For too many institutions, survivors aren’t seen as people. They’re seen as problems.

Not because they lied. Not because they exaggerated. But because they spoke up. Because they had the nerve to interrupt the status quo. Because they refused to stay silent about the harm that was done to them—and often, the harm still being done to others.

When institutions use the word “survivor,” they often mean “short-term issue.” Something to contain. To silence. To delay until the news cycle passes, the board changes, or the fiscal year resets.

I’ve seen it firsthand. Survivors labeled as difficult, unstable, money-hungry, or out for revenge. (Heck, I was called all of those things). Internal emails referring to a victim as “a PR risk.” Lawyers asking, “Is she likely to go to the press?” instead of “How can we help her heal?”

Let’s be clear: the real problem isn’t the survivor.
The problem is what happened to them.
The problem is that the abuse happened—and it was covered up.

And the longer a survivor is willing to speak out, the more dangerous they seem to become. Time doesn’t lessen this—if anything, it sharpens the institutional fear.

It’s astonishing how easy it still is to intimidate witnesses, even 20, 30, 40 years after the abuse. A legal threat here. A veiled suggestion there. An “off-the-record” conversation with a current employer. Survivors are painted as unreliable or too emotional, when the truth is: institutions are scared. Because survivors are the receipts. The inconvenient proof. The walking, breathing reminders that truth has a way of surviving—and resurfacing.

But survivors are not problems to manage. They are people. Many are professionals, parents, educators, healers. They’re the ones with courage. With conscience. With a vision for something better.

So let’s stop pretending that survivors are disruptive.
They’re not disrupting—they’re illuminating.
And that light, uncomfortable as it may be, is what makes change possible.