By C.Kimberly Toms | July 7, 2025
There’s a question that haunts many of us who have survived violent crime and chosen to speak about it: Are we supposed to get quieter as we get “better”? Are we meant to graduate from our trauma, accept our diplomas of resilience, and quietly rejoin society as if nothing happened? Or is there space for us to remain loud, persistent, and demanding of change?
This is the advocate’s dilemma—a cruel choice between authenticity and acceptance, between truth-telling and fitting in, between driving change and being deemed “employable.”
Early in what would become my 12+ year journey seeking justice, I encountered a moment that crystallized everything wrong with how society expects survivors to behave. A former boss—the same man who had sexually harassed me so persistently in my twenties that coworkers’ complaints eventually cost him his job—offered me his unsolicited wisdom through a Facebook message: “Living well is the best revenge.”
The profound disconnection of that advice left me stunned. Here was a man suggesting I embrace the very silence he desperately needed—that I should perform the neat, quiet recovery that would allow him to pretend his own misconduct never happened. His words weren’t guidance; they were a plea for my complicity in the comfortable fiction that both his crimes and my offender’s could simply be forgotten if I just moved on gracefully enough.
This is the advocate’s dilemma in its most personal form: the pressure to perform palatability, to graduate from our trauma quietly, to let our healing be weaponized against our truth-telling. But what he didn’t understand—what society still doesn’t understand—is that sometimes the most healing thing we can do is refuse to let others experience what we experienced. Sometimes speaking truth is the only path to authentic recovery.
This dilemma becomes particularly acute when we consider our professional futures. Will employers see our advocacy as a liability? Will our expertise in criminal justice reform be viewed as too narrow, too personal, too “activist”? Are we pigeonholing ourselves into a corner where only advocacy organizations will hire us?
These fears are not unfounded. Many survivors-turned-advocates have faced professional consequences for their truth-telling. They’ve been labeled as “too emotional,” “too invested,” or “unable to be objective.” The very experiences that give them unparalleled insight into system failures become reasons to exclude them from conversations about solutions.
But here’s what that narrative gets wrong: expertise born from lived experience is not lesser than academic or professional expertise—it’s different, and it’s essential. The survivor who has navigated the criminal justice system as a victim brings insights that no textbook can teach and no training can replicate.
The choice between voice and employability is, in many ways, a false binary created by systems that benefit from our silence. We’re told we must choose between being “professional” and being authentic, between being “healed” and being angry, between being “employable” and being honest.
But what if the real question isn’t whether we should speak up, but how we can create space for survivor voices in every sector? What if the problem isn’t that we’re too loud, but that our systems are too fragile to handle truth?
When we choose silence to preserve our professional futures, we don’t just silence ourselves—we silence the countless others who might have benefited from our advocacy. We perpetuate systems that continue to fail victims. We allow the narrative that “good survivors” are quiet survivors to persist.
Every time we speak truth about system failures, we create space for others to do the same. Every time we refuse to perform palatability, we give permission for other survivors to be authentic. Every time we choose our voice over our perceived employability, we model a different way of being a survivor in the world.
The decision of whether to continue advocating loudly or to quiet your voice is deeply personal. There’s no right answer, and there’s no judgment for whatever choice you make. Your healing is your own, and your advocacy—or lack thereof—should serve you first.
But if you’re struggling with this decision, consider this: your voice became powerful because it was forged in experience that others haven’t had. Your expertise is valuable precisely because it’s personal. Your perspective is needed because it’s different from those who study these systems from the outside.
The question isn’t whether you’ll become unemployable—it’s whether you want to work for organizations that would consider your expertise a liability rather than an asset. The question isn’t whether you’re too loud—it’s whether the systems you’re challenging are too quiet about their failures.
True non-partisan criminal justice reform needs voices like yours. It needs people who have experienced the system’s failures firsthand and can speak to both its shortcomings and its potential. It needs advocates who understand that this isn’t about politics—it’s about human dignity, safety, and justice.
Your voice doesn’t cripple your future; it clarifies it. It shows you which organizations align with your values and which don’t. It attracts opportunities that honor your expertise rather than diminish it. It creates a future where survivor voices are valued, not silenced.
The world needs advocates who refuse to be quiet about injustice. The world needs people who won’t let their healing be used as a weapon against their truth-telling. The world needs survivors who understand that sometimes the most healing thing we can do is ensure others don’t have to heal from the same wounds.
Your voice is not a liability—it’s a necessity. Your expertise is not a limitation—it’s a superpower. Your advocacy is not a career killer—it’s a life saver, for yourself and for others.
The choice is yours, but remember: some of the most important work in the world is done by people who refuse to be quiet about what they’ve seen, what they’ve survived, and what they know needs to change.
Your voice matters. Your truth matters. Your advocacy matters.
And you matter—loud, persistent, and unapologetically demanding of better.
Are you struggling to balance your advocacy with public perception of recovery? I’d love to hear about your experiences! Connect on LinkedIn to discuss.