My Scam Story #54

I was in the first year of my PhD in Science. My schedule was relentless. I was assisting two professors in some of the most demanding courses in the Master’s program, grading heavy loads of homework and, at times, even stepping in to teach—especially when one professor, who also happened to be my thesis advisor, was frequently absent. I didn’t know how to say no.

I was exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Sleep-deprived and overwhelmed, I constantly wrestled with regrets over missed opportunities, paths not taken, and the weight of my current responsibilities. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to support the students adequately. I believed their performance depended entirely on me, and I was convinced everyone—students, professors, even myself—expected me to be flawless. I felt like a fraud.

Then, my grandmother—my mother’s mother—passed away. Our relationship had been complicated, and at first, I wasn’t sure how to feel. But when my mother opened up about the suffering my grandmother endured in her final days, something shifted. I felt my mother’s sorrow deeply. All I could do was hug her and cry with her. I was afraid she might have a panic attack. The grief was magnified by the eerie coincidence that my grandmother died on the same date—more than 30 years later—that my oldest sister had passed away.

Amid all this emotional and academic pressure, I felt responsible for helping my mother heal. I needed to do something. I needed to be useful. And just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, the phone rang.

I used to silently judge scam victims. I believed they were naive. I would say things like, “They should’ve known better.” I was ignorant. I thought scams were always obvious, like extortion calls. I had even received one myself—someone claiming to be a police officer saying my number was linked to an extortionist. I hung up, called 089, and was reassured it was likely a scam and that the caller was far away.

I’d taken a cybersecurity course while working as a customer care agent during the COVID-19 lockdown. I knew how to spot phishing emails. I understood the importance of safeguarding sensitive information. I thought I was prepared. I thought I was safe.

I never imagined I could fall for a scam. But I did.

That day, while reviewing student assignments—a task I dreaded—the call came. The number looked familiar, like those used by my bank. A calm, professional-sounding woman told me I qualified for a financial opportunity due to my good credit. I had trouble saying no, and having worked in customer service, I trusted people in those roles. I believed there were no “fake” agents. I trusted authority without question.

One call became two. Another woman took over and walked me through steps in my banking app. I didn’t fully understand what I was doing. I was just following instructions, thinking I was claiming a legitimate offer. Money hadn’t been a major concern recently, but it had been during my internship and throughout my childhood. I grew up in a large family, and the 2003 economic crisis hit us hard—the same year my younger brother was born. I always wanted to ease my parents’ burdens. I valued financial security deeply.

Long story short: they convinced me to take out a loan and provide enough personal information for them to withdraw the funds—without a card, all from my phone. No traceable bank accounts, no paper trail.

They told me not to use the app and promised to follow up the next day. That evening, I received confirmation emails about the loan, even a survey identical to real bank communications. To this day, I don’t know how they replicated those so convincingly. Neither does the police. But it reassured me—I thought I was talking to the real bank. I even gave them five stars.

The next day, they called again and asked for more. I didn’t realize they had already emptied my account. I hadn’t checked the app or received any alerts.

They said they’d call again on the third day. They didn’t.

I needed to book a hotel for a congress elsewhere in Mexico. I was worried about the delay, but I still didn’t tell anyone. When I finally opened the banking app, I saw it: my balance—once solid—was zero.

I called the bank. They told me they had never contacted me. It was fraud.

Something broke in me.

I had held on to the hope that the offer was real. I wanted it to be. But it wasn’t. The bank took my report and gave me a resolution date. They blocked my cards to prevent further losses. The debt left behind was staggering—2.5 times the amount originally borrowed, set to be repaid over six years.

I didn’t cry at first. I didn’t even get angry at the scammers. All the anger went inward. I blamed myself. I thought I was stupid. I felt like I had destroyed my future. My dreams of owning a home or a car—already distant—now felt impossible.

Only you know when your world flips upside down. For me, it was September 18, 2023.

At first, I couldn’t report it to the police. I felt complicit, like I had funded criminals who would go on to hurt others. I didn’t even tell my family the truth. In our group chat, I just said, “I’m fine.”

I felt like I had failed everyone. My scam wasn’t sophisticated. It felt obvious. I thought I was the most foolish person alive.

I felt worthless. I avoided eye contact. I couldn’t breathe whenever I opened the banking app. I had panic attacks. Chest pain. Blood pressure spikes. My health spiraled.

I used my savings to pay for the congress and the first loan installment. I researched how to restructure the loan and found a way to reduce interest and shorten the repayment term.

During the first week after the scam, I read about impersonation fraud. I contacted CONDUSEF but didn’t follow through. I thought I didn’t deserve help.

Later, I came across the SCARS Institute and skimmed their recovery booklet. I didn’t absorb it fully.

When people praised my work, I dismissed it. I avoided socializing. I thought people could see through me. I told myself I didn’t deserve love, success, or a second chance. I hated myself.

I went to the congress and felt like I wanted to die. I had a panic attack before giving an unexpected presentation.

After I returned, I started therapy. I cried during the entire first session. My therapist was kind and professional. Talking helped lighten the emotional weight. I had started therapy because I was afraid—afraid I’d fall for another scam. But therapy made me realize how many burdens I was carrying. The sessions lacked focus, and I eventually stopped going.

I continued to feel like a fraud. But I began to pray—to be strong, to survive. I had created a dark, punishing world for myself and couldn’t see a way out. For the first month, I was consumed by shame and hatred. Then I realized how exhausting it was. I told myself I deserved another chance.

Seven months after the scam, I painted my own version of The Scream by Edvard Munch. In place of the figure, I drew No-Face from Spirited Away—calm on the surface, screaming behind the mask. That was me. Trapped between silence and anguish.

I paid off the loan in one year and three months—more than what was taken from me.

Around the one-year mark, I got an email from SCARS inviting me to Survivor’s School. I joined. It changed everything.

I cried during the video about victim blaming. I felt ashamed for having judged others—and for blaming myself.

Reading articles for new victims was painful. I cried often. But I kept learning. I discovered that ignorance doesn’t equal guilt. I learned that vulnerability is not a flaw. That I was not to blame. That I did not deserve what happened. I began to understand cognitive biases. I learned about emotional vulnerability. I discovered how to protect myself better—and how to help others.

With SCARS Institute, I received therapy through BetterHelp. My therapist taught me mindfulness and how to reframe harmful thoughts. I learned to manage my emotions without relying on food or avoidance.

I eventually reported the scam to the police. It lifted a heavy burden. It’s never too late to report. Even if justice isn’t immediate, your report helps protect others. But if you’re a new victim—report it as soon as you can. It’s a powerful step in your recovery.

As part of SCARS Institute’s Survivor’s School, I shared my story with a close friend. She listened. She did not judge. She told me scammers are skilled and that I did not deserve what happened. I cried. And I felt lighter.

Some weeks in the program were harder than others. But each one helped me understand more—about the crime, my own thinking, my shame, and my path to healing. I forgave myself.

I treat myself with more kindness now. I try to avoid assumptions. I paint from time to time. I sing. I read. I exercise most days. I’ve stopped using food to cope with emotions. I allow myself to feel them—and understand them.

I still have more to learn. I still have habits and patterns to work on. But I’m not where I used to be. And I’m proud of that.

If this is your story—or even part of it—please know: You are not alone. You are not broken. You are not foolish. You are not to blame.

You are worthy.

You can recover.

And you can find strength in your scars. They do not define you—but they can guide you forward.