I’m a survivor of childhood sexual assault. I’m also a woman who will not be remembered as someone who stayed quiet in the face of abuse. I remind myself of this every time the cost of speaking up alters my day to day.

I saw something. I said something. I was terminated recently from my position as a bartender at a Cuban restaurant, here in Portland, Oregon. I tell myself my morals are intact, and more importantly, my safety increased the moment I stopped entering into that workplace. 

Old co-workers have reached out. They tell me they’ve also seen it, and that it’s wrong. But they continue to work there. It makes me sad, and it also tells me they would stay silent if I was assaulted there. A different kind of unsafe person. 

It’s the second time I’ve been fired for speaking up. Last time was 2020, when the owner of a cannabis garden (*legal in Oregon) came to work with a positive covid diagnosis. I saw something, I said something. I reminded myself that my morals were intact, and I was safer away from that workplace. 

One co-worker left that job after hearing about my termination. She stated it in her resignation letter. A woman I recognize as safe. Who spoke up, and altered her day to day to find safety. I’m not alone on this journey. 

So, this morning, I will walk 4 miles to get groceries. I can’t afford bus fare, or gas for my truck, or insurance. But I can walk. I don’t have cash for food, but I advocated for myself, and enrolled with Oregon Food Benefits.

I don’t have money for hygiene products today, but I’ve been here before. I advocated for myself, and the QCenter is helping me acquire those items. That’ll be a 14 mile trek. I can hand out resumes along the way. 

Walking will help with the CPTSD. I know my survival response will activate more frequently until I find financial stability again, but I’ve been here before. I know that body-mind connection helps me regulate. I know the importance of keeping my body fed and clean. It helps me stay grounded. It keeps the flashbacks manageable. 

I recognize my resilience. I’ve been looking for safety for most of my life, and I’m hell bent to find it. The grief that comes from losing a lover, or a workplace, is far less than the compromise of complacency. 

The constant rerouting of my inner narrative moves me in the direction I want my life to go. It has taken eleven years of mental health work to get to this point. It’s still a practice to walk away when I see the “red flags”. 

Never give up. I am not alone in this story, which means you aren’t either.