From Pain to Power: A Survivor Speaks Out
At Diserio Consulting, we are highlighting the voices and stories of sexual assault survivors during Sexual Assault Awareness Month. We believe sharing these experiences is a powerful way to foster understanding, break the silence, and inspire change. Survivor stories shed light on the realities of sexual violence, the strength of healing, and the urgent need for continued education, prevention, and support.
Recognizing how challenging it is for survivors to come forward is essential. Disclosing what happened can feel like reliving the trauma all over again. Throughout the process, survivors must navigate overwhelming emotions from the moment they speak out to the complexities of legal proceedings, often without consistent support. And when the justice system fails to hold perpetrators accountable, that pain is only magnified. Still, many survivors continue to share their truth, hoping it will help others and lead to meaningful change.
By giving space to these courageous voices, we hope to empower others, raise awareness, and remind every survivor that they are not alone.
Below, we are honored to share the words of one survivor whose courage and resilience deserve to be heard. Her journey is one of pain, strength, and hope.
Take a moment to read her story — you won’t want to miss it.
Detective Kane and "The Living Room"
Author: Phoenix Rising
*Names have been changed to protect identities.
Sexual assault is a reality many are aware of, yet it remains one of the most challenging topics to confront openly. The truth is uncomfortable. Every 68 seconds, someone in the United States is sexually assaulted. Still, too often, perpetrators walk free, while survivors are silenced, dismissed, or disbelieved. How have we allowed this to continue? What will it take for society to fully recognize sexual assault as the devastating crime it is and to demand justice, accountability, and change?
That day's cold cut deeper than the wind sweeping the city streets. It was the kind of chill that settled in my bones. As I stood before the police station, preparing to give my statement to a male investigator, I felt an icy dread crawl through me. I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to walk through those doors, to speak the words I had buried so deep. All I wanted was to retreat, disappear beneath the safety of the blankets of my bed, and never face the world again.
The station felt like Fort Knox, with layers of security I had to navigate. I had come alone. An officer sat at the reception desk, another stood watch near the doors that led to the back, where the investigations happened. The space was cold and cavernous, all metal and silence, stripped of anything that might feel human. I was the only person in the waiting room, sitting in a leather chair that felt far too big. Distant voices drifted through closed doors; footsteps echoed down unseen hallways. My heart pounded, wild and unrelenting, no matter how hard I tried to calm it. I clenched my hands, pulsing them in and out for comfort. It didn’t work. I was afraid, utterly terrified.
I was met by Judy, a compassionate soul with over two decades of experience in Victim Services. We had already spent time together throughout the investigation, and I had come to trust her deeply. There was a quiet strength about her, a calm presence, paired with the fierce heart of a tiger. Her dedication moved me. Every day, she chose to show up for people like me, to hold space for our stories, pain, and hope. In a time when I felt invisible, she saw me. She lifted me up.
Judy gently began walking me through what to expect, trying to ease the tension visibly gripping me. She explained that two other people would be in the room—the investigator and another advocate—and that the interview would be recorded. She reminded me I could take breaks and go at my own pace. Still, my mind raced. I was consumed with the fear of forgetting something important, convinced that if I missed even one detail, it wouldn’t be enough to hold my perpetrator accountable. But the moment I stepped into the room, my thoughts scattered. Everything went blank.
The room was warmer than I expected, more like a living room than part of a police station. The room was cozy and sterile. It was like a living room with large lounge chairs and side tables for water and Kleenex boxes. A gentle mist of essential oils drifted from the corner, filling the air with lavender. The lights were low, and a window let in a sliver of the outside world. This room was designed to bring comfort and help survivors feel at ease. And yet, despite its softness, it still didn’t feel like home, not to me, not with the weight of what I had come to say.
The investigator, Detective Kane, entered quietly. His demeanor was calm, his voice gentle, and his first words were filled with empathy. He said, “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” The truth was, I wasn’t sure I could either. Everything still felt distant, like I was about to describe a film I had watched about some other woman, someone else's nightmare, but that story was mine. That woman was me!
Detective Kane held a yellow legal pad and a pencil, letting me know he’d take notes as he guided me through a series of questions. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel uneasy about sharing such painful, intimate details with a male investigator. Maybe it was the setting, the quiet, calming space, which felt more like a living room than an interrogation room. Perhaps it was the grounding presence of the Victim Services team. Whatever it was, something about that moment made it feel safe to describe my experiences.
Detective Kane began gently, easing into the conversation with simple, open-ended questions. It felt like the warm-up before a marathon. “How did you meet the perpetrator?” “Where would you like to start?” I sat upright, composed, like I was in a job interview, trying to convince someone to believe in me. The events I described felt surreal, and I was desperate for it to sound credible and honest, even though I knew it was. He didn’t seem skeptical. The doubt came from within me, my fear and disbelief in what I had survived. Time slipped by, and we were an hour into the interview before I realized the questions had shifted. They weren’t about facts anymore. They reached into emotional territory, scraping at raw, open wounds I had not yet healed. Each question felt like it might tear me open further, as if any more pressure would cause everything inside me to spill out onto the table in front of me.
My mind was a battlefield, flooded with dissonance and contradiction. I was fighting to hold onto the truth, to reclaim even a fragment of agency after the multiple sexual assaults, and find worth in myself again. At the same time, I was still tangled in love with the man who had promised me a beautiful future, even as he shattered it with his own hands. He had vowed to kill me if I ever disclosed his actions. I was grieving the loss of him, the dream he sold me, and the safety I once believed in. It was too much to carry. I knew I had to speak. I had to tell the truth, my truth. But the thought of betraying him, getting him in trouble, possibly triggering him to hurt someone else or come after me, froze me in fear. Saying it out loud, with my voice, took every ounce of courage. I had to blindly, desperately believe that someone would hear me, believe me, and that justice would find him.
I kept speaking to Detective Kane, recounting every horrific physical act, every moment of mental torment. The deeper I went, the more my body began to betray me—stiffening, my breath growing shallow. Judy noticed the color draining from my face. I was pale, rigid, and my hands were clenched tightly together in my lap. She gently suggested a break. “Yes, please,” I whispered, barely holding it together. As I exhaled, my shoulders finally dropped from where they'd been tensed near my ears. Detective Kane quietly stepped out, giving me space to return to myself with the advocates by my side.
Almost immediately, the trembling began, an involuntary response I knew all too well, the telltale sign of my nervous system in full-blown fight-or-flight. My sobs came next, heavy and raw, pouring out of me like a dam breaking. I wept, loud and unfiltered. “I’m not going to be okay,” I cried. “I can’t do this. I can’t talk anymore. This is too much. Why did this happen? Where is he? Why am I the one sitting here, talking about rape?” My mind spiraled, spinning out of control. Judy leaned in, steady and calm, her presence anchoring me as the storm passed.
“You can do this, Phoenix. We’re right here. The detective believes you. He’s going to do an excellent job capturing what happened to you,” Judy said gently. Her words wrapped around me like a lifeline, and I slowly began to recalibrate. Then she added, “You’ve been talking in survival mode up to this point. You don’t have to stay there. You can be yourself. Speak in your own voice. Finish the interview as you.”
She was right. I had been stuck in survival mode—numb, clinical, recounting the ongoing rapes like it was a lab report instead of my life. But this wasn’t a project. It wasn’t a movie I had watched happen to someone else. It was me, my experiences. I was the one who had been violated and subjected to power, control, and weapons used against my body and soul. I had lived through the nightmare. With police intervention, I was finally free. For the first time in a long time, I had my voice back and the agency to use it.
That interview happened nearly three years ago. After enduring a long, deeply traumatic journey through the criminal justice system, my rapist finally stood in court. The case ended with a plea deal: a conviction on a lesser charge, four years of probation, and the dismissal of four aggravated sexual assault charges. I still don’t fully understand how justice slipped away like that, but it did.
He will walk free and I will carry, for a lifetime, the crystal-clear memory of what it means to be raped and what it feels like to watch your rapist go unpunished.
I write to you today to call for greater accountability in our criminal justice system for those who commit sexual assault. I write in solidarity with every survivor who has endured what no one should. I am profoundly grateful for the victim advocates who stood beside me, who helped me not only survive but also begin to heal. And I write to you now as a woman who has tended to those deep wounds, has found her way forward, and has chosen to forgive, not for him, not because he deserves it, but for myself. For my family. For the freedom to live the life I deserve, one no longer defined by rape, but by resilience!
If you would like to connect with "Phoenix," please contact us, and we will explore how to do so. While Phoenix is open and vocal about her experience and identity, we have chosen not to reveal her real name for various reasons.
Diserio Consulting wants to extend our deepest gratitude to Phoenix for bravely sharing her words and truth. It takes immense courage to speak out, and by doing so, Phoenix offers hope, validation, and strength to countless others who may be walking a similar path. We hope her story reminds all survivors that healing is possible and that their voices matter.
As a society, we must hold perpetrators of sexual assault fully accountable for their actions and create systems that truly listen to and support survivors. Believing survivors, providing resources, and ensuring justice are not optional but necessary steps toward real change.
At Diserio Consulting, we are committed to standing with survivors every step of the way. We provide compassionate support, education, and expert consulting services for individuals, organizations, and communities. If you or someone you know needs assistance, or if your organization wants to strengthen its efforts around sexual assault prevention, response, and investigation, we are here for you. Please reach out to Diserio Consulting to schedule a confidential consultation.