I didn’t grow up using aliases. That came later, when survival and safety started to matter more than being understood. My world always had layers—family, music, survivor work, boundaries, and all the names I learned to answer to.

Childhood and Family

I was the kid with a violin case in one hand and a recorder in the other, never quite sure if I wanted to disappear or take up space. My mom would say, “Blend in when you have to, but make sure they hear you when it matters.” I sang in choirs, was captain of the violin team, and did my years of private voice lessons—four years straight in high school. Most of the time, I felt like the voice that stuck out, even when it shouldn’t. But only if you had a keen ear.

We moved around a lot. I learned early how to pack up, adjust, and scan a new room for who was safe and who wasn’t. My brothers all went military—Joe, Andrew, and Jon—which shaped more of my worldview than I admitted at the time. I watched them build walls around their feelings, speak in coded language, trust only their own, and it rubbed off. My family was my first “network”—but also the first place I learned not everyone is on your side.

When Cover Became Survival

The journalism came next, if you want to call it that. It was never about bylines or interviews for me. It was about watching, listening, and reporting back—first to my family, then to whatever survivor network trusted me at the time. My writing was top secret work. I started crafting messages and protocols for people who’d never be able to share their stories in the open.

I never planned to use aliases, but one night online, with Charles, it became obvious: talking about “Rose” was dangerous, and there was too much at stake. I proposed it: “We need a name for me—a cover, so if someone reads these chats, they just think you’re talking to a friend.” Megan stuck, mostly because it meant nothing to either of us. No baggage, no history. Just a clean shield.

The Logic and Layers of Aliasing

After that, Megan wasn’t just a nickname; she was a safe room. She became the version of me who could cross into anti-cult spaces, survivor forums, and new Discord servers without dragging my past into every introduction. I got in the habit of using the name nobody in the room knew, adjusting my stories and my tone to the person who knew me least. In some circles, Megan was soft and friendly. In others, she was the one who never let anything slip.

I learned to match my behavioral alias to the group. In mixed company or spaces with shifting rules, I kept it surface. If it was mostly people who’d met me offline, I let more of myself show. But I always read the room, tracked the risks, and made sure nobody got access to parts of me they hadn’t earned.

Music, Masking, and Survival

Music was my original alias, if I’m honest. There were years when the only way I could say what I really felt was in a practice room or a concert hall. When I sang, people listened. When I played violin, I had permission to stand out—but never too far. I wasn’t great at violin, but I was always good enough to lead. Singing, though, was the place where I could let my true voice through, even if most people only caught glimpses.

Sometimes, I chose singing over everything else. I let go of violin because journalism—meaning, the work—took up every extra hour. I didn’t have time for it, not as an adult. But I never stopped thinking of myself as someone who needed music to survive.

Boundaries, Consent, and Privilege

I watched others flaunt their consent privilege, moving through the world like their privacy was guaranteed, like boundaries were suggestions. That was never my reality. For me, consent was earned, not assumed. If people didn’t take time to learn my boundaries, I stopped trying to learn theirs. My energy was finite, and most of it went to protecting my emotional bandwidth.

I felt the gap—between those who could share freely, make mistakes, and bounce back, and people like me who had to weigh every word. Sometimes I wished I could move with that ease, but I knew better. The cost was too high.

What Endures

No matter the name, I’m still me. My sense of humor, my need for music, my core values—they’re not aliases. They’re the thread that runs through every story, every new room, every mask I wear.

If you see yourself in this—if you’ve ever drawn a line, changed a name, or walked away from a space that didn’t feel safe—then you’re already part of my network. Even if you’re just passing through, you’re welcome here.

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