“Don't Sign the Non-Disclosure Agreement” and Other Advice I’d Give My Teenage Self

A friend recently reached out to me to ask for my advice regarding her fight for justice in the case of her sexual assault.

“Kaeley, what do you think about non-disclosure agreements? Would you sign one as a condition to monetary compensation for the injuries you suffered?”

I didn’t hesitate before responding, “Not in a million years or for a million dollars.” I feel that strongly about it. And there’s a personal reason why.

The truth is that, as an emotional train wreck of an 18-year-old, I was encouraged to sign a non-disclosure agreement myself. Too much time had elapsed between my abuse and my claim. The offender now lived in a different state. The physical evidence was pretty sparse. (It turns out most little kids don’t wear bodycams in anticipation of their sexual assaults.) Both my legal counsel and the extended family member advising my family in the matter made it pretty clear that I would lose a criminal case. “The best thing you can do is to take the $10,000, sign the NDA, and move on with your life,” they encouraged me. My abuser would be required to see a therapist for a while. It was better than nothing.

And I’m sure they genuinely believed that was true.

But it wasn’t. What I didn’t realize is that the NDA was a form of cheap grace that neglected the single requirement sexual predators need most in this world: vigilant, continued, unapologetic accountability.

The man who abused me wrote a check and returned to his life as though nothing had happened. As the most skilled narcissists do, he convinced his therapist that he was really the victim, even after failing his polygraph. He went back to his willfully ignorant wife, the woman who responded to the news of my harm by cupping my face in her hands and saying, “Oh honey. Don’t be overdramatic. Something like that happened to me when I was younger, too, and you get over it. It’s not a big deal.” She didn’t seem to care- not so long as she still had him to finance her shopping trips and manicures and gaudy jewelry collection.

The NDA meant that he would still be invited to Christmas dinners with the rest of the extended family where children were present. It meant that when he showed up at the neighborhood block party and was observed escorting one of the neighbor’s little girls to the bathroom (Yes, this actually happened), no one knew to sound the alarm.

The NDA meant that I would spend the next couple decades wrestling with not only the shame of my abuse but also the guilt of feeling like I had enabled him to abuse others. It meant that I couldn’t fully share my story, that I would have to be cryptic about some of the darkest details that most desperately needed light.

He was always so affectionate with me. I was his favorite. “Special K” he called me. In therapy, we talked a great deal about “mind fu*ckery.” I’m sorry if you find the term offensive, but it’s the only one that fits. I developed something resembling a strange form of Stockholm syndrome where I felt personally respoHe was the only man who told me he loved me growing up. And I believed it. I was unable to untether the affection I felt for him from the reality of the 10 years of assault. I was the only bridesmaid in his wedding. When his first daughter was stillborn, he gave her a first name that rhymed with mine. Her middle name was “Anne.” Just like mine. When his second daughter was born, she, too, got a name that rhymed with mine- and the middle name “Anne.” With this degree of dedicated affection and doting, as a child it was never all that difficult to comply with his repeated reminder that “This was our little secret.” And then I woke up one day, and the secret got too heavy to hold.

I continued to struggle with this throughout college. I remember one of my college English professors giving us an assignment to basically imitate the way Robert Browning wrote his famous sonnet, “To My Last Duchess.” The task was to communicate a truth without just coming out and saying it. The message had to be hidden between the lines. It was probably the easiest assignment I ever completed, having gained proficiency in this language for awhile. I wrote about my abuser:

The gentleman who runs the jewelry store
Whose polished tongue adored the watch you wore
Presents himself as high society
And mingles with the best of company.
By all appearances a family man,
A trophy wife, two kids, four-door sedan,
He reads the Wall Street Journal every day
And keeps a Bible proudly on display.
But no one knows he ought to be in jail
For hawking jewels that should not be for sale,
Investing in the wealth of little girls
And silencing their qualms with strings of pearls.
But yes, your watch becomes you, finely made
Its braided band with platinum inlaid.
The jeweler knows his trade, this much is sure.
I learned it from him when I was just four.

I got an A on the project. My professor saved my contribution to use as an example in future classes. But I didn’t want to talk in codes anymore. I wanted to be free to tell the truth-all of it- and let the chips fall wherever the hell they needed to for healing to be possible and others to be safe.

I think this is one of the reasons I responded so viscerally when I got fired by the Y and they offered me (you guessed it) $10,000 to keep my mouth shut about the misconduct I’d observed in the inner circles. I was already so well acquainted with the heavy price of silence. I couldn’t live in that space anymore. Only this time I had the courage and the wherewithal to tell them to shove it where the sun don’t shine.

I realize this blog is heavy and not particularly uplifting, and I apologize for it. I don’t know a cheery way to talk about sexual trauma. It’s kind of a downer no matter how you dice it. But suffice to say that I hear “non-disclosure agreement,” and, at least in the context of sexual misconduct, what I’m actually hearing is “non-repentance agreement” or “non-accountability agreement.” More often than not, an NDA in these situations is little more than a gag order designed to keep you quiet and the offending party safe from the consequences that could actually heal him. I don’t care how high the dollar amount may be; in my opinion, it’s never going to be high enough to account for the value of your voice.

Speak up.