I was a sheltered child. I had no idea what sexual assault looked like or what to do about it. So when it happened to me at 11, and again at 13, I told myself to pretend it didn’t happen, and I did nothing about it. I wish I’d known there were other options.

My parents are outstanding, amazing people. They just didn’t think I’d face this, particularly at such a young age. But I hit puberty young, and a ten-year-old girl-child with breasts gets noticed. The comments irked me. But the groping I just tried to pretend away. You see, nobody told me this happened, and I didn’t know what to do with it when it did.

The first time was on a field trip in the fifth grade. I was 11. I fell asleep next to a male classmate. When I woke up, other girls told me he had nestled his head against my breasts. The second time was when I was 12 or 13, riding a school bus that included high schoolers. I tried to ignore the perverted graffiti and gross jokes, but one afternoon while walking to the exit, a hand reached out and squeezed my butt. I didn’t know what to do. I whirled in shock, saw laughing faces, and fled.

I told no one. I did nothing. I pretended it would never happen again.

When I was just entering adolescence, all I associated sex with was sin. I knew eventually it would be okay, within marriage, but that was nothing like what had happened to me. Cleavage was bad; sex scenes in movies were bad; it was all bad. Being touched sexually against my will was also bad, in a different way. But I didn’t know how to articulate the difference. So I just fiercely pretended it had never happened, and I saw that boy from my fifth grade class throughout middle school and high school, and I rode that bus for the rest of the school year.

The thing is, if I had thought to tell my parents, they would have fought for me. They would have confronted my teachers and principal, driven me to school, gotten me out of those situations. I know that now. Yet somehow I didn’t know it then, and I was too ashamed to tell. What happened to me was bad, even though it was a bad I hadn’t chosen. And like any good Mormon kid, I avoided bad things. Furthermore, I didn’t know anyone who actually had been assaulted or raped. I had narratives of repentance for sexual sin. I had no narrative of recovering from sexual violence.

It was a long time before I ever heard a church story about recovering from sexual violence or abuse. In the mean time, chastity and modesty were touted as shields and protections. And believe me, I was modest; after all, I was completely uninterested in ever, ever getting attention for my body again. I never wanted to risk it again. But I had been perfectly modest and perfectly chaste my whole life, and that didn’t stop other people from sexually assaulting me. (It took me until I was 27 years old, reading about the BYU groper travesty, to actually call it that–sexual assault. I had to read a legal definition before I recognized myself as the one out of the three.)

When I was older, a BYU student, I wondered why we hadn’t all been taught more about consent. I knew all about boundaries that the church and God set (no necking, no petting, no french kissing according to some), but no one ever told me I could set my own boundaries. And no one ever told me that my consent mattered, or what to do if a boy ignored it or violated it. I figured all Mormon boys knew to respect women and not to push boundaries–a myth I was disabused of as roommates and friends told me their stories–so that was why we never addressed it in church. Because we all knew not to abuse other people.

What I didn’t realize was that my church pews are filled with women aching from the consequences of abuse, of rape, of incest, of assault. So why don’t we talk about this more? Why don’t we make it perfectly clear, for 11-year-olds to 99-year-olds, that our bodies are not the receptacles of other people’s shame? That if someone hurts me, I ought not be embarrassed but ought to feel like I can demand help until I get it? That sex in the wrong context is bad, but sex in a violent, coercive context is infinitely worse?

Our faith community needs to hear this issue addressed publicly. The statistics in Utah are damning. We are worse than the national average, with one in three women being sexually assaulted in their lifetime. (In the United States, it’s one in four.) Even worse, nearly a third of sexual violence victims are abused by family members.

The young adults in our faith community need to hear this issue addressed publically. According to BYU’s Women’s Services and Resources, BYU students often don’t recognize rape when they see it. In a survey of 150 students (results reported at a BYU Women’s Studies conference in November 2012), 13 percent of students thought it isn’t rape if the couple is married, even if the wife doesn’t want to. 10 percent of men think if you spend money on a woman and she says no to sex, she’s partly to blame. Over 40 percent of men and nearly 30 percent of women thought an immodestly dressed woman is partially to blame if she is raped. We need clear guidelines on consent and on accountability.

But BYU and Utah are not the church. We are a worldwide church, and this is a worldwide problem. Think of the good we could do if we mobilized. We can’t prevent every assault, but we can warn youth that it happens, and we can promise to stand up for them when it does. We can teach them about consent so they don’t cross someone’s boundaries and think aggression is manly or romantic. We can teach the law of chastity so that not crossing your date’s boundaries is just as crucial as not crossing God’s boundaries. We can just be there.

But if we keep on pretending this doesn’t happen, that Mormons don’t commit and aren’t harmed by sexual violence, then we will continue to fail our daughters and sons. There will be more young children and teens who don’t even know they can ask for help. And there will continue to be victims scarred and scared and hurting.

Let us address the issue that so pervasively hurts us, not just through an occasional conference talk, but through clear guidelines in the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet, in wedding prep classes, in youth lessons and singles wards. Let’s tell young men that keeping the law of chastity isn’t only about staying worthy to serve a mission but just as much about respecting a child of God and that person’s autonomy. Let’s explicitly encourage parents to prepare their kids for sexual violence. Let’s promise to be there for our Primary children and youth. Let’s follow the law and report these crimes to the police when our children trust us enough to tell us.

But first, let’s mourn with those who mourn. In the past few days, many women have documented their experiences with sexual violence with the hashtag #YesAllWomen. I am asking all LDS women who have survived sexual violence to also document it with the hashtag #YesEvenMormonWomen. I invite our leaders to read these accounts and prayerfully consider how to address this gaping wound in the body of Christ. I’m pleading with all of us to take sexual violence seriously and do something about it. Because the efforts we’ve put forth thus far simply aren’t enough.