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Vulnerability means risk, uncertainty, and emotional exposure. It’s also the birthplace of innovation, creativity, and deep human connection. To let ourselves be seen is one of the bravest acts we can take.

But to talk about vulnerability, we must also talk about shame. Shame thrives in silence, secrecy, and judgment. It tells us we are unworthy and convinces us we’re alone—when in truth, so many share the same struggles. “Me too” are some of the most powerful words we can say.

Shame keeps us stuck. Owning our story is what sets us free. Pretending difficult chapters never happened doesn’t erase them—it only gives them more power. But when we face them with compassion, we reclaim control of our lives.

Rebuilding isn’t about perfection. It’s about saying: I will not be defined by what happened. I will be defined by what I choose next. Every scar, every stumble, every painful moment becomes a building block for resilience and strength.

As someone who has walked this road myself, I know the fear of speaking out. I know the crushing belief that silence was the only way to survive. But I also know the freedom that comes when shame loses its grip—and when we finally see ourselves as whole, not broken.

• Own your story before it owns you.
• Rebuilding is not solitary—we rebuild best in connection.
• Vulnerability is not weakness—it’s the truest measure of courage.

If you’re carrying a story in silence, know this: you are not alone, and you are not defined by your pain.

Continually pressing forward and trying new paths towards healing, I became aware that stress generally made everything worse. I took steps to manage my stress levels.

Meanwhile, none of the healthy things I was doing for my body were working because I wasn’t recognizing the source of my pain.

I had been treating my health like a series of checkmarks – meditate, check; don’t eat gluten, check; get acupuncture, check. I hadn’t yet learned that it didn’t work that way.

Healing and happiness are not cause and effect like that.

I never really thought that what was happening in my brain had much to do with how my body was functioning. The whole time I was burying myself in work and thinking my trauma was behind me, I was actually telling myself I couldn’t feel.

Not consciously, of course, but the effect was the same. I’d been repressing those feelings and memories for a lifetime.

Over and over, my doctor challenged me. She told me to stop telling myself that I couldn’t feel the effects of my trauma and instead tell myself that I didn’t want to feel them.

She told me I was ignoring, repressing, avoiding, doing everything I could to not feel it and it was having a huge impact on my body. As a child, it was a survival mechanism, but my body was keeping score.

My body hadn’t forgotten about it. 

It took years, but she kept pointing me toward acknowledging that I had to experience the feelings I repressed to allow those feelings to dissipate and leave my body alone.

I needed to come to a place where I could feel my own broken heart. I needed to be able to recognize that those feelings weren’t gone because I’d burned a journal of pain out in the desert.

They were with me whether I chose to address them or not.

To discover the rest of the story, get your copy of Fired Up today.

We all deserve to live, learn, and work in spaces that are free from abuse, harassment, discrimination, force, fraud, and coercion.

High-profile sex offender cases like Jeffrey Epstein, Harvey Weinstein, and Dominique Pelicot have exposed many truths.

Bystanders fail survivors.

Systems fail survivors.

Those sworn to protect and serve fail survivors.

Republicans and Democrats have failed survivors.

These are not crimes of opportunity. They are predatory, premeditated, and continuous acts of violence against women that go unchecked for decades.

Emails in the Epstein files reveal that the offenders felt entitled to women’s bodies AND entitled not to face consequences or backlash such as the #MeToo movement delivered.

The criminal charges and subsequent forced resignations of prominent men and women worldwide show that the #MeToo movement is not going away and there will be consequences to pay for the harm done to survivors.

I am in awe of Brad Edwards, the attorney who has represented the survivors of Epstein for 18 years and worked to expose the depth of corruption, further traumatization and victimization of the survivors.

I am in awe of all the survivors. They have been wronged in so many ways. I hope they can find a way to heal.

I’m encouraged to see that Donna Motsinger prevailed in her civil case against Bill Cosby. Ms. Motsinger expressed that she was happy with the outcome and shared after the trial that feeling believed was deeply important to her.

Cases like this matter because they are examples of how civil justice can sometimes be the only justice a survivor can seek accountability and be heard.

For many survivors they are not able to obtain justice through criminal legal system due to systemic barriers, including:
• A lack of trauma-informed training for those taking initial reports
• High burdens of proof that are difficult to meet, especially in cases involving delayed disclosure
• Non-prosecution agreements, as we’ve seen in both the Cosby and Epstein cases
• Statutes of limitations that do not align with decades of research and lived experience showing it might be decades before a survivor feels safe to come forward.

California has taken meaningful steps by extending statutes of limitations and creating temporary lookback windows. These changes matter. They are the reason Ms. Motsinger was able to pursue her case.

But the truth is trauma does not operate on a deadline.

The impact of sexual violence can last a lifetime. Survivors deserve the opportunity to seek justice when they are ready without being barred by arbitrary time limits.

Accountability should not expire. And neither should a survivor’s right to be heard.

There is a reason #WhyIDidntReport went viral, generating more than 700,000 tweets from survivors sharing their stories.

People who experience sexual harassment at work or sexual assault outside of work often ask themselves the same question: “Will anyone believe me?”

The reality is that there are countless reasons survivors do not report immediately—or at all.

Fear of retaliation. Fear of losing a job. Fear of being blamed. Fear of reliving the trauma. Fear that nothing will happen. Fear that the person responsible will be protected while they are questioned, scrutinized, and disbelieved.

And sometimes survivors look around and see examples that reinforce those fears.

Recently, former Colorado DNA analyst Yvonne “Missy” Woods pleaded guilty after being accused of manipulating and mishandling DNA data in criminal cases, including sexual assault investigations. The misconduct cast doubt on hundreds of cases and shook confidence in a system survivors are often told to trust.

When survivors see headlines like these, it is not difficult to understand why reporting can feel overwhelming or even futile.

If you did not report what happened to you, that does not mean it did not happen.

If you waited years to come forward, that does not make your experience any less real.

If you never reported, that does not excuse the person who harmed you.

The responsibility belongs to the perpetrator, not the survivor.

To anyone carrying the weight of sexual harassment or sexual assault: your decision about whether, when, and how to report is yours. There is no perfect victim. Unfortunately, there can be statutes of limitations for taking legal action.

What happened to you was wrong.

And whether you reported or not, we stand with you.

Burning Man

I began journaling in 1996 when I was a sophomore in college. It took about a year for me to record all the times I’d been molested, and after that I only picked it up from time to time. For me it was enough that the experiences were out. That they lived on paper instead of inside me—or so I thought. I didn’t feel like I had anything else to add.

It wasn’t long before I started to ask myself why I was holding onto an object like that—a book heavy with the worst secrets of my past. I began to feel like I really didn’t need or want it around. That I wanted to be rid of it.

Enter Burning Man.

Mike and I had had our tickets since spring and had been planning to go for over a year. Then, over Labor Day weekend 2000, my friends and I made the ten-hour trek to Black Rock Desert, Nevada, an expanse of lava beds and playa, about two hours outside of Reno. We caravaned to camp on a Wednesday.

I’d heard things about Burning Man’s bartering system, and that people created things for the sole purpose of setting them ablaze. I was also familiar with the ethos of the festival: be who you want to be, without shame or fear. Everything was supposedly open and acceptable and free, right down to the nudist camps. But I also knew rumors could often be miles from reality, so I didn’t really know what to expect.

Driving up on the scene—an entire city built from nothing, shimmering like a mirage in the middle of the desert, filled with groups of vastly different, expressive people—was gorgeous and surreal.

Across the city, attendees created beautiful art that would be burned later in the week in protest of commercialism and other socially created systems. Other people made drinks, food, and music. Each camp had its own theme, and we spent our days walking from camp to camp experiencing what everyone had to offer. Some gave us necklaces and others offered prayers. We found a popular camp making frozen drinks that chased away the desert heat. In the middle of the camp was the giant wooden effigy, the Man, that would be burned along with the art on the penultimate night.

When darkness fell, the scene transformed. We traversed the camp amid generator-powered laser lights, music, and dancing from one side of the playa to the other. We rode our bikes everywhere, at times through dust storms, to meet people who’d come from across the globe to install their art before lighting it up. The cathartic, symbolic burnings happened throughout the week, timed to lead up to the main event: burning the Man.

Finally on Saturday night, it was time to light the central fire. Dancers appeared around the Man’s base before the fire began, their bodies undulating and curling like flames. Soon the scent of smoke filled the air; fire engulfed the Man.

And amid the beautiful dancers and hungry flames and ecstatic energy of the people around me, I paused.

I’d brought my own creation to burn. It wasn’t something I considered art, but something I’d created all the same: my journal. I was determined to see it go up in flames.

So in the fever pitch of festival frenzy, I threw it into the fire.

And it felt incredible.

All that terrible shit scrawled into the pages of my journal had happened, but as the words became ash to be carried away on a desert wind, it felt gone. I had gotten it out of me, and now I could let the fire do the rest. I felt free of it all.

The dancing continued, and I joined. I danced and danced and danced until the sun came up.

I had never felt so good in my entire life. I’d graduated from UCSD the year before and had just finished my first year of law school—as number one in my class. I felt untouchable. And as the pages and pages of my history curled in the flames at Burning Man, I was convinced that my past was done. Behind me. I’d said goodbye, closed the door, and set it ablaze.

As far as I was concerned, there was nothing left for me to do to address the past.

Then in 2002, I graduated from law school, got married, and began my career and my family.

And that’s when things started going downhill.

To discover the rest of the story, get your copy of Fired Up today.