I've never met her. I wouldn't even know what to say to her if I sat next to her on a plane. I can only imagine myself freezing up, spilling my coffee all over her and muttering a painful, "Sorry," and hiding in the toilet for the rest of the flight. Or worse, I could see me making a fool of myself by gushing on and on about how I love her music. How do you tell someone, "You gave me one of the most precious gifts I've ever been given," without sounding like an absolute kook? I've always loved her music. The wistful pull in her voice touches my soul. But it was Joan Baez, the human being who was willing to speak her truth in front of hundreds of people, that made her my hero. She was touring to promote "Ring Them Bells." I don't remember the season, but I do remember being cold. When she performed "Play Me Backwards," a song about ritual abuse, fireworks went off inside. She could have just played the song and let people think whatever they wanted about it, but instead she chose to introduce it. She told us that the song was about ritual abuse and noted that a lot of people don't believe children when they tell about ritual abuse or sexual abuse. And then she said, "I believe." "I believe;" two words that rocked my world. I was sexually abused as a child, first by my grandfather and later by my brother. I tried to tell my mother what was happening in the hope that she would put a stop to the abuse. The first time I tried to tell her, when I was four or five, she slapped me, made me tell my grandfather what I said he had done, and made me apologize to him for telling a lie about him. I was eight the second time I tried to tell my mother that I was being abused. She was getting dressed to go to a PTA meeting and I ran into her bedroom, crying hysterically, and begged her not to go. I was afraid of what my brother promised to do so I told her. In her rage, she refused to acknowledge me. And in that moment I went cold. My brother carried out his promise the minute my mother walked out of the house. When my mother and father got home later that evening, they beat me and told me to never lie like that again. For years, I was isolated by the travesties that were beaten and slashed into my body and the shame that was burned into my soul. I felt like a goldfish, looking wistfully out at the world from my own private hell, hiding from a secret that I thought no one would believe. And there Joan sat, in front of a microphone, saying, "I believe." Those two words felt like a life jacket thrown to me from the stage. They validated the pain of my childhood. Tears streamed down my face, and I felt redeemed. For the rest of her set and on through the encore, I was warm in a way I hadn't felt since I was eight. I doubt that I'll ever meet Joan in person, but I would like her to know that she gave me, and probably many others, something more precious than gold. So Joan, if you are reading this, thanks for believing, and for daring to say it out loud. This article also appears on Suite101.com.