There is a rhythm that the media loves:Shock. Outrage. Silence.A Survivor comes forward.The story catches fire.It lands in headlines, hashtags, and tr
There is a rhythm that the media loves:
Shock. Outrage. Silence.
A Survivor comes forward.
The story catches fire.
It lands in headlines, hashtags, and trending feeds.
And then… it disappears.
But healing doesn’t work like that.
Healing doesn’t come on schedule.
It doesn’t arrive with ratings.
It isn’t fed by headlines.
Healing happens in the quiet. In the corners. In the listening.
It happens when someone finally feels safe enough to say:
“I think something happened to me.”
And someone answers,
“I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.”
It happens in whispers that were never meant to be tweeted.
In body language that only someone with lived experience can read.
In trembling voices that choose courage anyway.
Survivors don’t need the world’s attention nearly as much as they need someone’s presence.
Not performance.
Not platitudes.
Just presence.
We are a culture obsessed with statements—
Official statements. Public apologies. Branded acknowledgements.
But statements don’t hold people. Listening does.
The world likes to showcase pain.
But it rarely stays for the long, slow, sacred work of healing—
The sitting-with.
The checking-in.
The believing without demand.
When Survivors speak, they’re not auditioning for coverage.
They are reaching for connection.
They are asking, in so many different ways:
“Can I still exist after this?”
“Can I still be worthy, seen, whole?”
And the truest response doesn’t come with a camera.
It comes with an open heart.
If you want to support a Survivor:
Don’t just share the story.
Hold the story.
Stay after the headline fades.
Ask, “What do you need?” and mean it.
Honor their pace.
Respect their quiet.
Let your listening say what words never could:
“You matter more than the moment. I see the whole of you.”
Because healing isn’t in the headlines. It’s in the listening.
It always has been.
