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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.