I wake in the darkness to the sound of my phone buzzing beside the bed and the pitter-patter of Vancouver drizzle outside our hotel window. I see Bree’s name on the screen and fumble for the phone, unease prickling up my spine as I read the time on the hotel clock—4:12 a.m.

Nothing good happens at four in the morning. I know that even before I croak, “Hello, Bree?” and hear my sister sob on the other end of the line.

I sit up fast, sleep-haze vanishing in a cold rush of fear. “Honey? Bree? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I need you to p-pick me up at the police station,” she says, her voice thick with tears. “I can’t d-drive, and I can’t stand to call Mom and Dad, I just can’t.”

Raking a hand through my hair, I swing my legs to the floor, pacing away from the bed as Will sits up, murmuring, “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head at him as I ask Bree, “Why, babe? Are you hurt? Were you in an accident?”

“Creedence is a horrible person,” she whispers, breaking my heart into tiny, terrified little pieces. “Just like Will and Shane said. I should have listened to them.”

“Oh, honey,” I say, my throat going tight.

Before I can ask, before I can form the question I hate more than anything I’ve ever had to ask my sweet little sister, Bree says, “He didn’t rape me, but he tried, sissy. And I did a shit job of fighting him and got all messed up. You would have been so disappointed in me. I’m sorry I didn’t come to class more often, Hailey, I’m sorry.” She breaks off, sobbing so hard I can feel her pain pouring into me over the phone, making me ache to hold her.

“Don’t you dare apologize.” My voice breaks as I add, “I love you so much, and I’m so glad you’re alive. And this is going to be okay, Bree. I’ll be there as fast as I can. I’m in Vancouver. I can catch the next plane out, but I doubt I’ll be able to get home until nine or ten a.m. at the very earliest. Are you sure you don’t want me to call Mom? She won’t freak out and threaten to kill anyone like Dad will, and she can be there a lot faster than I can.”

“But she told me not to go to his apartment until I knew him better, and I did it anyway,” Bree whimpers. “And I can’t stand to see her cry, Hailey. I don’t want to hurt Mom on top of everything else. Please…I’ll wait as long as it takes, just come and get me whenever you can. I’m too scared to go home by myself, and I don’t want any of my friends to see me like this.”

“All right,” I promise, dimly aware of Will on the phone behind me, asking someone about flights to Portland. I’m filled with a rush of gratitude so intense, I have to sink into the chair in the corner to catch my breath.

Thank God for Will, for this good man who never hesitates to help, to care, to do what’s right in a world where so many assholes don’t hesitate to dole out hurt and pain. By the time I’ve calmed Bree down the best I can and promised I’ll call her as soon as I get to the airport, Will is off the phone and my suitcase is on the bed.

“You’re on the next flight out, leaving at six a.m. They only had one ticket, so I’ll follow you later today,” he says, unzipping the top of the case. “You pack and get dressed, I’ll call for a car. If you leave in the next ten minutes, you shouldn’t have any trouble clearing security in time.”

“Thank you.” My hands shake as I toss my phone on the bureau and start toward him. “Thank you so much, babe.”

Will meets me halfway, pulling me into his arms for a fiercely sweet hug. “No thanks needed. Let’s just get you to Bree, and I’ll get to both of you as soon as I can. We’re going to make this better, like you said. She’s a survivor, and she’s got so many people who love her.”

I nod against his chest, tightening my arms around him one last time before pulling away. “You’re right. She does. I’ll be ready to go in ten.”

He squeezes my arm gently as he promises, “It’s going to be okay.”

And I believe him because he’s Will, and he’s always had a way of making me believe everything is going to be all right.

I believe all the way to the airport, through security, the flight home, and the trudge through customs. I believe him in the cab to my apartment and as I drive across town to fetch Bree from the police station. I believe right up until the moment I see my little sister sitting on a couch with a black eye and a split lip. Until I see the bruises circling her wrists where a man twice her size held her down while she fought with everything in her to be free.

Until I sit down next to her and take her hand only to realize that the bruises on her wrists aren’t much worse than the bruises on mine.

They’re almost mirror images, in fact.

Shame floods through me, making my skin feel too small and my throat too tight, I tug the sleeves of my sweater down, but it’s too late. Bree squeezes my fingers as she shakes her head. “It isn’t the same thing, Hailey. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” I whisper, fighting tears as I brush her hair gently from her face, frowning as I take in the purple and red blooming around her swollen eye. “But it’s going to be. You’re pressing charges?”

Bree nods and clings tighter to my hand. “Yes. He messed with the wrong girl this time.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I say, wrapping my arm around her slim shoulders.

“You wouldn’t have been,” Bree says, leaning her head against mine. “I totally choked, Hails. I got scared and forget everything you ever taught me until it was almost too late. I barely made it out of his apartment, and if his neighbor across the hall hadn’t been coming home from work…”

She trails off, and I hug her closer in the loaded silence that follows. “I’m always proud of you, and we all choke. When you’re ready, we’ll just practice harder. And we’ll do some creative visualization.”

Bree huffs softly. “I always thought those exercises were silly, but you’re right. I think it would have helped. If I had imagined myself fighting back before I actually had to do it in real life…” She sniffs then adds in a voice that reminds me of the little girl she was not so long ago, “Can we go home to your place now? I want to stay with you and maybe move in with you because your building has a doorman and I don’t want to be a tough girl living in a sketchy apartment anymore.”

“Of course. Let’s go home, and I’ll make bacon pancake breakfast, just the way you like.” I kiss her temple as I guide her up and toward the exit, silently promising not to let her out of my sight again until I’m certain I’ve prepared her properly, the way I should have before.

But I know lack of preparation on my part wasn’t the problem.

The problem is that we live in a world where one in four children are sexually assaulted by an adult, where college campuses are breeding grounds for more rapists than honor students, and where, in the most extreme cases, a man feels justified driving a van into a crowd of women, mowing down innocent people because he isn’t getting laid as often as he would prefer.

We live in a world where violence against women is trivialized and normalized, and we’re taught to think “it’s not that bad” when we escape with only a black eye and a handful of bruises, when the rape is merely attempted rather than completed.

And for the past three weeks, I’ve been part of the problem. I’ve been giving away my power, falling to my knees, practically begging to be treated like an object, or at the very least like something less than fully human.

The word “submissive” means to yield to the established power structure, to humbly accept the status quo. And at this time, in this place, the status quo is seriously in need of an overhaul.

I’ve always been proud that I teach women to fight back, to assert that they are as worthy of freedom, respect, and bodily integrity as their male counterparts. I’ve been proud to flip that finger to the status quo, despite being raised to be one of the “good girls.”

I’m not just a good girl. I’m also a cancer survivor, a fighter, a scrapper from way back. Years ago, long before I developed curves or understood what a woman was expected to be and survive in this world, I gazed into the dark unknown on the other side of this life and kept my eyes open.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink.

I stared at the void, and the void stared back, and I knew then that life would never frighten me the way it had before. Once you’ve stood your ground against the biggest mystery of all, everything else—even the most terrifying creature lurking in the darkest corner on the roughest street—seems smaller in comparison.

But seeing my sister beaten and bruised isn’t a small thing.

And knowing I’ve let down my guard against the disease that created the man who thought it was his right to take what he wanted from her, to treat her like an object to be used for his pleasure and beaten when she didn’t meekly submit to that abuse, sickens me to the core.

And I haven’t simply stopped fighting; I became part of the problem. Deep down, wasn’t that why I hated what I overheard that night on the roof so much? Because I knew it placed Will and I forever on opposite sides of an impassable divide? That a love for dominating women lumped him in with a group of men I found indefensible?

But somehow, in the past six months, when missing my other half became too much to carry, the need to find a way back to Will became more important than my need to stand up for what I believe in. It became more important than what’s right. I put getting off ahead of my principles and became someone I’m ashamed of.

As I drive home, my sleeves sliding up to reveal the bruises lacing my wrists, I am ashamed. As I draw Bree a bath—sweater pushed up to my elbows to keep it dry as I test the water—I am ashamed. As I change into leggings and a long-sleeved tee to watch movies with Bree on the couch, I cringe at the evidence of who I am now.

The bruises on my wrists aren’t the only marks, the only damage sustained on my way down to rock bottom.

Looking at the nearly healed rope burn on my ankle and the rug burn on my knees, it’s all I can do to fight back tears. As I wash my hands, meeting my own shamed, miserable gaze in the mirror, I know what I have to do. No matter how badly it hurts, no matter how much the weak part of me wants to stay on my knees, I have to end this experiment, this terrible mistake.

Before submissive Hailey has a chance to talk me out of my decision, I grab my phone from the kitchen table and type out a quick text to Will—I’ve got Bree, and she’s going to be okay, but don’t call or come over. She needs one-on-one sister time right now. I’ll text you as soon as I can. Love you.—and then shut off my phone.

I do love him. Fiercely. Deeply. Forever.

But that doesn’t matter as much as Bree matters, as much as her safety and the safety of the women I love and the girls I teach and the legacy I want to leave behind. When I fade into that final mystery, I want to go with no regrets and no shameful karma dragging at my soul.

So when Bree falls asleep on the couch mid-afternoon, I slip into my room, open up my laptop, and compose the hardest email I’ve ever written in my life. And then I hit send, curl up in a ball in the center of my bed, and cry without making a sound.

I refuse to wake Bree, to make her worry, or to hurt her a single bit more than I’ve hurt her already. And this pain will fade. Eventually. And then I will be able to look into the mirror and be proud of the woman in the reflection again.

That’s important. Worth sacrificing something for. Everything for…

He feels like everything. Like my heart, ripped out of my body. Going cold on the floor.