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A tunnel with no real exit — just a way forward through the dark. Some places don’t offer escape, only the choice to keep going.

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This Padlet has been more than an assignment — it has been a way to name truths I’ve carried alone. These systems aren’t abstract to me, even though I chose to make parts of this Padlet abstract. That felt like the safest way to show how fractured and invisible these experiences can feel.

Health, Safety, and the State has caused the most direct harm to me and my community — through courts that protected abusers, police that escalated violence, and medical institutions that mocked or dismissed our pain. What I’ve lived reflects what we studied about institutional betrayal: systems that are supposed to offer protection often end up deepening the harm.

Education was withheld from me entirely. It was used as a tool of control and isolation. I wasn’t given access to learning, and when I tried to take it for myself, I was punished. Now, reclaiming education is an act of resistance — but the damage caused by being locked out for so long is something I still carry. It reflects what we discussed in class about education as a system of stratification, especially for those already pushed to the margins.

Social movements have shaped my voice. Even when I haven’t felt like I belonged, I’ve always found ways to stand up — protesting hateful laws, naming injustice, and making sure my children know the truth about the world they live in.

The experiences I’ve shared are shaped by my social location — as a disabled, impoverished, trauma-impacted woman and mother. These identities have made systems even more hostile and exclusionary. While some people can access protection or support, people like me are often ignored, punished, or erased when we ask for help.

This isn’t a full picture. But it’s a piece of the truth — one that deserves to be seen, heard, and remembered. And I’m still here to tell it.

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A dimly lit tunnel with yellow lights along the ceiling. The road stretches ahead into darkness, with no clear end in sight. The image feels quiet and heavy.

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This collage tells the story of love that began with connection and beauty—and ended in control and harm. It’s a portrait of how I disappeared, again when I thought I was healing.

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My Community Profile: The Isolated Invisible Survivors

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My Community Profile: The Isolated Invisible Survivors

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My life in this community began at birth—raised in a family system of abuse and control, and later abandoned by the institutions meant to help, falling through every crack that existed—left vulnerable to a lifetime of exploitation by those who recognized my invisibility.

We are survivors of abuse, abandonment, and institutional failure—seen as problems instead of people.

Our community spans all ages—infants born into violence, teens surviving on their own, adults blamed for their pain, elders left to disappear.

We survive in isolation—but we are not alone in what we’ve lived through.

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Hidden in plain sight. Culture taught me to be quiet, to shrink, to disappear. But I’m still her

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Our culture teaches people to ignore what makes them uncomfortable—especially pain, trauma, or vulnerability.

Survivors like me are often seen as unstable, dramatic, or dangerous instead of wounded and in need of care.

There’s stigma around speaking out, especially when harm comes from family or relationships. That silence isolates us further.

But there is a quiet culture of survival too—one built on resilience, truth-telling, and refusing to disappear.

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Layered, abstract collage of a hooded figure in vivid colors—symbolizing distortion, fractured identity, and cultural invisibility.

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History remembers what it wants. The rest of us become reflections—distorted, partial, forgotten.

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Throughout history, people like me—survivors of abuse, poverty, and institutional failure—have been hidden, punished, or forgotten.

Systems meant to protect us—child welfare, healthcare, education, legal—often reinforced harm instead of preventing it.

Our stories were not seen as part of history, but they are. We’ve existed in every era, in every system that chose silence over justice.

Today, some things are changing—but many of us are still just trying to survive.

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A blurry, broken TV screen showing a reflection of a figure and surroundings—symbolizing distorted history and forgotten people.

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Falling through spaces that were never safe—twisted, chaotic, and out of our control.

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Environment isn’t just nature—it includes the physical spaces people are forced to survive in.

For many in my community, that means living in unsafe housing, being cut off from resources, or surviving in places that feel unstable, isolating, or threatening.

These are not environments that support healing—they reflect a society that withholds care from those it has cast aside.

True safety, rest, and dignity are rare. Many of us have spent our lives without access to any of them.

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A surreal image of Alice falling through a dark, winding tunnel—representing disorientation, lack of control, and unsafe environments experienced by marginalized communities.

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When support disappears, we’re left to navigate empty systems on our own.

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Global systems don’t always feel global when you’re the one being left behind. In my community, globalization hasn’t brought opportunity—it’s brought more instability. Factories closed, housing costs rose, and basic needs became harder to meet. One of the only stores removed produce just to avoid accepting WIC, cutting off access for families who already had nowhere else to go.

Global inequality doesn’t just happen between countries—it shows up in everyday disparities between communities. In mine, even fresh food or basic supplies are limited or overpriced, while in wealthier nearby areas, those same resources are taken for granted. Around 10% of residents in St. Helens live below the poverty line, and the rate is more than double that among disabled individuals. Decisions made far away by people who never face the consequences make our lives harder.

The people who get hurt most are the ones already surviving without support—disabled people, trauma survivors, low-income households. We’re expected to adjust, accept less, and stay quiet. Most of us already know what it’s like to fall through cracks no one plans to fix.

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Empty metal store shelves under fluorescent lights, with neon pink and green distortion. The image reflects both physical emptiness and emotional disconnection in a system that feels distant and unreachable.

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My elementary school. I was labeled, silenced, and pushed out here — long before anyone asked why. A place that could have protected me, but didn’t.

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In my community, education was never protection — it was another place where harm went unnoticed and survival was punished.

We were kept from school, or pushed out of it. Our absences were treated like choices, not symptoms of something bigger. Teachers labeled us as problems before asking why we were struggling — if they asked at all.

For some of us, just trying to learn was enough to be humiliated. Curiosity was framed as disruption. Needing help was seen as a threat.

Now I’m in school with real support for the first time — and I’ve finally been met with care instead of punishment. But the damage of being misread, silenced, and discarded stays with me. Education was never built for us — and we learned that early.

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A photo of a public elementary school building under a gray sky. The structure has red trim, large windows, and a wide, flat roof. This was the user’s elementary school — a place tied to early experiences of shame, mislabeling, and systemic neglect.

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Education: The Hidden Curriculum and the Children It Leaves Behind

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Education: The Hidden Curriculum and the Children It Leaves Behind

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This video explores the hidden curriculum — the unspoken rules in schools that often punish the most vulnerable. My family kept me from school to cover up their abuse, and then lied to paint me as the problem. Educators believed them. I was treated like a criminal, punished for absences I couldn’t control, and shut out of the community and safety I was desperate for.

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The Hidden Curriculum Students Should Never See

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 Health, Safety, and the State: Institutional Betrayal

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 Health, Safety, and the State: Institutional Betrayal

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This talk by Jennifer Freyd, who coined the term “institutional betrayal,” puts words to the pain I’ve lived. She explains how systems that are supposed to protect us—like courts, police, and healthcare—can actually deepen trauma. Hearing this helped me feel less alone, and more understood.

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Institutional Betrayal by  Dr. Jennifer Freyd

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This is a cast of my belly when I was pregnant with my oldest daughter — during the first Trump regime. The pin is from one of the first protests I joined as a child, against Oregon’s anti-gay Measure 9. My body has been used, controlled, and silenced for most of my life. This cast is a reminder of how long I’ve been unsafe, unheard, and expected to stay quiet — and how little that has changed.

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Systems of health and safety have never protected people like me — they’ve reinforced harm. After surviving violence and seeking help, I was mocked, dismissed, and criminalized. Police treated me like the problem. A biased judge used her power to punish me for surviving. Doctors shamed me instead of offering care. Even when my children showed clear signs of trauma after our family experienced a traumatic event, we were blamed instead of supported.

These institutions don’t respond to pain with protection — they respond with control. In my community, asking for help often makes things worse. Isolation isn’t just emotional — it’s enforced by the systems that were supposed to keep us safe.

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Photo of a white plaster belly cast from a late-stage pregnancy, hanging on a wall. A small round protest button reading “NO on 9 — Stop Censorship” is pinned near the upper left. The surface is slightly worn, symbolizing time and experience. The image represents motherhood, control, political resistance, and survival.

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Taken outside the only store in town that had reliable access to formula before it stopped accepting WIC. The supplies are stocked, but for many in the community, they’re out of reach. This image reflects how economic systems can limit access, even when resources appear available.

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In my town, you can see how economic systems fail people just by looking at where they can—or can’t—shop. Walmart is the main option, and the only other store is a Safeway with much higher prices. When the local Walmart stopped accepting WIC—a benefit still accepted at other locations—it left families who depended on that support without reliable access to infant formula. Safeway stocks negligible amounts of infant formula and carries less WIC-approved baby food than Walmart, and its prices are much higher.

That decision didn’t just inconvenience people. It directly harmed families who rely on WIC to feed their children—and left them with nowhere local to turn.

It’s part of a larger pattern. People living with disabilities, on fixed incomes, or without transportation are constantly expected to adapt to systems that were never built for them. And when profit is the only priority, their needs are the first to be ignored.

This isn’t just about one store or one policy. It’s part of a larger pattern in how economic systems are built—rewarding profit while disregarding the needs of people who are already struggling. If social change is going to mean anything, it has to start by acknowledging who these systems consistently leave behind.

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Outdoor view of a Walmart pickup area with stacked pallets of merchandise in front. The store is closed. A Subway sign is visible above, and recycling machines are positioned nearby. The scene appears full of products but gives no access to them.

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Resistance isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like reading truth to your children, making sure they know what the world tried to hide from you.

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I’ve spent much of my life standing up — in the streets, in protests, and in both quiet and loud resistance — against hate, injustice, and violence. I’ve marched against discriminatory laws, police brutality, and the cruelty people justify through fear and power.

But even in those spaces, I’ve often felt like an outsider. The movements may have touched parts of my experience, but never all of it. I’ve never fully belonged to any of the groups being fought for. The brainwashing I grew up with still whispers that I don’t deserve a place.

Still, I show up. I speak up. I’ve raised my children with truth — with stories of Ruby Bridges and the children of the Holocaust — the same stories that shaped me. I’ve filled our shelves with them. I share what I learn, what I survive, and what I witness.

Because silence has never protected me. And because even if I don’t feel like I belong, the world won’t change unless people like me exist — both quietly and loudly — enough to be seen.

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Stylized photo of me and my son holding a copy of The Story of Ruby Bridges.

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Social Movements: Oregon’s Battle Over Measure 9

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Social Movements: Oregon’s Battle Over Measure 9

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I was 11 years old — in 5th grade — when I protested Oregon’s Ballot Measure 9. It was the first act of resistance in my life. I didn’t understand all the politics, but I understood injustice. I knew it was wrong to target people for who they were.

This video shows how deep that harm went — and how powerfully people fought back. Gail Shibley, Oregon’s first openly gay legislator, stood up in a time of fear and hate. That movement taught me what it means to show up — even when the world wants you silent.

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The quote is from the film Labyrinth, spoken by the character Sarah. Someone once told me it reminded them of me. And it seemed fitting here. I believe religion teaches that suffering is strength and silence is faith — but I never belonged to them, and they never have the power to define me.

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Religion was never part of my upbringing — my narcissistic mother was the only god allowed in my life. But I’ve seen what religion does to people like me. It doesn’t protect. It justifies abuse, denies trauma, and shames survivors. It gives forgiveness and compassion to the predators — and demands it from their prey.

Most religion seems to especially hate women and value ignorance. It teaches that suffering is love, silence is faith, and forgiveness is required — even for the people who hurt you. Guilt becomes control. Morality becomes a mask for cruelty.

Religion also teaches discrimination — against queer people, women, anyone who doesn’t submit. Hatred is disguised as righteousness. These systems weren’t built to save us. They were built to control us, enslave us, and erase us.

In my community, we’ve watched survivors be pushed back into dangerous homes by religious “counseling.” We’ve seen queer teens shamed into silence. We’ve been told our pain is punishment, and our healing is rebellion. Religion doesn’t just shape belief — it shapes harm.

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Still from Labyrinth showing Sarah with the quote “you have no power over me.” 