Survivor to Advocate
As a child growing up in Anchorage, I endured both sexual and spiritual abuse. It began within the Archdiocese of Anchorage-Juneau at Saint Benedict’s Catholic Church, and also my best friend’s father.
My primary abuser was Father Stanley “Stan” Allie, a man I trusted, admired, and looked up to from the time I was seven years old. He showed kindness and attention, grooming me slowly until that trust was twisted into something no child should ever experience. When Allie transferred to St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Parish, Monsignor Frank Murphy took his place. During my lawsuit years later, I learned that Murphy had already been investigated for abusing minors and related issues with child pornography. Murphy had assaulted me once before while filling in for Allie. After he officially took over, the threats and abuse would continue.
Like so many survivors of child abuse, I believed silence was my only option. The threats, shame, and fear trapped me for decades. I carried the weight alone, convincing myself I had moved on. But the truth never disappears. It waits.
In 2019, after years of pushing forward, everything collapsed. My coping mechanisms failed, and I reached a breaking point. I didn’t see a way out.
While writing letters with an end plan in mind, a friend called out of the blue to visit. That unexpected call saved my life. She could sense something was wrong and asked, “What’s going on?” For the first time, I opened up about where I was mentally.
That simple act of care gave me the strength to reach out for help. I called the national organization RAINN, who referred me to STAR (Standing Together Against Rape) in Anchorage. For the first time in my life, I began the process of healing.
When I came forward to the Archdiocese, the Bishop offered support, including therapy. I knew I couldn’t face that process alone, especially when they offered to pay for my treatment. Clarity and protection were needed, and someone to ensure I wasn’t being manipulated again.
After hiring a lawyer, not for revenge, but to make clear, informed decisions during a deeply emotional time. The diocese refused mediation at first. Nearly two and a half years later, attempting to hide behind the Alaska Statute of Limitations, just three days before trial, the Archdiocese of Anchorage-Juneau offered to mediate.
After the settlement, the defense asked if I would sign a non-disclosure agreement. That wasn’t an option. Selling my right to tell my story was not an option.
The entire legal process revealed something greater than my own pain; it showed just how broken our system is. I saw firsthand how hard it is for survivors to seek justice, while powerful institutions focus on protecting themselves. The people they harmed are left to pick up the pieces.
Still, I discovered something hopeful. When we speak and stand together, we become impossible to ignore. Pursuing my education at Alaska Pacific University and studies at the Justice Department, community groups, and advocacy centers opened my eyes even wider. Alaska is in crisis. We lead the nation in domestic and sexual violence, up to six times the national average for child abuse.
That number isn’t just a statistic. It represents lives. Stories. People like me, like you, and so many others who deserve more than silence.
Why Mighty AK Exists
Mighty AK was built on the belief that our voices matter. Our experiences can drive change. And no survivor should ever have to walk this road alone.