As you are probably aware, April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month. I’ve been sitting with what I want to say to acknowledge it for a couple of weeks.
To be honest, the words haven’t come easily.
I often talk about what is possible when we use our voices, both individually and collectively.
How we have the ability to end the shame and stigma and create safe spaces to show up vulnerably when we share our stories and struggles.
I talk about hope and oftentimes hold it for those who can’t yet trust it.
Whatever your experience, your age, or struggle, no matter how many times you’ve tried and believed you’ve failed, healing is possible.
But, this year, more than any other time, I’m speaking
as someone who’s struggling to hold it personally.
When someone who is a bully and had multiple, credible accusations of rape and abuse was elected 8 years ago, I remember the quiet devastation that settled in my body. It wasn’t political, it was deeply personal.
I work with survivors of sexual trauma every day. I see the lifelong work it takes to feel safe in their bodies again. I walk beside people as they learn to trust themselves, their voices, and their worth. That’s why it felt like such an incredible betrayal to humanity.
What do you say to the people you’ve helped believe in their power, when the country elects a man who abuses his?
What do you do when your own hope feels threatened?
And now, years later, here we are again.
A culture that still doesn’t believe survivors, even when a jury holds the perpetrator accountable.
A system that protects power instead of people.
An entire half of the government falling in line with a man who has a long record of racism and misogyny feeling their power expand with every act of cruelty.
So yes, there are days I wonder…
Have I been wrong to believe we can change things?
Have I misled people by sharing what I believe and stories of healing, truth, and hope?
But then… something small reminds me.
The client who shares her story out loud for the first time.
The friend who shares her struggle, even when it’s uncomfortable.
The survivor who says, “I didn’t think I could feel this way.”
The person who speaks out when someone says a rape joke.
The moments of softness and connection in a world so loud.
These are not small things.
They are seismic shifts. Not always felt or seen at the time, but cracks that let the light… and hope back in.
So, today, I’m not writing this from a place of nicely wrapped up hope. I’m writing from the messy middle, where hope and heartbreak live side by side.
Where truth-telling is an act of resistance.
Where staying tender is a quiet revolution.
Where holding on to hope isn’t about “positive vibes”, it’s about fierce commitment to what can be, even when we’re surrounded by what should never have been.
If you’ve had moments (or months) of feeling tired, disillusioned, or heartbroken, I want you to know…
You are not naive for hoping for more.
You are not weak for needing rest or using distraction as a way of coping.
You are not alone in your pain or fears.
This month, and every month, may we keep imagining something different.
May we keep honoring the stories that were silenced.
May we keep holding one another in community through the grief, sadness, and hope.
May we keep fighting for a world that deserves our hope, because we deserve it too. 💜
#togetherwestand and #togetherweheal
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