer. Chasing places some people only dream of - cities that sparkled with possibilities, forests that whispered ancient secrets, and mountains that loomed like challenges I was determined to climb. I even had my own fairytale moment when I had thrown the ring that was gifted to me off of my balcony in Milan, Italy. It was my way of saying “you can’t hurt me anymore”. 

 Along the way, I found my heart and my reasons to smile in working with children. The kids lit me up and healed me in a way that I’ll never fully be able to put into words. They reminded me of the parts of myself that I thought I had lost: curiosity, wonder, laughter and their steadfast belief in the goodness of the world and in people. Their trust, their joy and their pure love became a mirror and my sense of purpose. They needed warmth, attention and patience, and in giving them that, I learned that I miraculously still have the capacity to love, to nurture and to still hold softness. Even when the world tried to harden me. 

Traveling became my escape. My way of finally feeling okay again, after something not okay. I watched the world open itself back up to me, in ways that I had completely forgotten was possible. At first it felt like freedom. That I could outrun the heaviness I felt in my chest. That I could lose myself in the rhythm of the new streets, the chatter of strangers and the unfamiliar skies. It worked really well for a while. 

However, no matter how fast I ran, the echoes of betrayal could run faster. I later had to learn the harsh life lesson that you can run from your life problems, but you can’t hide from them forever. I had to come face to face with my biggest fear and finally stop to confront what I had been running from for so long. My body, my mind and my heart were demanding answers and a way forward. It was then at the age of just twenty-two, that I was finally given a label for the chaos that was living inside of me : Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A diagnosis that shattered me - and with it went every illusion that I had carefully built to convince myself I was fine. For years I whispered to myself that it wasn’t that bad, that I was strong enough to manage. That diagnosis didn’t just challenge that belief -  it dismantled it entirely. 

Facing what I had been running from wasn’t instantaneous and it most certainly was not linear. It was slow, terrifying and always humbling. I began to understand what my body had been trying to tell me for years - that what happened to me was real. Really, really real. The racing heart. The loss of self. The twisting in my stomach. What I had thought was weakness was actually evidence. Evidence of a nervous system that had rewrote itself to survive - protecting me in the only way it knew how, all while simultaneously betraying me in ways that I hadn’t fully yet understood. The diagnosis did not undo what had been done to me, but it did validate it. Eventually offering me grounding and language for the lonely road I had been walking on for so long.

Two years after my life changing diagnosis, with distance, maturity and language for my experience, I chose to return back to the very same space that had once swallowed me whole. Not because I expected justice to arrive late, but because I needed to sit there as myself - strong, steady, informed and no longer unsure of my own reality. It was the hardest meeting I will likely ever have, but also a meeting that I now hold the utmost gratitude for. 

I sat across from my past investigator who had previously decided not to pursue criminal charges and a new one - both aware of the gravity of my situation as we explored the idea of reopening my case. 

Before going into that meeting, I knew that the odds were not in my favour. I was up against a system that was far bigger than myself and was nowhere near as powerful as the individuals within. But I had promised myself two things before going into that meeting : first being that I was not going to go down without a fight ; and second, that I was going to honor the person that I am, by choosing to not fight my fight with anger in my heart. 

The weight of the space pressed on me in ways I hadn’t fully anticipated. The room was neutral, safe by design but the echoes of the past still lingered. Yet I was no longer that small, soft spoken, uncertain little girl. I was a powerful and confident young woman who carried a silent strength in every word that she spoke. I spoke slowly, deliberately and with clarity in a way I hadn’t done so years prior. 

As the meeting unfolded, it became clear that the lack of justice in my situation was not a result of a single person's decision, but a system that has its limitations. Original time stamps are very important and so are witnesses. Just because you can hold it on your own - does not mean that you should. Physical proof matters. 

I listened. I understood. And then something shifted - both in myself and in my investigators. The investigator's eyes looked at me differently. Not with pity. Not with skepticism. But with belief. They believed me. They finally believed me. I could visibly see in their eyes that they wanted to help me - they just couldn’t. 

Before leaving the meeting room, with tears swelling from my eyes, I locked eyes with my past investigator one final time and said “Please don’t feel bad. It’s not your fault.”. A sentence that seemingly made time stop. I was not going to hold a single individual accountable for a failure that I knew was systemic. If I were to pick a moment in my life that I am most proud of, it would be this moment. Choosing grace over anger and integrity over resentment. 

I did not walk out of that meeting with the justice that I had hoped for. But I did walk out with my head held high, my dignity still in-tact, and the quiet knowledge that I faced my past on my own terms. In a world that had once tried to silence me, I not only survived - I had reclaimed myself.

And finally, with the voice that I have righteously reclaimed, there is someone I still need to speak to.  

A message to the person that has hurt me most :

It’s been seven years since our story ended. Not neatly, not with understanding - but like a door forced shut in the middle of a sentence. Time has done what time does - it has moved forward - however, my body did not get that same memo. The memories of you are sharp, fluorescent,  and always on.  

I have wondered more times than I can count, what it would be like if we ever got the chance to sit face-to-face again. No uniforms. No malice. No excuses. Just two people and the truth. 

I’ve carried questions for you. Questions that live in the quietest corners of my mind and scream loudest during sleepless nights. 

1. Why. Why did you do this to me? 

2. Did you mean the cruelty, or were you just chasing the high of causing pain? 

3. Was I ever a source of love to you, or just a source of adrenaline and control? 

4. When you watched my light slowly start to dim - because you did watch - what did that make you feel? Satisfaction? Power? Or even a flicker of shame? 

5. If you ever go on to have a daughter, and someone does this to her, what will you tell her? Will you protect her, or will you validate him? 

6. When you picture success, does that include being a good hearted man? Or just a powerful one? 

And lastly, the question that matters most, given the power you now carry: 

7. Do you believe what you have done to me is against the law? 

I want you to sit with this next part. Don’t run from it. Let it land where it wants to land. 

You hurt me. Badly. 

Not in a romanticized rom-com kind of way, but in a way that has a diagnosis attached to it. The kind of hurt that leaves practitioners speechless -  in rooms where nothing is supposed to surprise them anymore. That is the scale of devastation that you have caused. 

You did not kill me physically, but you did kill me. 

The seventeen year old version of myself who once loved without walls, and who found joy without wondering what the catch was.

Those parts of myself did not survive you. You made sure of that. 

Our ending bought both grief and sorrow that felt violating. However, I was not grieving the loss of you - I was grieving the loss of myself and the innocence she handed you. She trusted you - I trusted you. 

I have struggled to make peace with the fact you reached for my adoption. The root of me and the miracle to my existence. You turned “chosen and cherished”into “unwanted and invaluable”. You knew exactly where to aim and you did. That is not a slip. That is calculated harm. You knew better. 

I haven’t loved since you and I now keep my circle small. I have been in one, seven month long relationship in the seven year span of us parting ways. Not because I don’t want to be, and most certainly not because I am unlovable - but because I am terrified. 

When trust is broken at that magnitude that young, it takes time to learn how to hold love again without expecting it to shatter. Which is a shame because as you know, that when I love, I love passionately and fully. Whoever meets me next and is worthy of staying, will be a lucky one.

But this is what you did not take from me. 

You did not take my compassion. 

You did not take my ability to care deeply about people or the world.  

And you did not take that stubborn spark in me that still believes people can choose to be better, even after they’ve chosen to do wrong. 

You cracked me open, yes - but you do not get to keep what is inside. 

My heart came back softer - not harder. It beats not only for me, but beats to inspire others to become better. To be brave and always kind. I am living proof that loss can grow compassion, pain can grow purpose and betrayal can grow unshakable courage. 

I am rebuilding. 

The work is hard - but it is mine. 

I want you to know that I have been able to find some forgiveness for you. I choose to forgive you as a human-being, but to never forgive what you did. You are not owed this, and you most certainly did not ask. But because living with an angry heart is foreign to me. I am giving myself permission to move forward now. 

You are now a man with a badge. 

People dial three numbers and trust that you will arrive as safety. 

You walk into rooms drenched in fear, during the worst moments in people's lives. 

You hold real responsibility now. 

So change. Please. You don’t have to be this person if you don’t want to be. 

You are in charge of your own future and it is not too late to change the storyline. 

You were a straight A student and a star hockey player. Your capability has been proven. Call me naive but I still believe that if you want to change, you have the ability to do so.

  So I dare you. Become the good cop, the safe husband and the father whose love does not have to be survived. Not to mention ; it is always the good cops that kids look up to and idolize as they say “I want to be just like him one day!”. 

Here is my request, on the off chance that part of you feels remorse. 

If you are ever called upon to protect a little girl (or little boy) living through domestic violence, you protect them - and you do so fiercely. I hope you see us through them, and you finally receive clarity as to why what you did to me was so wrong. I hope you learn. I hope you reflect. I hope you grow. 

Betrayal and pain are cruel teachers, but those that survive their lessons walk forward with clarity and wisdom that few will ever know. You were not my ending. You were the start of a new beginning. 

At seventeen, I believed in forever. 

At nineteen, I believed in the badge. 

Both times, I was forced to see the cracks in what I thought was safety. 

Now, at twenty-six, I now know that kindness is courageous and strength can be bold. The little girl that once shrank herself to make others feel tall, now stands with poise demanding to be heard - showing the world that change begins when just one person is brave enough to speak. 

Protection must be more than policy. It must be brave enough to pause when truth speaks. Change is not a request, it is a demand. Until the systems meant to protect the vulnerable are rebuilt to actually defend them, bravery will continue to be tested, truth will continue to be doubted and hopeful hearts will continue to be broken.  

Everyday bright and curious dreamers are diving head-first into love and putting their faith in systems with the belief that they will be safe. 

Let them be right. 

If you are ever entrusted with someone's truth, hold it gently. Listen attentively and believe without question. The world is not kind. The least we can do is be kind. 

I loved a boy who said he loved me back - and it nearly destroyed me. 

But with that, I also learned to love myself back to life. 

And that became the greatest love story I ever did tell.