I grew up believing it was my fault. I stayed silent.
Igarzábal revealed the abuse occurred repeatedly by someone positioned as her caregiver, causing lasting trauma including eating disorders and years of silence. She only disclosed the abuse as an adult due to shame and fear, spending adolescence and youth processing the trauma before seeking help.
- Rocío Igarzábal was sexually abused repeatedly beginning at age 5 by a trusted adult
- She developed eating disorders and remained silent for years, only disclosing as an adult
- Her testimony was shared on June 3rd, the 11th anniversary of the Ni Una Menos movement
- She emphasized that many victims lack resources to survive and recover from abuse
Actress Rocío Igarzábal publicly disclosed being sexually abused at age 5 by a trusted adult, sharing her testimony on the 11th anniversary of the Ni Una Menos feminist movement.
On Wednesday, June 3rd, as Argentina marked eleven years since the Ni Una Menos movement took to the streets, actress Rocío Igarzábal posted a series of childhood photographs to her Instagram account—914,000 followers watching—and told them what had been done to her when she was five years old.
The first image showed her as a small child, blonde curls catching the light, smiling at the camera. Beneath it, she wrote: "My first sexual experience was at five years old. By someone who said they would take care of me. A person of trust who abused me repeatedly. In this photo I am five years old." The second photograph showed her again as a child, this time wearing fairy wings in soft pink and beige. The third captured her with her hair in pigtails, a swimming pool visible behind her through a large window.
Igarzábal's post came days after the death of Agostina Vega, a fourteen-year-old girl whose killing had renewed conversations across Argentine media and entertainment about the violence women and girls continue to face. On this anniversary of the feminist movement that had begun as a cry against femicide, Igarzábal chose to speak about her own survival.
She described the long aftermath of what happened to her. "I grew up believing it was my fault," she wrote. "I developed eating disorders and I stayed silent." The processing of that abuse stretched across her adolescence and into adulthood. She did not find words for what had occurred until she was grown, held back by shame and fear. When she finally told someone, she was no longer a child.
Looking at those photographs now, she said, brought a flood of feeling. "I see myself in these photos and I feel an immense pain, a rage, helplessness, and so much anguish." Yet she had managed to rebuild. She had asked for help. She had continued living, she wrote, "with scars, but with so much desire to live."
But Igarzábal did not stop there. She pivoted toward those who had not been as fortunate. "There are women and girls who could not get out," she wrote. "Who cannot have the desire to live, because their lives were stolen from them, ripped away. Today we are their voice. We are their absence. We are their cry of fear." She called on others not to tire in the fight against gender violence, to understand that hope lived in the struggle itself.
Her testimony joined dozens of others shared that week by journalists, entertainers, and public figures across Argentina, each adding their own weight to a conversation that had become impossible to ignore. Igarzábal's post was not a summary or a statistic. It was a woman looking at pictures of herself as a child and naming what had been taken from her, and what she had somehow managed to reclaim.
Notable Quotes
My first sexual experience was at five years old. By someone who said they would take care of me. A person of trust who abused me repeatedly.— Rocío Igarzábal, in her Instagram post
There are women and girls who could not get out. Who cannot have the desire to live, because their lives were stolen from them. Today we are their voice.— Rocío Igarzábal, reflecting on victims without resources to survive
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did she choose to speak now, on this particular anniversary?
Because the movement had created a space where silence felt like a choice she could finally refuse. Eleven years of Ni Una Menos meant that other women were already speaking. The death of a fourteen-year-old made the urgency impossible to ignore.
She mentions eating disorders as a consequence. How does trauma like that embed itself in the body?
When a child is told her body is not her own, she often responds by trying to control the only thing she can—what goes in, what stays out. It becomes a language for pain that has no other words.
She waited until adulthood to tell anyone. What breaks that silence?
Sometimes it's safety. Sometimes it's rage. Sometimes it's seeing your own daughter grow up and realizing you never want her to carry what you carried. For her, it may have been all three.
She emphasizes that not everyone has the resources she had to recover. What does that mean practically?
It means therapy costs money. It means having someone who believes you. It means not being economically dependent on the person who hurt you. It means a country that treats your trauma as real. Many girls have none of those things.
What does she want readers to understand about her post?
That survival is not the same as healing, and that healing is not the same as forgetting. And that the women who didn't survive deserve to be remembered as more than statistics.