Beauty

Yesterday morning, I was just about as cheerful as you'd imagine I'd be, dragging myself from my warm bed and venturing out into a cold and rainy morning to go to work. On about an hour of sleep, no less.

However, about 2 hours into our day-long training session for new volunteers for my program, we hosted a survivor panel. 4 women placed themselves at the front of the room and began to speak. Everything stilled. They spoke clearly, eloquently, honestly of the horrible violence they had survived. And as they shared their experiences, there was anger and sadness and pain. When they ended, there was a hushed pause, and then a torrent of applause. All of the women in the room were out of their seats, talking and laughing with each other, crying together, hugging each other.

I was reminded yet again why I do this work. I am a witness. It is easy to get discouraged by the number of women that have a story, in both my personal and professional life. At times, I feel like we're fighting a war that we have no hope of winning.

The simple act of telling and listening restores some balance.