Why I Still Struggle to Say “I’m a Survivor” Out Loud
There are words I can type more easily than I can speak. “Sexual assault” is one of them. “Trauma” is another. I can write about fear, dissociation, shame and the long, uneven work of healing, then close my laptop and make a cup of tea as though I have placed the experience safely inside a paragraph. But saying “I’m a survivor” aloud still catches somewhere behind my ribs.
The difficulty is not that I doubt what happened. It is not a lack of compassion for other people who use the word, either. I believe survivors. I believe myself more than I once did. Still, identity can feel heavier than description. A sentence about the past can be edited; a name for the person I have become feels permanent, public and impossible to take back.
The Word Carries More Than My Story
“Survivor” is a powerful word, but it comes with expectations. It can sound brave, resolved and certain, as though surviving means standing at the other side of a finished story. My reality is less polished. I can have a good day, laugh with friends, go to work, listen to music and care for the people I love, while still being startled by a smell, a tone of voice or a memory I did not invite in.
Sometimes I worry that I do not look like the person people imagine when they hear the word. I am not always visibly distressed. I do not have a neat timeline of harm, recovery and closure. Trauma responses can be contradictory: numbness beside anger, grief beside relief, confidence beside a sudden need to hide. Calling myself a survivor does not erase those contradictions, but it can feel as if I need to explain them before I am allowed to claim the label.
There is also the fear of being reduced to it. I am a writer, a feminist, a friend, a person with complicated feelings and ordinary errands. I have favourite songs, bad habits, hopes and opinions that have nothing to do with what happened. “Survivor” describes something true about me, but it cannot be the whole biography.
Shame Makes Speech Feel Dangerous
Shame is rarely logical. It can survive evidence, reassurance and years of distance. Even when I know responsibility belongs to the person who caused harm, some old part of me still whispers that saying the words will make other people look at me differently. It imagines pity, suspicion or uncomfortable silence. It predicts that someone will ask what happened, why I stayed, why I did not report it, or why I am talking about it now.
Those questions are part of the social landscape around sexual violence. Survivors are often expected to provide a courtroom-ready account of their pain, with consistent details and a performance of the correct emotion. In Australia, the pressure to say “I’m right” or “I’m fine” can be especially familiar. We use casual language to soften difficult conversations, and “no worries” can become a reflex even when there are very real worries underneath.
I have also absorbed the myth that speaking out must be public to be meaningful. It does not. A person can tell one trusted friend, write in a private journal, speak with a GP or say nothing until they feel ready. Reporting to police, pursuing legal action or sharing a name online are individual choices, not measures of credibility. Silence can be a survival response; speech can be one too.
The way I write about mental health and recovery is shaped by that belief. The About Katiee page reflects a broader space for personal storytelling, social justice and honest reflection, rather than a demand that anyone turn pain into a performance. That distinction matters to me because being witnessed should not require being exposed.
Healing Does Not Follow A Straight Line
I used to think that enough time would make the word easier. Time has helped, but it has not moved in a straight line. A therapy session can open something I thought had settled. An anniversary can arrive without announcing itself. A relationship can bring tenderness and fear into the same room. Recovery from trauma is often less like crossing a finish line and more like learning the shape of my own nervous system.
There are days when I feel grounded in my body, and days when I feel as though I am observing it from a distance. Anxiety can turn an ordinary appointment into a major event. A crowded train, a late-night walk or a conversation about consent may produce a response that seems disproportionate to the moment, even when my body is reacting to an older danger.
Astrology has sometimes offered me a language for uncertainty, not because I think a birth chart explains away abuse or determines my future. I find comfort in symbolic systems that give feelings somewhere to sit. Writing about why astrology comforts me has helped me recognise that meaning-making can coexist with evidence-based mental health care. A grounding exercise, a psychologist, medication, a chart, a walk beside the water in Naarm: these things can occupy different places in the same life.
Australian support services also exist within imperfect systems. A GP may discuss a Mental Health Treatment Plan, while cost, waiting lists and availability make ongoing care difficult. 1800RESPECT can provide sexual assault, domestic and family violence support on 1800 737 732, and Lifeline is available on 13 11 14. Knowing those services exist does not automatically make reaching out easy, but it reminds me that needing support is not a personal failure.
Speaking It Without Performing It
When I practise the sentence, I often make it smaller first. “Something happened to me.” “I have experienced sexual violence.” “I am still processing what happened.” These phrases are not evasions. They are stepping stones between silence and a declaration that feels too exposed.
The word “survivor” can also be shared selectively. I might use it in a piece of writing but not in a room. I might tell one person and not another. A close friend may hear the full sentence, while a colleague only needs to know that I am having a difficult day. Consent applies to disclosure too: I am allowed to decide who receives my story, how much they receive and whether they have earned the right to hold it gently.
Music has been one of the places where I can feel whole without explaining myself. At a concert, the body can move, sing and exist among strangers without becoming a case study. Writing about the girl who goes to concerts reminds me that joy is not evidence that the harm was insignificant. Dancing is not denial. Enjoyment does not cancel grief, and grief does not disqualify me from enjoyment.
The following phrases feel more honest than forcing myself into certainty:
- “I am still finding language for what happened.”
- “I survived something, even when I do not feel strong.”
- “I do not owe anyone the details.”
- “My healing can be private and still be real.”
- “Being okay today does not erase what I endured.”
- “I can change the words I use as my understanding changes.”
A Name I Can Grow Into
There may be a time when saying it becomes ordinary. There may also be times when I stop using the word, choose another one or leave the sentence unfinished. None of those choices will alter the truth of what happened. Language is meant to support my understanding, not become another authority telling me who I have to be.
I am learning that “survivor” does not have to mean fearless. It can mean I am here, even with the parts of me that remain tender. It can mean I have made it through moments I once thought would swallow me. It can mean I recognise the harm without surrendering my entire identity to it. The word can hold strength, but it can hold exhaustion too.
For now, I can say it quietly, to myself, without an audience: I’m a survivor. The sentence may shake. I may need to stop afterwards, breathe slowly and feel my feet against the floor. My next step is to write those four words in my journal tonight and leave them there without explaining them.
