If only we could shout our stories into the void and have our words magically reach those who need them.
But alas, that’s not how the internet works — it demands visibility, vulnerability, and (for those of us trying to make a living in these financially treacherous times) the awkward dance of self-promotion.
Although I’ve been writing publicly for over a year now with relative success, monetizing and marketing my abuse recovery still feels strange.
It’s an agonizing tightrope to walk: balancing the longing to help other survivors with the icky discomfort of profiting from my own trauma.
I was an introvert long before my abuse. Relentless gaslighting, punishment, and invalidation by my abuser of five years only added to my fear of attention and overall jumpy nervous system.
As positively as I like to believe my recovery is trending, I’m still about one loud noise or overwhelming social situation from smashing a me-shaped hole in the wall at any given moment.
Being in the spotlight triggers not just my general shyness, but a cascade of painful CPTSD symptoms: anxiety, guilt, lack of motivation, dissociation, and feelings of intense shame and self-doubt.
In my writing, I’m also troubled by the emotional burden that may land on unsuspecting readers. The last thing I aim to do is trigger trauma symptoms in others. I hold an immense worry that saying the wrong thing could result in further harm or anguish.
Then again, I believe tiptoeing around the hard topics is all the more dangerous and isolating. I know exactly how lifesaving, and how dangerous, it can be to be open about what’s happening in relationships behind closed doors.
Abusers don’t deserve our help hiding their sins. Unfortunately, when victims do come forward with their experiences it’s all too common for them to face backlash, criticism, and other forms of retaliation.
This is especially true when (as in my case) perpetrators are powerful or well-known individuals, making it even more difficult for survivors to come forward publicly.
Many choose not to ever share their stories due to these very real and valid fears. This leads to an “invisible epidemic” of violence that’s all the more dangerous due to society’s unwillingness to look at it.
I’ve found tremendous comfort and validation in reading the accounts of brave survivors who have gone through similar experiences and chosen to share their stories. If escaping my own situation has inspired me to do anything, it’s to help others do the same.
My extensive personal and professional experience in criminal justice, mental health, advocacy, and communication has made me highly qualified to speak on subjects other victims may not have the words to convey. Wherever I can, I try to incorporate this information to help others find safety.
While I often struggle with feelings of shame, I know logically I’m not the one who should feel humiliated about what happened to me.
It’s not embarrassment about my experiences making me hesitant about self-promotion, exactly. Rather, I struggle with worries that promoting my writing is somehow exploitative — as if I’m commodifying or profiting from others’ pain by extension.
Add to that the false narrative that victims are looking for attention or lying, and you have a recipe for one anxious, overthinking ball of trauma survivor.
Writing has always been a cathartic way for me to process emotions and cope with stress. It’s become an essential tool for working through my experiences.
It’s not as though I’m making bags through my writing. I still celebrate every dollar and new follower.
Yet in my more self-conscious moments, it’s easy to convince myself I’m somehow exploiting my trauma for personal gain.
I don’t want to compromise the authenticity of my work trying to sell products or services. My whole reason for going public was to share resources I genuinely believe in and help others with what I know.
Despite my ever-roiling internal monologue, I hold to the belief that sharing my story is the right thing to do, both for myself and others. I strive to do so in a way that feels safe, genuine, and manageable for my well-being.
Monetizing my writing doesn’t just help me — it helps my work reach more people and make an even bigger impact. The more I earn, the more time I can devote to researching and sharing essential insights on trauma recovery.
And did I not lose enough during my period of abuse?
Making enough to cover therapy feels like reclaiming a fraction of the sense of self that was stolen from me.
After the long-term physical, emotional, sexual, and financial abuse I suffered… Is financial recovery not part of healing?
I work around the mental hurdle of promoting my work in part by publishing under a pseudonym. This allows me to reach people who need it without the intense discomfort I feel at being so publicly vulnerable.
Rarely do I share my writing with people I know. Anonymity allows my words to stand on their own, free from the noise of judgment or misinterpretation.
Writing under an alias allows me the safety to share intimately, without feeling exposed to retaliation. It shields me from my abuser, along with any others who might try to defend him or invalidate victims.
This is no unfounded fear. I’ve already discovered the hard way that some people I thought I could trust aren’t worthy of knowing my story.
Trauma has already taken so much from me — five long years of my life, a future free from trauma, a sense of safety, and the confidence to walk through the world unguarded. Living with its echoes means navigating challenges in nearly every part of life: work, relationships, physical health, and even sleep.
Writing is one of the few places where I can reclaim control. Anonymity makes it feel manageable.
Sharing my story isn’t just about catharsis, monetary gain, or processing the past — it’s about connection. It’s giving a voice to the countless victims who struggle to speak out.
It’s reaching out across the chasm; hoping it may help someone, somewhere, feel a little less alone.
Myself included.