This time, the hashtag is #MeToo. Two of my siblings, several of my friends and a long list of aunts, cousins, acquaintances and co-workers have used it. Some of them are survivors, some are not. Most of them have no idea that, for me, #MeToo evokes a deeply personal fracturing. And because of that, I can’t join them. I can’t reduce the past two years of my life to a hashtag that someone else might use to describe street harassment. This push to disclose sexual harassment and assault on social media — though admirable in spirit — feels more like an ultimatum than a choice. Saying something feels impossible and saying nothing feels untenable. I don’t know whom #MeToo is for, but it sure as hell isn’t me.

I don’t want to be an activist. I don’t want to dedicate my life to fighting for the rights of survivors. I want to get better. I want someone else out there to know that it’s possible to be more than the nightmare, more than the recovery, more than the way you feel when you see sexual assault in the news, again. I wish there had been someone to tell me that it’s okay if the only thing you can handle is trying to be okay. Plenty of people talk about how brave it is to speak out, and they’re right. It is brave to speak out, but that doesn’t make you a coward if you don’t. Silent or not, activist or not, we are worthy, and we will be just as worthy when #MeToo stops trending. I don’t owe anyone my story, and neither do you.