Facing the Dragon: A story of survival

Marisa Schneider
Dec 16
6 min read

I am sharing this story about a woman who has endured unthinkable harm, and in doing so, I wish you could know her — not just her history, but her presence.

If you were to meet her, you might pause on her face a little longer than expected. You might notice the quiet grace with which she moves through the world, carrying the weight of her experiences as others carry their handbags — with familiarity, with care, and without display. Nothing about her immediately reveals the countless wounds she has survived. You would never guess their number unless she chose to tell you herself.

Watch the way she walks: her eyes often lowered, her steps measured, as though the ground itself requires negotiation. There is a gentleness to her — a shy, almost conspiratorial giggle that makes you feel momentarily entrusted with something precious. These are small details, easy to miss, yet they hold traces of a life shaped by moments when her safety was taken from her.

And still — this is what matters most — she remains capable of drawing a smile from those around her. She has a way of making you pause, of making you appreciate her beauty not as something ornamental, but as something hard-earned. Hers is a beauty formed in survival, in endurance, in the quiet refusal to allow cruelty to erase softness.

This is not a story of brokenness. It is a testament to resilience — to the extraordinary strength required to move forward carrying pain, and to do so with dignity, compassion, and grace.

In order to honour her request for anonymity, I will refer to her as Lovely. I have made minor edits to her account, not to alter its truth, but to support clarity — her English may not be perfect, yet the power of her story is undeniable. It is the kind of story that settles in your chest, that brings unexpected tears, and leaves you profoundly grateful for the privilege of having met her.

This is her story:

My name is Lovely. I am sharing my story to explain how I struggled until I found help and peace of mind at Rape Crisis Helderberg.

Life was never easy for me. I grew up feeling alone, with no one truly by my side and no friends to turn to. My mother did not want me, and I spent many nights praying that one day she would change. Instead, I was left to carry my pain quietly. I remember the day I was raped by her brother. She was not there to encourage me or protect me when I needed her most. The people who should have stood with me were not there.

The only thing important to my mom was alcohol, even though I had to live through the rape I experienced by my uncle with no-one who believed me and so, there was no justice.

My uncle didn't just rape me, he took my pride at 13 and stole my virginity.

As a child, I learned very early that silence was expected of me. My uncle raped me when I was only thirteen years old.

The only thing important to my mom was alcohol, even though I had to live through the rape I experienced by my uncle with no-one who believed me. My own mother called me a cursed child and that she regretted ever having given birth to me and so, I was ordered by family to move away from what I knew to be home so as not embarrass or bring further shame to my family but I was just a girl. What was I going to do? Where was I going to go?

That man - my family - took my pride and my virginity and told me I must never tell anyone. I believed him. I believed that no one would want me if they knew what had been done to me. I did not receive justice, and that pain stayed with me for years.

I was still young and did not know what to do with the trauma inside me. One day I became very sick, and my cousin took me to the hospital. That is where I found out that I was HIV positive. I did not want to live anymore. I wanted to die. I kept asking myself who would ever love me with this status. I felt completely alone, with no counselling and no support from my family.

There were moments when my mother came home drunk and shouted at me. I tried to find safety with other family members, but I was never truly welcome. One relative said I could stay, but her husband refused. She gave me money and sent me back to the place where I had been raped. That is when I told myself I would not go back. I decided to leave and go to Cape Town to try to start a new life.

Coming to Cape Town was not easy. I suffered a lot. I slept outside, sometimes without food, with nothing to protect me. I fell pregnant, and the man who made me pregnant left me. I was given the option to have an abortion, but I chose to keep my baby. I promised myself that I would do everything in my power to raise her. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl.

There were days when my child and I slept without milk. I made sweet water so that she could drink something. Hunger became normal. I stayed with my aunt and her two daughters, but sometimes when they were drunk, they would beat me. I often went hungry and survived on soup kitchens.

At my lowest point, I believed that sleeping with men was the only way to survive. I hated myself for thinking this way, but I felt trapped. I was young and desperate. Eventually, I was taken to a youth programme, where someone noticed that I was not okay. I did not trust easily. One day, overwhelmed by everything, I broke down at school. I ran to the toilets with a blade in my pocket, wanting to die. I cut my wrists and collapsed.

I woke up in hospital. The doctors said I was depressed and admitted me to a mental hospital. They said I was mad, but I was not mad — I was hurting. I stayed there for a long time. It felt like prison. I had no family visits and no friends. After months, I was transferred to another hospital, where I stayed for six months.

Out of desperation so that I could buy milk for my baby girl, I slept with Nigerian men and became a prostitute. Though I stayed with an aunt and her two daughters, this was no refuge as they beat me persistently in front of my little girl.

Eventually, someone truly listened to me. I was told I needed counselling, and that is how I was taken to a rape crisis centre. For the first time, I felt seen. The counsellors became the family I never had. They listened without judging me. They gave me hope.

I promised myself that I would never sell my body for men again. I promised that my child would not grow up the way I did. Rape Crisis Helderberg did not only give me counselling — they helped me find shelter and supported me until I could stand on my own.

Today, I have my own place. I am no longer sleeping outside. No one is chasing me away. I am safe. I am working, and when people see me, they want to see me smile. They do not know my whole story, but I know it, and I survived it.

I want to say this: there are still people in this world with good hearts. Even when life is cruel, kindness exists. Now I do not have to worry alone. I know I have a family — my child, and the people who helped save my life at rape crisis.

Thank you for listening to my story.