Facing Fear: A Survivor's Breakthrough Poem

CONTENT WARNING: Physical abuse

This poem was written by Thrive co-founder Lindsey Ross during our weekly Writing Reconnection group.

I pride myself on not being scared of anything.

He would kneel on me until I could hear my collar bones and ribs snap under him. Sinking deeper. Forcing my body hard into the ground beneath. My body I no longer owned. The body I stopped owning years ago.

He would hold my head still while he would yell into my “Stupid Broken Ears.”

I pride myself on not being scared of anything.

He would leave me in stores when I took too long looking at tangible things that brought me little sparks of joy. He would drive away no matter where we were. 

I got great at walking.

I pride myself on not being scared of anything.

He would drag me across our spotless, perfect home. Not home. Cage of nightmares. By my perfect, long dark hair.

He would put bags over my head just to see me struggle. Sometimes they would smell like the stores he’d leave me at that bring me little sparks of joy. 

I pride myself on not being scared of anything.

I pride myself on not being scared of anything.

I pride myself on not being scared of anything.

I’m not scared of anything.

I’m not scared.

I won’t be scared of anything.

—Lindsey

Letter to a Survivor

Dear Survivor,

At the beginning of each of our classes, we address the circle, looking for you so we can tell you: Whatever you have been through, whatever you had to do to get here today, please know that you did your very best.

We can make eye contact with you and try to address that message to your very soul. We know right now you probably don’t believe it. Though your face is expressionless, you are probably thinking, You don’t know what I did. You don’t know what I let happen. You don’t know my story.

And you’re right—we don’t know those things unless you share them with us. And even then, your exact shoes are ones we’ll never walk in.

But there are a few things we do know: You are here today, which means you are smart and resilient and have at least a tiny spark of self-love—enough to want to protect yourself, enough to want to confront or cope with what’s happened, enough to want to heal yourself.

Survival is our most fundamental instinct. Like breathing or eating, when this work needs done, our bodies take over regardless of what our minds may want. Maybe you fought back with your words or body but couldn’t stop the assault. Maybe you froze or disconnected your brain and body to get through those terrible moments. Maybe you lied to yourself and others, or stole, betrayed, or burned bridges with loved ones to hide from your abuser or to keep their wrath at bay. Maybe you endured some type of violence to try to prevent another, worse type. Maybe your abuser forced you to say you wanted the abuse or deserved the abuse; maybe they forced you to tell your friends and family that you didn’t want them in your life anymore. Any of these things—or others—may fill you with guilt, shame, hurt, or rage now. But in the moment of those actions, your survival instinct was in charge. Just keep me alive. Nothing else matters if I don’t survive this day.

And although assault may make you feel isolated in a hundred different ways, we can promise you that you are not alone. We cannot return you to a time when this horrible thing didn’t happen to you and we cannot promise you that one day you’ll feel no pain, but we can offer you the space and support to name those things you thought you’d never be able to say out loud and begin to loosen their hold on your mind and heart. We can teach you things that will remind you how strong and capable you are. We can welcome you into our community if you feel ready for that.

We may not understand, but we’ll never stop listening to you, because you matter.

 —Lauren & Lindsey