Running head: FROM VICTIM TO ADVOCATE

Giving Voice to Silence: Empowerment and Disempowerment in the Developmental Shift from

Trauma ‘Victim’ to ‘Survivor-Advocate’

Brianna C. Delker, Rowan Salton, and Kate C. McLean

Western Washington University

Author’s Original Manuscript, dated August 13, 2019. Manuscript accepted for publication

in Journal of Trauma & Dissociation.

Author’s Note

This work, part of a larger research project entitled “Are There Cultural Preferences for

Redemptive Stories?”, was funded by the Center for Cross-Cultural Research (CCCR) at

Western Washington University. We wish to express gratitude to our CCCR colleagues for their

valuable feedback and conversation on this work. We also thank Anna Ciao, Annie Fast, Annie

Riggs, Antonya Gonzalez, and Shaun Sowell, who provided feedback on an earlier draft of this

article.

Correspondence concerning this article should be sent to Brianna C. Delker, Department

of Psychology, Western Washington University, 516 High Street, MS 9172, Bellingham, WA,

98225, USA. Phone: 360-650-7943, E-mail: Brianna.Delker@wwu.edu.

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Abstract

In the past several years, a public conversation in the United States about interpersonal violence

has flourished, sustained by the work of advocates who are themselves survivors. This surge in

public sharing of trauma stories is a rhetorical form of resistance to ideologies in mainstream

American culture that impose silence on survivors (e.g., the “just world” belief). However, the

developmental progression from trauma ‘victim’ to empowered public ‘survivor/advocate’

accommodates to dominant American cultural preferences that stories of adversity have a

redemptive story line. In a redemptive story, negative experiences are followed by something

positive (e.g., personal growth, lessons learned, strength gained). In this paper, we draw from

theory and the sparse relevant literature across multiple disciplines to conceptualize when and for

whom the redemptive storying of trauma (or, redemptive master narrative) is available,

advantageous, and systemically encouraged. Among the proposed advantages of redemptive

storying are its psychological health benefits; potential to empower self and others; promotion of

meaning-making, mission, and communal solidarity; and the larger social/political changes that

can emerge from giving voice to silenced experiences. Proposed challenges to redemptive

storying include layers of societal oppression and marginalization that shape the redemption

stories of many survivor-advocates; ongoing connection to or dependence on relationships and

communities that enable abuse; and the reality of historical trauma and other forms of

intergenerational trauma, which complicate the linear, individualistic story of redemption. With

this theory-driven framework, we wish to promote compassion for survivors, along with

interdisciplinary, inclusive, and intersectional research in this understudied area.

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Keywords: interpersonal violence; gender-based violence; sexual violence; sociocultural

differences; development; social systems; survivors; trauma disclosure; trauma risk and

resiliency
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Giving Voice to Silence: Empowerment and Disempowerment in the Developmental Shift from

Trauma ‘Victim’ to ‘Survivor-Advocate’

In the past several years, a public conversation in the United States about interpersonal

violence has flourished, sustained by the work of advocates who themselves have experienced

harassment or abuse. Although this is not the first instance of such a public conversation,1 the

telling of stories of interpersonal violence has now coalesced into a political movement that

promises to sustain momentum for systemic change. As collective political movements, Time’s

UpTM (a movement against sexual violence in the workplace founded in the wake of allegations

against Harvey Weinstein) and the more diffuse #MeToo movement (created by civil rights

activist Tarana Burke in 2006 and further popularized in 2017) are extraordinary for shifting

public focus away from individual perpetrators. One perpetrator can be dismissed as a “bad

apple,” but a chorus of survivor voices worldwide has drawn attention to a whole social system

of inequality that enables interpersonal violence. For instance, prominent women in the

entertainment industry have identified as survivors of sexual violence and have used their

privileged platforms to collectively advocate for women in more vulnerable positions, such as

undocumented immigrants and low-wage workers (Time’s UpTM “Dear Sisters” Letter, 2018).

For some women who have shared stories of interpersonal violence to a public audience,

giving voice to silence can be seen as part of a developmental progression from trauma “victim”

to “survivor” and/or “advocate”. In this paper, we will argue that this shift represents both

accommodation and resistance to dominant ideologies in mainstream American culture that

perpetuate gender-based inequality (see Rogers & Way, 2018). A dominant ideology is a set of

beliefs and assumptions that benefit those with power and privilege in society. These beliefs and

assumptions are woven so seamlessly into the cultural fabric that the threads are invisible. A
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common assumption in American culture is that we live in a safe and “just world” where good

things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people (Furnham, 2003). The reality

of interpersonal violence, which involves physical, sexual, or psychological harm committed

intentionally within a relationship, threatens common assumptions of a safe, just world. In the

wake of an act of violence, a “just world” emphasis shifts the collective conversation from

perpetrator actions and accountability to the question of what victim characteristics might have

justified the attack. Likewise, deeply rooted American cultural values around individualism,

stoicism, personal “grit,” and “pulling yourself up by your bootstraps” can convey that

victimization and emotional vulnerability are personal weaknesses, which should be overcome

promptly by force of personal will.

When interpersonal violence victimization and the need to heal are stigmatized within

mainstream American culture, the act of publicly identifying as a survivor can be stigmatizing in

and of itself. The disbelief commonly attached to disclosures of interpersonal violence make

these events even more unspeakable (Ullman, 2010). For individuals who experience systemic

oppression and marginalization on the basis of race, class, national origin, and gender and sexual

identity, among other facets of identity, to tell a story of trauma can carry additional risk to safety

(Calton, Cattaneo, & Gebhard, 2016; Hakimi, Bryant-Davis, Ullman, & Gobin, 2018; Preisser,

1999; Wilson & Butler, 2014). Among the concrete consequences for the “unspeakability” of

trauma, rates of both formal and informal reporting of sexual assault and intimate partner

violence are low, and rates of perpetrator convictions are even lower (McCart, Smith, & Sawyer,

2010). As such, the recent surge in individuals sharing stories of trauma to a public audience and

self-identifying as survivors has created space for a “narrative of resistance” (Fivush, 2010, p.

92) against gender-based violence. In this narrative of resistance, individuals who experience
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trauma may put a name to their experience, receive recognition and validation from others, and

use their shared, public survivor identity as a rhetorical force for political advocacy. Origins of

this politicization of a survivor identity can be found in the survivor “speak-outs” of the 1970’s

feminist movement, contributing to a “unifying feminist agenda to stop violence against women”

(Ovenden, 2012, pp. 949-950).

On the other hand, this narrative of resistance accommodates to privileged American

cultural preferences for stories about the personal impact of trauma. In mainstream American

cultural forums (e.g., TV shows, movies, news), stories of traumatic events are often told with a

“redemptive” story line, in which a negative event is followed by something positive (e.g.,

personal growth, lessons learned, strength gained; McAdams, 2006). Individuals who tell stories

of becoming stronger as a result of adversity are celebrated. In support of this observation, recent

empirical evidence documents that trauma stories with redemptive endings are more preferable

than ones with negative endings, and that the storytellers of redemptive (versus negative) trauma

stories are perceived as having more positive, socially desirable traits (McLean, Delker, Dunlop,

Salton, & Syed, 2019). The prevalence and insistence of this kind of narrative has caused

scholars to term it an American Master Narrative (Hammack, 2008; McAdams, 2006). Master

narratives provide important information about cultural values and expectations, offering a

model for how individuals should story their own experiences. Therefore, they can guide how

survivors tell their stories. But they can be constraining if one’s story does not fit the expected

narrative arc (McLean & Syed, 2015). Indeed, there is a lack of attention to when and for whom

the redemptive storying traumatic experiences is advantageous, and for whom it might be

constraining (see Breen & McLean, 2017).

The Present Paper

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In this paper, we focus on the advantages and constraints of the redemptive story of an

individual progressing from “victim” to “survivor” and/or “advocate.” As an identity that is at

times politicized, the role of survivor is not always distinct from the role of advocate. Many

individuals who self-identify as survivors by telling their stories to the public become de facto

advocates, in that their stories can galvanize social change and empower others who have

experienced interpersonal violence to tell their own stories. Either a progression from “victim” to

“survivor” or a progression from “victim” to “survivor” to “advocate” would be considered

redemptive. In this paper, we integrate empirical evidence across several domains of scholarship,

including trauma psychology, developmental psychology, narrative psychology, and sociology, to

consider the role of redemption in storying trauma. We note that we each bring a unique, but

complementary perspective to this project. One of us (BCD) is a trauma psychologist who

studies the psychological impact of violence perpetrated within close relationships, with a focus

on the role of social contexts (family, community, society) in trauma and its lifespan

developmental consequences. One of us (RS) is an undergraduate psychology major and an

advocate for survivors of sexual violence, with a specialty in advocacy for LGBTQIA+ youth,

and for the promotion of accessible mental health resources for all identities. One of us (KCM)

is a developmental psychologist who studies the cultural and social context of narrative identity

development in relation to psychological adjustment. This diversity of perspectives is a strength

of our approach. We have also been pleasantly surprised at the degree of common language and

thinking about these issues across such diverse areas of expertise.

A Note on Inclusivity of Terms and Scholarship

The interdisciplinary nature of this theory paper provides both an opportunity and a

challenge to inclusively represent the heterogeneous experiences of people who have

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experienced interpersonal violence. First, we aim to present a broad, generalizable theory about

the redemptive master narrative after interpersonal violence. In doing so, we acknowledge that

interpersonal trauma stigmatizes and silences survivors in different ways based on their social

positions. Our argument draws from scholarly literatures that tend to underrepresent the

traumatic experiences of women of color and people with other marginalized identities.

However, we have aimed to foreground a culturally diverse range of survivor voices in our

process of theory development. To this end, we use direct quotes from survivors throughout this

article, to allow them to share their experiences in their own words. Additionally, although

redemption has been termed an American master narrative, we do not yet know the extent of its

influence; in service of representing a diverse array of voices, we include some non-American

examples in our treatment of these issues.

Regarding our focus on interpersonal violence, rather than violence or trauma broadly

defined: globally, women and girls are substantially more likely than men and boys to experience

violence perpetrated within relationships (United Nations, 2018; World Health Organization

[WHO], 2016). The stories represented in this paper reflect that gender imbalance and its roots in

masculine power and privilege (Salter, 2012). However, we acknowledge the distinct challenges

for male-identified survivors of interpersonal violence. We also make a particular effort to

include the experiences of non-binary survivors, who are under-acknowledged in relevant

scholarship (Langenderfer-Magruder, Whitfield, Walls, Kattari, & Ramos 2016). Finally, we use

and cite both visual (e.g., visibility) and auditory (e.g., hear) metaphors to convey experiences of

storying trauma. Even the semantic meaning of the verb advocate is “to call (to one’s aid)”

(Oxford Dictionary, n.d.). Visual and auditory metaphors provide powerful tools for conveying
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the struggle of individuals and collective political movements to be acknowledged, and at the

same time, we respectfully recognize their ableist connotations.

We begin by discussing the advantage of redeeming trauma by way of an advocate role,

followed by a discussion of the constraints of the redemptive master narrative.

When and For Whom is the Victim-to-Advocate Redemptive Master Narrative Available,

Advantageous, and Encouraged?

Redemptive stories of overcoming adversity are connected to well-being and are

celebrated in American culture. A central focus of the field of narrative psychology has been

on understanding how the stories we tell inform (and contribute to) psychological health and

well-being (see Adler et al., 2016 for a review). Narrative psychology rests not on what actually

happened, but on the subjective reconstruction of past events (e.g., Bruner, 1990). In a

redemptive story, negative events in the past lead to positivity in the present through growth,

emancipation, recovery, and the like (McAdams, 2006). Indeed, those who tell redemptive

stories of their past adversity are psychologically healthier compared to those who tell stories

that end with negative emotions or outcomes (McAdams, Diamond, de St. Aubin, & Mansfield,

1997; McAdams, Reynolds, Lewis, Patten, & Bowman, 2001). People who tell redemptive

stories are also more likely to be meeting adaptive psychosocial tasks such as identity

development in adolescence and emerging adulthood (McLean & Pratt, 2006), and generativity

in mid-life (McAdams & Guo, 2015). Further, a redemptive story structure and the presence of

themes of agency and autonomy are distinct from the overall tone of the story (Adler, 2012;

McAdams Reynolds, Lewis, Patten, & Bowman, 2001). This suggests that there is something

particularly important about redeeming adversity, about actively constructing a story of growth.
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Narrative patterns associated with well-being (i.e., redemptive narratives) are also

culturally valued themes. A master narrative is a culturally valued and expected template for

storying experiences (McLean & Syed, 2015). McAdams (2006) has argued that the redemptive

story is American and rooted in historical events and texts (e.g., Protestant work ethic, slave

narratives), as well as contemporary influences such as The Oprah Winfrey Show (see also

Collins, 1991, for a related discussion on the power of images in enforcing particular narratives).

McLean and Syed (2015) argue that this emphasis on redemption and agency in the United States

creates a strong scaffold for how to story trauma, but a scaffold that comes with repercussions if

the template is not followed. That is, if one does not experience growth and resolution in the

wake of a traumatic experience, that story will be hard to tell and will be harder to be heard,

because it does not fit with cultural narrative expectations. So the availability, or cultural

privileging, of the narrative does not mean that it is always adopted or employed in the wake of

trauma, which we address in the next section. Put another way, these redemptive expectations

facilitate storying one’s past for those who align with them, and create an obstacle, perhaps a

burden, for those who do not. We unpack these two issues of alignment and constraint below.

Public self-identification as a trauma survivor can be personally healing and

politically empowering for self and others. During acts of coercion and violence, an

individual’s agency, choice, and control are taken from them. Part of the power of narrative

reconstruction is to regain a sense of personal agency and control that was violated by the

violence. Furthermore, in a cultural climate that tends to silence survivors from speaking out

about interpersonal violence, even naming one’s experiences can represent a form of resistance,

or “taking action against the forces of silence” (Fivush, 2010; Hernandez-Wolfe, 2011, p. 240).

The empowerment of taking action in this way can be healing. Reflecting on many years of
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research with survivors of interpersonal violence, scholars have noted that “many of the women

said that this was the first time they told many of the details of their stories, and that the telling

itself was healing” (Pasupathi, Fivush, & Hernandez-Martinez, 2016, p. 53). In an interview-

based study with majority White, female adults who experienced intimate partner violence (IPV)

in past relationships, one participant explained: “For many years, I struggled to regain my power

and my voice. The biggest hurdle (and most rewarding triumph) was when I ‘came out’ as a

survivor…I no longer have to hold my secrets and let them distill into shame” (Flasch, Murray,

& Crowe, 2017, p. 3386). Without needing to keep painful experiences a “secret” hidden from

others, people who have experienced interpersonal violence may feel greater self-acceptance and

re-alignment “of their public and private selves” (Phillips & Daniluk, 2004, p. 179).

Non-binary and genderqueer survivors of interpersonal violence have described facing

additional layers of silencing in the public disclosure process. For non-binary individuals who

have experienced interpersonal violence, both their survivor identity and their gender identity

may be invisible, secret, shameful (due to societal stigma), or even outright disbelieved (Bean,

2019). In an interview with bitch magazine, Sonia, a non-binary survivor who identifies being a

writer as one of her most important identities, continues:

As someone who has always been verbal and struggled so much with silence and being
silenced in her journey to become who they are, I write to affirm my own existence. I
write to tell my own story instead of letting other people impose narratives onto me, onto
my body. I write to bridge the space between myself and people who can take things from
what I write and use them as tools for their own survival. (Bean, 2019)

In Sonia’s words, telling her own story is both personally empowering and an act of survival, in

that it affirms Sonia’s existence and experiences in a society wiling to reject both. Sonia also

frames writing as an act of connection, one that provides a humanizing lifeline for readers who

are rendered invisible by the privileged, dominant culture.

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For some people who have experienced interpersonal violence, adopting a public

“survivor identity” (Flasch et al., 2017, p. 3379) may be a route to self- and other-empowering

advocacy on behalf of survivors. Advocacy represents a “commitment to act on behalf of a group

to challenge injustices” that give rise to and maintain the perpetration of interpersonal violence

(Curtin, Kende, & Kende, 2016, p. 266). To self-identify as an advocate suggests that advocacy

work has been incorporated into one’s identity, possibly entailing a professional or leadership

role within a movement that brings healing or a sense of meaning. In her landmark work Trauma

and Recovery, Judith Herman (1992) expands on this phenomenon of survivors advocating for

social change:

[…] A significant minority [of survivors]…recognize a political or religious dimension in

their misfortune and discover that they can transform the meaning of their personal
tragedy by making it the basis for social action. While there is no way to compensate for
an atrocity, there is a way to transcend it, by making it a gift to others. The trauma is
redeemed only when it becomes the source of a survivor mission. (p. 207).

The word “redeem” comes from Latin roots meaning “to buy back.” Here, Herman evokes the

redemptive master narrative with the argument that social and political advocacy by survivors

represents a “gift” to other survivors (and future generations), a gift “bought back” after being

relinquished to past tragedy. The determined sense of a “survivor mission” (Herman, 1992, p.

207) is exemplified by advocate, Aly Raisman, an Olympian gymnast who was sexually abused

by USA team doctor Larry Nassar: “If I can help one person, then that’s totally what it’s all

about. This is just the beginning. I’m just getting started, and I’m not going to stop until I get

what I want, which is change” (Kim, 2017). The first gymnast to publicly accuse Nassar of

sexual abuse, advocate and lawyer Rachael Denhollander, conveys the potential for public story-

telling and survivorship to lead to social change: “I think there needs to be a lot more focus on

why this happened and how it can happen […] I can speak out about my personal story, but my
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personal story doesn’t change anything unless it changes the societal dynamics. As long as the

culture is conducive to abuse, there will be abusers” (Hong & Truscheit, 2017).

Although the notion of survivors becoming advocates as a way to serve others, challenge

injustice, and make meaning out of traumatic events is intuitive, there is surprisingly little

empirical research on this topic, including work on the conditions and processes by which this

transition occurs.2 A qualitative interview-based study sought to understand motivations for

survivors of political violence in Colombia to become human rights activists (Hernández-Wolfe,

2011). Activists reported having experienced numerous politically-motived traumas, including

torture, witnessing loved ones suffer due to political persecution, displacement, and living under

continual threat of violence (Hernández-Wolfe, 2011). Part of what helped motivate their human

rights activism was a spiritually-inflected “searching for meaning,” along with “indignation”

toward “pervasive impunity, silence, invisibility and denial” around political violence and

injustice in their country (Hernández-Wolfe, 2011, pp. 240-241). Activists reported that they

collectively experienced an “altruism born of suffering” that helped them to “hea[l] from and

transcen[d their] victimization” (Hernández-Wolfe, 2011, p. 245). This emergence of good

(altruism, healing, transcendence) from bad (violence, suffering) echoes the redemptive master

narrative and Herman’s call to “transcend” suffering through social action (1992, p. 207).

Several additional studies with groups of advocate-survivors have highlighted the

important role of community engagement in healing. For instance, a peer-to-peer initiative based

on the promotora model in Latin America trained immigrant Latina women survivors of IPV and

collective trauma to serve as leaders in community efforts to prevent and respond to IPV

(Schultz, Cattaneo, Sabina, Brunner, Jackson, & Serrata, 2016). Research on the initiative, Casa

de Esperanza’s Fuerza Unida Amigos (Strength United), found that women who trained as
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community leaders in antiviolence work and included their trauma stories in the work felt that

this helped to foster self-empowerment and healing (Schultz et al., 2016). In another interview-

based study, with African American antirape advocates, participants emphasized that “rape must

be perceived as a community issue” (White, 2001, p. 20). Echoing the idea that collective action

can be a source of community empowerment and healing, advocates argued that people who

have experienced rape “should be encouraged to break their silence and regain their sense of

agency through antirape collective action” and that “activism should be encouraged as a healing

modality just as individual and group therapy are encouraged” (p. 20). Overall, the sources cited

in this section convey the intertwined nature of public stories of redemption, healing (of self and

others), social action, and political agendas to stop interpersonal violence. Of course, these

empirical studies focus on survivors who became advocates, and as such, cannot shed light on

the predictors or pathways of why some survivors choose to become advocates and some do not

(and on how healing differs based on this choice). To our knowledge, such a comparative study

does not yet exist; we return to the importance of future research in this area in the Conclusion.

Having now detailed the potential advantages of redemption in trauma stories, we turn to

a consideration of the constraints of such narrative expectations.

When and For Whom is the Victim-to-Advocate Redemptive Master Narrative

Unavailable, Disadvantageous, or Discouraged?

There are a variety of ways in which the redemptive arc from victimization to advocacy

may not be a viable structure for storying trauma. At base, however, some individuals may

simply not feel that they have grown, learned from, or resolved their particular experience. If so,

the pull for redemptive stories may be further isolating or invalidating. This individual-level
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consideration deserves attention, but we turn to detailing some of the specific ways in which

redemption in the form of public advocacy may be constraining at more systemic levels.

Systemic racism can constrain public advocacy by women of color and indigenous

women. To publicly identify as a person who has experienced interpersonal violence and to

advocate on behalf of others on a national stage entails particular challenges for populations

whose experiences of violence intersect with racial oppression at individual, institutional, and

systemic levels (Crenshaw, 1991). With its focus on the individual victim, psychology as a

discipline can overlook the historical context of trauma disclosure and advocacy in the United

States that privileges white women’s stories and places constraints on the redemptive storying of

women of color and indigenous women. Although this point has deep scholarly roots (e.g., see

Collins, 1991; Crenshaw, 1991; Davis, 1983), it has been highlighted with renewed relevance in

the era of #MeToo and #MMIWG (Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls;

Savarese, 2017; Urban Indian Health Institute, 2018; Yeung, 2018). For instance, historian

Allyson Hobbs elaborates on why African-American women may be reluctant to publicly

identify as survivors of sexual violence:

As a historian, I understand the countless reasons why women, particularly African-

American women, might not share their experiences of sexual violence. Long
before the #MeToo moment, black women weighed different survival strategies—
sometimes turning inward and choosing silence, sometimes turning outward and
choosing protest—in the aftermath of sexual assault. Sexual exploitation has become a
part of black women’s collective history and memory. For centuries, white men routinely
harassed, abused, humiliated, and raped black women, especially those who worked in
white homes as domestic servants. As a result, the historian Darlene Clark Hine has
written, black women developed a ‘culture of dissemblance’ that ‘created the appearance
of openness and disclosure but actually shielded the truth of their inner lives and selves
from their oppressors’ (Hobbs, 2018).

Moreover, to the extent that a redemptive trauma story requires an uplifting, positive resolution,

advocates may be constrained from fully expressing the feelings of raw anger attached to trauma
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and injustice (Ashley, 2014). Constraints on anger can stem from cultural norms around what

emotion expressions are acceptable. Women and people of color (especially women of color)

may have concerns about expressing anger because of the discomfort and fragility of majority

group members (Bryant-Davis & Ocampo, 2005; DiAngelo, 2018). While a redemptive story of

trauma may empower the storyteller in some ways, this empowerment may occur at the expense

of silencing emotional experiences that the most privileged bystanders are unwilling to tolerate.

Scholars and advocates have also described the added complexities and constraints on

advocacy for cultural minority women in the case of within-group violence, when the perpetrator

and victim share a marginalized cultural identity (Gómez, 2018; Simmons, 2002). In this case,

the perpetrator of interpersonal violence may experience oppression within the broader society,

which complicates victims’ efforts to hold the perpetrator accountable and to speak publicly.

Jewel Allison, an activist who has written publicly of why she delayed disclosing being sexually

assaulted by Bill Cosby—writes,

As I debated whether to come forward, I struggled with where my allegiances should lie
—with the women who were sexually victimized or with black America, which had been
systemically victimized […]3 (Allison, 2015)

While systemic racism complicates efforts for a public accounting of intraracial violence on a

national stage, the extensive history of advocacy and organizing by communities of color and

American Indian/Alaska Native communities must be acknowledged (Deer, 2015; Hill, 2008;

Richie, 2012; West, 1999).4

Layers of societal oppression and marginalization shape the redemption stories of

many survivor-advocates. For many individuals, interpersonal violence occurs in the context of

other forms of societal oppression and stressors arising from poverty, sexism, racism,

homophobia, transphobia, language barriers, acculturation, fear of deportation, and so on. These
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personal and political contexts shape the types of traumatic events that people experience, how

they experience these events, and available avenues of healing and resilience. There is much to

unpack here, but to start, the redemptive notion of traumatic events being over or transcended

may not fit for some groups, in that each day may require transcendence of adversity or

confrontation of new threats. In an interview-based study with transgender people of color who

have experienced traumatic life events, one participant stated: “Some days, just getting out of

bed is a revolutionary act to deal with the world. And I make sure I get out of bed (Marla, age

45)” (Singh & McKleroy, 2011, p. 38, italics in original). Several participants in this study

described how their healing from interpersonal violence was intertwined with their ability to

access resources (e.g., hormonal treatment, higher-paying jobs) and to connect with a community

of transgender activists of color. One survivor stated:

There aren’t words in Vietnamese for transsexual—and my trans POC [people of color]
community knows that. So, I feel like I represent a certain cultural perspective that is
important. Activism is also part of my resilience to the bad shit I have been through—
being able to give my voice. Now, I speak up—do something greater for a greater cause. I
want the world to be an easier and better place to live for my community and myself.
(Richard, age 32). (Singh & McKleroy, 2011, p. 39)

Richard’s statement echoes many redemptive themes of moving from victimization to

empowered public advocacy on behalf of others, such as giving voice to silence, altruism, and a

sense of a “survivor mission,” to use Herman’s phrase. Richard’s perspective also shows how

personal healing (resilience, redemption) from the wounds of interpersonal violence can exist

alongside ongoing embeddedness in and resistance to systemic oppression. Ignacio Martín-Baró

termed such systemic oppression “psychosocial trauma,” or “a social system based on social

relations of exploitation and dehumanizing oppression” (Martín-Baró, 1994, p. 125).

In general, mainstream American cultural notions of trauma and resilience being

processes that are linear, individualistic, and teleological (toward personal redemption) may also
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not be a good cultural fit for all groups. For instance, experiences of historical trauma and other

forms of intergenerational trauma complicate the linear, individualistic redemptive master

narrative. Historical trauma among American Indian/Alaska Native communities and other

Indigenous Peoples of the Americas refers to “cumulative emotional and psychological

wounding across generations, including the lifespan, which emanates from massive group

trauma” (Brave Heart, Chase, Elkins, & Altschul, 2011, p. 283). Instead of a purely personal,

individualistic understanding of trauma, “historical trauma theory frames lifespan trauma in the

collective, historical context, which empowers Indigenous survivors of both communal and

individual trauma by reducing the sense of stigma and isolation” (Brave Heart et al., 2011, p.

283). In a recent article, a group of American Indian/Alaska Native women researchers and

clinicians address the complexities of serving and writing about collective indigenous traumatic

experiences to which they have a personal connection:

Researching and writing about AI/AN historical legacy can be overwhelmingly painful,
as well as cathartic and healing. Commitment to this work can keep us immersed in the
pain and traumatic past, but for a greater good––to help the Oyate (the People) to heal…
In our loyalty to our ancestors, we unconsciously remain loyal to their suffering through
internalization of generational trauma, enacted as the need to suffer as a memorial;
vitality is a betrayal to ancestors who suffered so much (Brave Heart, 1998). However,
part of the healing process is to let go of this guilt for being joyful. We recognize as
Takini [a Lakota word meaning ‘to come back to life or to be reborn’] that we are
wakiksuyapi (memorial people; Brave Heart, 2000), and still healing as we are helping
others to heal. (Brave Heart et al., 2016, p. 32)

In the redemptive master narrative, trauma and its aftermath have been resolved—they are in the

past, transcended. Brave Heart and colleagues provide a moving counterpoint, a notion of time as

“non-linear, circular, and simultaneous” (2016, p. 30). In this way, the altruism and self-sacrifice

of continued suffering can be a form of “memorial” to ancestors who have suffered (2016, p. 32).

Simultaneously, the authors’ commitment to work that serves American Indian/Alaska Native

communities is part of a collective, multigenerational healing process: to embrace vitality and

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healing in the present is to “heal the suffering of the ancestors” (2016, p. 30). Rather than the

notion of “victims” and “advocates” being distinct roles, the authors acknowledge that healers

may themselves be continuing to heal. This perspective has been echoed within the trauma and

resilience literature (see Zerubavel & Wright, 2012 on the “wounded healer”).

To publicly identify as a survivor and/or advocate on behalf of others can be unsafe

or unwelcome under some conditions. At the most basic level, a person still may be involved in

an unsafe relationship in which the need for survival is paramount. Healing, agency, and

empowered political action may not yet be available responses. When extended family networks

or whole kinship communities (as in the case of remote, isolated tribal villages in Alaska) are

connected to and/or depend on the perpetrator in some way, public self-identification as a

survivor and efforts to change the community conditions that enable abuse may threaten

belonging and survival (Deer, 2015; Kasturirangan, Krishnan, & Riger, 2004). Additionally,

public advocacy on behalf of people who have experienced interpersonal violence may place

some groups in a vulnerable position where their ability to meet basic needs for food and shelter

is threatened by their advocacy. For instance, an adult may need to support children using

income from a workplace where sexual violence or exploitation occurs.

Further, agencies that are created to protect and support survivors can continue to cause

harm for some individuals. People of color, indigenous people, people who are undocumented,

and LGBTQIA+ people who have experienced interpersonal violence may reasonably have less

faith in the institutions that are supposed to protect and serve them in the wake of abuse, such as

the healthcare and criminal justice systems (Deer, 2015; Mogul, Ritchie, & Whitlock, 2011;

Richie, 2012). When these survivors disclose experiences of interpersonal violence, an affirming

response cannot be guaranteed, and an invalidating response can cause further harm. Survivors
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with societally marginalized identities may also feel less welcome in spaces that are created by

and for survivors. In the bitch magazine interview with genderqueer and non-binary survivors,

one contributor explained:

Paradoxically, I have felt less comfortable in spaces specifically designated as survivors’

spaces a couple times. As a bearded person who has sometimes identified as a cis man
while talking about my experience as a survivor, I’ve felt rooms go cold when I take up
space. This feels particularly icky because the year of abuse I endured as a teenager was
deeply tied up with expectations of masculinity—at that time I didn’t even know that rape
and psychological/sexual abuse were things that could happen to me. Entering a space of
vulnerability and healing, only to feel invalidated based on perceptions and expectations
of my gender, makes that vulnerability and healing impossible. (statement by Rowan;
Bean, 2019).

Without supportive healing spaces available to people with marginalized gender identities,

survivors risk subjecting themselves to further harassment by agencies that are supposed to help

them heal. For these individuals reporting abuse or seeking help from victim-advocates can mean

further trauma and continuing cycles of disempowerment without a place to turn for support.

Adult survivors of childhood trauma within the family are less visible and politically

organized as advocates.

The #MeToo movement (along with #WhyIStayed #WhyILeft and #WhyIDidntReport)

has afforded many survivors of interpersonal violence in adulthood a platform from which to tell

their stories and to politically organize. However, survivors of childhood trauma, especially

abuse within the family, have been less visible in these public conversations. Indeed, the victim-

to-advocate redemptive master narrative is arguably least available to this group. Here, we

propose some reasons why, in hopes of stimulating future research in this understudied area. Part

of the reason that survivors of trauma in childhood and adolescence have been less visible in

public conversations about interpersonal violence is, of course, the developmental status of

children. For a variety of reasons, we would never expect children to be in a position to identify
20
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as survivors, let alone become advocates. Children and adolescents are likely to trust, depend

upon, and be attached to their perpetrators; if a caregiver is also a source of harm, neither the

child victim nor family bystanders to the abuse may be in a position to acknowledge the abuse

and take empowered action (Delker, Smith, Rosenthal, Bernstein, & Freyd, 2018).

Yet children and adolescents who are chronically victimized within the family become

adults, and still public survivorship and story-telling by adult survivors with this history is rare –

that is, a redemptive master narrative for this particular type of trauma is less available for those

who have experienced it. Why might this be? Once a child who has been chronically abused

reaches young adulthood and/or no longer depends on the family of origin, the shame, suffering,

and negative sense of self resulting from years of abuse may disempower the survivor from

speaking out. From a place of disempowerment, the redemptive story that adversity is

transcended would feel false. Likewise, coping with the persistent pain connected to their abuse

may consume a survivor’s energy day to day, leaving little left over for political action and

service to others. Adults who experienced abuse as children may also be unable to recall the

events in order to narratively construct a story at a later time (Fivush & Edwards, 2004) or they

may struggle to recognize the extent to which they have been harmed and exploited, even into

adulthood (Freyd & Birrell, 2013). Sustained public advocacy by adults who were abused as

children may also be discouraged at interpersonal and societal levels. Family are the source of

our earliest and most trusting relationships, making stories of familial trauma, in many ways, the

hardest to hear, the most disbelieved.

Although it would be developmentally inappropriate to expect child survivors to become

advocates, there are remarkable exceptions. Public figures who have become advocates in

childhood or shortly afterward include the Pakistani human rights advocate Malala Yousafzai,
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teen survivors of the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, FL,

and survivors of high-profile kidnappings and violence who have told their stories through

published memoirs (see Elizabeth Smart’s Where There’s Hope: Healing, Moving Forward, and

Never Giving Up, Jaycee Dugard’s A Stolen Life: A Memoir, Amanda Berry’s Hope: A Memoir

of Survival in Cleveland, and Michelle Knight’s Life After Darkness: Finding Healing and

Happiness after the Cleveland Kidnappings). Arguably, the extremity of horror that these young

women experienced as girls in captivity would be stories unpalatable to the American public,

without the promise of hope, transcendence, or healing in the titles. It should also be noted that

the public stories shared by the young survivors in this section are stories of violence perpetrated

by strangers, not stories of ongoing violence within the family of origin. Perhaps the grinding,

everyday despair of family violence is less marketable. Or perhaps survivor stories of stranger

kidnapping and captivity are perversely comforting to consumers, who can be assured that the

threat of violence is somewhere in extremis, but not in their own home.

Despite the lack of a large-scale movement of adult survivor-advocates of family

violence, there are a small number of public figures in the U.S. who have identified as survivors

of childhood trauma. Oprah Winfrey has been one of the earliest, most influential public figures

in the U.S. to disclose a history of intrafamilial child sexual abuse on a prominent stage. Dating

back to the mid-1980s, Winfrey created a public platform for child abuse survivors to share their

experience and its impact. For nearly three decades, Winfrey has continued to feature stories that

challenge Americans’ stigmatizing assumptions around childhood sexual abuse (NAASCA,

2011). For instance, in 2010, she invited 200 adult male audience members to The Oprah

Winfrey Show stage to disclose that they were sexually abused as children. This episode

highlighted men’s specific struggles and resilience despite societal stigma against male-identified
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survivors of interpersonal violence. Recently, in Oprah Winfrey Presents: After Neverland,

Winfrey invited two adult male survivors of child sexual abuse, Wade Robson and James

Safechuck, before a live audience of survivors. Robson and Safechuck were the subjects of the

2019 documentary Leaving Neverland, a recounting of their years-long histories of alleged

childhood sexual abuse by Michael Jackson. In her on-stage interviews with Robson and

Safechuck, Winfrey masterfully connected their act of public story-telling about personal abuse

to the potential for a collective cultural awakening to the pervasiveness of child abuse. In

Winfrey’s words to her audience:

[…T]he story is bigger […] than any one person […] It’s about this […] insidious
pattern that’s happening in our culture, that we refuse to look at […]. The reason the idea
of [a major public figure] committing sexual abuse against children challenges so many
people is because in every family, you have to face that some things are not the way they
appear to be. What people need to accept in their own families is that people can do good
things—they can be loving and helpful—and also be an abuser and a person who does
bad things. Both can be true. (Opperman & Winfrey, 2019)

Here Winfrey names perhaps the largest barrier to adult survivors of childhood trauma making

public disclosures and becoming advocates: collective societal disbelief that cherished adults

who are supposed to love and protect children in their care could instead harm them. By

connecting these men’s public stories with a larger societal problem that demands systemic

change, Winfrey helped to side-step some of the voyeurism (and political inaction) attached to

individualized public recounting of personal horror.

Both echoing and problematizing some of the redemptive themes described in this paper,

Winfrey allowed Robson and Safechuck the space to express a nuanced story about their

experiences. They shared a sense of appreciation for this moment of mutual connection with a

worldwide audience of survivors, and the hard truth that their healing is not finished. Robson

stated to the After Neverland audience: “As so many of you know, being a survivor is so
23
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isolating. At least it is for a really long time. So to be in this space with you guys, the brothers

and sisters in trauma and in triumph — that we’re standing, you know, and we’re here, I’m just

so grateful” (Harris, 2019, March 4). Safechuck concluded: “It’s going to be a lifelong journey

for me. When this ends and the attention is no longer on the film [Leaving Neverland], I’ve still

got to go on and deal with this. This will be for the rest of my life, you know? […] And I still

have a lot of work to do.” (Opperman & Winfrey, 2019). Redemption from interpersonal

violence promises a conclusion to the story, but perhaps a more accurate term is recovery: it

captures an inconclusive, “lifelong” journey. And it requests a collective bearing witness to the

trauma and ongoing suffering of survivors, a commitment not to close the book.

Conclusion

Violence perpetrated within relationships violates the victim’s trust and undermines

privileged societal expectations of a safe and “just world” (Furnham, 2003). This makes trauma

and its aftermath “hard to speak and hard to hear” for both victims and bystanders (Dalenberg,

2000, p. 57), presenting a special challenge for survivors and advocates who themselves have

experienced trauma. Their presence invites the public to attend to both a personal story of

trauma, and to the reality that trauma persists and must be addressed by means of collective

struggle. Although a redemptive arc from trauma “victim” to “survivor” and/or “advocate” can

offer a comforting sense of closure and empowerment, we have argued for increased attention to

those for whom the redemptive arc is constraining or unavailable for use.

In thinking toward how these ideas might inform future research, we offer some

complications on the developmental themes raised in this article. First, we have proceeded with

an assumption that there is a linear developmental progression from victim to survivor to

advocate. However, there are many potential developmental pathways from the experience of
24
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trauma. For example, some might go from traumatic experience to victim, some from experience

to victim to healing, some from experience to victim to survivor, some from experience to victim

to advocate to healing. And these individual trajectories may occur in tension with systemic or

collective trauma. Future longitudinal research can explore the multiple trajectories that

individuals may experience. Importantly, this research must include not only survivors who have

become advocates, but also those who have not. Beyond the question of how actual trajectories

overlap with culturally valued trajectories, there is the as-yet unanswered empirical question of

how distinct the roles of publicly-identified “survivor” and “advocate” really are. Our review of

the sparse available literature for this paper has revealed to us just how conflated the roles of

survivor and advocate are in the case of public storying of trauma, our area of emphasis.

Second, we note that it is important to consider what predicts these posttraumatic

developmental trajectories, and what the mechanisms are for travelling down these pathways.

For example, developmental pre-cursors of trauma-specific advocacy might include trauma type

(acute/chronic, personal/impersonal, intrafamilial/extrafamilial), family relationships,

temperament or personality, and race privilege or experiences of discrimination. Mechanisms of

movement along these trajectories might include therapy, coping patterns, compassion,

disclosure of the trauma (presence/absence, timing, supportiveness of social reactions to

disclosure), social relationships, and the ability and willingness to recognize a political

dimension to one’s trauma. For survivors with marginalized identities, the violence they

experience is both systemic and interpersonal. Intersections of where violence occurs at systemic

and interpersonal levels can inform innovative paths of political organizing which can aid not

only an individual survivor, but also attempts to dismantle larger systems of oppression (Collins,

2017). Thus, there are likely individual, interpersonal and cultural pre-cursors and mechanisms
25
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for navigating these healing pathways, and they may overlap. For example, certain cultural

contexts may facilitate or constrain personal recognition of the political nature of one’s trauma.

Third, terms like pathway and trajectory suggest “growth” or something getting “better,”

a potential moral value judgment that we do not wish to impose on survivors. We conceive of

developmental trajectories here as movement through time, across the lifespan. Trauma will

change a person over time, but it can be in various dimensions, from growth to fragmentation,

for example. In contrast to the prescriptive feel-good valence of the redemptive arc in American

popular culture, we argue that “positive” emotions, despite their social desirability, are not the

apotheosis of growth. Importantly, the role of anger and indignation in trauma-related advocacy

(and survival) have yet to be explored fully by psychology as a discipline. In a powerful piece

describing her responses to racism, “The Uses of Anger,” Audre Lorde wrote:

Anger is a source of empowerment we must not fear to tap for energy […] I have tried to
learn my anger’s usefulness to me, as well as its limitations […] Black women are
expected to use our anger only in the service of other people’s salvation, other people’s
learning. But that time is over. My anger has meant pain to me but it has also meant
survival, and before I give it up I’m going to be sure that there is something at least as
powerful to replace it on the road to clarity. (Lorde, 1997, pp. 283-284)

We end on a note of both caution and celebration: cautious indignation that it should not

have to be the burden of survivors to advocate, while recognizing the profound courage and

compassion of those who commit to this role. In the words of Emily Waters, a survivor of sex

trafficking who became an advocate and leader in the anti-trafficking field:

I feel an immense responsibility as a survivor of trafficking to help others who have

suffered. I know that many will not have the resources or opportunity that I did […] The
road to full healing is long and arduous; it has been so strengthening for me to come
across others who have traversed the same path. I have worked with hundreds of
survivors over the past ten years, and hope I have demonstrated the compassion and
courage that others have shown me. (Waters, 2016, p. 4)
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Footnotes
1
For example, the turn of the 21st century saw a surge in allegations of child sexual abuse

perpetrated by Catholic clergy, along with increased media attention to the sexual abuse of

children within the Catholic Church (Cheit, Shavit, & Reiss-Davis, 2010).
2
At a very basic level these ideas are consistent with McAdams’ (McAdams & Guo,

2015) findings that those who have more redemptive life stories are also more generative. He

argues that being generative is hard work, and stories of redemption can sustain that hard work.

But this work is not trauma-specific.

3
Allison’s experiences are consistent with the predictions of cultural betrayal trauma

theory, a framework for understanding within-group trauma in minority populations (Gómez,

2018). Gómez writes: “(Intra)cultural pressure includes pressure from other minorities not to

disclose [within-group] trauma for fear that it would reflect negatively on the minority group and

even lead to societal trauma, such as unfair treatment in the judicial system. Therefore,

(intra)cultural pressure can be conceptualized as a mechanism of protection against the harm of

societal trauma. Unfortunately, it is a strategy that privileges the perceived needs of the

perpetrator(s) and/or minority group over the needs of the victims of cultural betrayal trauma”

(Gómez, 2018, p. 2).

4
For a description of the advocacy role of AI/AN women survivors in contributing to the

Congressional reinstatement of the Violence Against Women Act in 2013, see Deer (2015), in the

section “Speaking truth: Native women fight back,” from The Beginning and the End of Rape:

Confronting Sexual Violence in Native Communities. In this landmark work, Deer also describes

AI/AN women’s stories of surviving sexual violence as an essential “part of rape reform […]”

(2015). She continues: “Indeed, there are accounts of the power of a single woman’s story to
27
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effect change [in tribal responses to rape] within her tribal government. Reclaiming and

understanding these stories are critical in developing a meaningful legal structure that is

responsive to the real experiences of contemporary indigenous women. The stories of survivors

are stories of despair and pain but also of strength and survival” (Deer, 2015).
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