Saving Five

1. Trauma's Lingering Echoes and the Freeze Response

For years, perhaps, or even for the rest of your life, your brain can keep that memory loaded in the chamber, slick with adrenaline, ready to fire away with the tug of a trigger.

Trauma's impact. Trauma profoundly alters the brain, releasing norepinephrine that creates emotionally charged memories, ready to be triggered at any moment. The protagonist, returning to Harvard for her ten-year reunion, still feels the pain, loneliness, despair, and rage of her 22-year-old self, highlighting the enduring nature of such experiences. This internal struggle is a constant battle, a "synapse burning electric" in her mind.

Beyond fight or flight. While commonly taught responses to danger are fight or flight, the author emphasizes a third, less discussed, evolutionary response: freeze. Like a rabbit playing dead when a wolf is near, her body shut down, feeling like "liquid magma while simultaneously feeling like cold meat," leaving her immobile and vulnerable. This involuntary reaction highlights the complex biological responses to extreme stress.

Seeking a lifeline. Despite the overwhelming physical and emotional paralysis, an inner voice screamed for help, pushing her to crawl towards her phone. The immediate aftermath involved reaching out to a friend, Charlize, who understood the urgency of a rape kit, and grappling with the guilt of not having supported similar causes before her own assault. This initial step, though agonizing, was crucial for survival and the first move towards reclaiming agency.

2. The Immediate Betrayal: A System Designed to Fail Survivors

The worst thing that happened to me wasn’t being raped. It was being betrayed by America’s criminal justice system.

A dream turned nightmare. Harvard, once a symbol of dreams and escape, became the site of the protagonist's "death," the "death of my inner life." The assault itself was a profound violation, but the subsequent encounter with the justice system revealed a deeper, systemic betrayal. This realization ignited a powerful rage, transforming her from a victim into a determined advocate for change.

The rape kit dilemma. The first 72 hours after a rape are critical for evidence collection, yet the process itself is dehumanizing and fraught with impossible choices. Survivors are forced to decide between pressing charges (which could derail careers) or opting for a "Jane Doe kit," which preserves evidence but doesn't initiate a police report. This system effectively erases victims from their own narratives, making them mere "background characters."

The ticking clock. The most shocking revelation was the discovery that untested rape kits, especially Jane Doe ones, are systematically destroyed by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts every six months. This policy creates a "ticking time bomb" for survivors, forcing them into a "Sisyphean purgatory" of constantly fighting to preserve their own evidence, a process designed to "punish survivors" and dissuade them from seeking justice.

3. The Cost of Justice: Career Versus Personal Healing

Justice or career. Are these really my choices?

An impossible choice. Faced with the six-month deadline for her rape kit's destruction, the protagonist found herself at a crossroads: pursue justice, which would involve a lengthy, public, and emotionally draining trial with a 1% conviction rate, or protect her burgeoning career aspirations at institutions like NASA and the CIA, which had strict policies against ongoing legal cases. This dilemma highlighted the systemic barriers that force survivors to choose between their healing and their future.

The burden of proof. The process of extending her rape kit was a bureaucratic nightmare, involving countless phone calls, conflicting information from authorities, and a 439-mile flight to obtain a simple email printout. This "second betrayal" underscored how the system, through its inaccessibility and lack of trauma-informed care, actively re-traumatizes survivors, making the pursuit of justice an exhausting and often financially prohibitive endeavor.

Self-isolation and the "I'm fine" facade. The emotional toll of the assault and the fight for justice led to profound self-isolation. Unable to discuss her CIA onboarding process or the constant battle to save her rape kit, she adopted an "I'm fine" facade, a "magic trick of getting through the day with a passable poker face." This internal struggle, a "Category Five hurricane" raging within, made genuine connection with others nearly impossible.

4. Navigating the Labyrinth of Grief and Anger

Your anger is your pain. And your pain is your power.

The journey through emotions. The narrative personifies the stages of grief—Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Sadness, and Acceptance—as guides in a metaphorical journey. Denial offers a compass of hope, Anger (Mr. R, or Rage) provides fuel, and Bargaining (the Captain of the Spongebob) offers a ship. Each encounter demands a memory in exchange, forcing the protagonist to confront her past selves and process deep-seated emotions.

Anger as a catalyst. Her 22-year-old self, the embodiment of rage, recounts the profound betrayal of her mother and the violence of her father, revealing the roots of her bottled-up fury. This anger, though destructive in its origins, is reframed as a powerful, internal force that can drive change. Mr. R's calm demeanor reflects the protagonist's own suppressed rage, a "hurricane within" that, once acknowledged, can be harnessed.

The siren call of false memories. The Siren Sea, guarded by Bargaining, tempts with beautiful but false memories, reflecting idealized versions of the past. The protagonist's 5-year-old self is nearly lost to these illusions, highlighting the danger of clinging to distorted realities to avoid painful truths. This struggle underscores the difficulty of reconciling love with violence and the need to confront the full spectrum of one's past.

5. The Power of Sisterhood and Collective Action

Bonobos form a female network—when one of their females is hurt, they rush immediately to her defense from wherever they are.

A bonobo sisterhood. Professor Diane Rosenfeld, a legal scholar on violence against women, introduces the concept of the "bonobo sisterhood," a powerful metaphor for collective female defense. This idea resonates deeply with the protagonist, who, after feeling isolated and betrayed, finds solace and strength in connecting with other survivors and allies. This network becomes the foundation for her activism.

From isolation to advocacy. The overwhelming response to her initial email—from friends, former co-workers, professors, and most importantly, other survivors—transforms her personal fight into a collective movement. Women share their stories of destroyed rape kits, forced payments, and systemic failures, revealing a widespread pattern of injustice. This collective voice fuels the drafting of a comprehensive Sexual Assault Survivor's Bill of Rights.

Building a movement. The campaign, named "Rise," symbolizes momentum and hope, aiming to fundamentally reinvent the justice system. The team grows to seventy volunteers, working on both Massachusetts and federal legislation. This collaborative effort, driven by shared experiences and a common goal, demonstrates the transformative power of community in the face of systemic oppression.

6. Unmasking the Political Game: Rules and Realities of Activism

I believe that most politicians and activists start off as public servants, people who genuinely want to do good for their community. Along the way, the game chews them up and spits them out.

The game of legislation. Passing a law is likened to a complex game with basic, advanced, and unspoken rules. The "game board" extends beyond Congress to include the media, and players include activists, journalists, and lobbyists. The true objective for many politicians is often not to pass the bill, but to maintain power, get reelected, or gain fame, turning legislation into "more theater than legislation."

Secret rules of engagement. Key unspoken rules include:

• Agenda holders: Only four people in Congress (Speaker, Senate Majority Leader, and committee chairs) truly control a bill's progress.
• Majority party sponsorship: The lead sponsor should be from the majority party to ensure the bill has a chance of being voted on.
• "Press bills": Many bills are introduced merely for political show, allowing politicians to "virtue signal" without substantive results.

Performing pain for political gain. The protagonist experiences the dehumanizing reality of having to "perform her pain" for politicians, sharing her trauma to gain their attention and support. This process, often reduced to a "photoshoot" rather than a genuine dialogue, highlights the ethical compromises activists are forced to make in a system that prioritizes political benefit over human dignity.

7. Sacrifice and the North Star of Civil Rights

Space is going to be there. It’s going to be there long after you’re gone. So go fight for your civil rights, for our civil rights.

The ultimate sacrifice. Faced with the relentless demands of activism and the impossibility of balancing it with her career aspirations, the protagonist seeks counsel from Leland Melvin, a former NFL player and NASA astronaut. His revelation of being a survivor himself, coupled with his advice to prioritize civil rights over space exploration, becomes a pivotal moment. Leland's words, "Space is going to be there," empower her to make the difficult decision to quit the CIA path and postpone her astronaut dreams.

A new form of service. This decision marks a profound shift in her identity, from aspiring spy or astronaut to full-time activist. She realizes that serving her country can take many forms, and fighting for human rights is a valid and necessary path. This commitment to "rewriting the law" becomes her sole focus, her "north star," guiding her through the political labyrinth.

The burden of leadership. As the campaign gains momentum, the protagonist shoulders the immense burden of leadership, navigating political rivalries and the emotional toll of constantly reliving her trauma. She becomes a "lighthouse for others," even as she feels "burning" and "drowning" herself. This internal conflict underscores the personal cost of activism and the resilience required to lead a movement for change.

8. Confronting Betrayal and Finding Your Voice

Honey, don’t take it so personally. That’s just how the building works.

Political maneuvering and betrayal. Despite securing bipartisan support in the House and gaining interest from the powerful Senate Judiciary Committee, the federal bill faces sabotage. A legislative aide, Chad, manipulates the process, introducing the bill with a minority party senator, effectively "poisoning the well" and killing its chances of passing. His condescending remark, "Honey, don't take it so personally," exposes the cynical reality of political ego over public service.

The power of documentation. Having learned from past betrayals, the protagonist had secretly recorded Chad's threats and attempts to control her. This "ace up her sleeve" becomes a crucial tool in confronting the political obstruction. The transcript, detailing how Chad was holding "millions of rape survivors' civil rights hostage for his political ambitions," empowers the team to issue an ultimatum.

From pawn to queen. This confrontation marks a turning point, transforming the protagonist from a "pawn" in the political game into a "queen." It demonstrates that when pushed to the edge, survivors can leverage their experiences and the truth to challenge powerful systems. This act of defiance, born from repeated betrayals, solidifies her resolve to fight until the very end, regardless of the odds.

9. The Gift of Grief and the Path to Acceptance

Your saddest memories aren’t of pain. They’re of grief, the potential of happiness that cannot be.

Grief as a guide. Sadness, personified as a lighthouse keeper, reveals that the deepest sorrow comes not from pain itself, but from "grief, the potential of happiness that cannot be." This profound insight helps the protagonist understand the complex emotions tied to her past, particularly the idealized memories of her parents that the Siren Sea had conjured. Sadness offers "Humanity" in a cup of tea, a gift that tastes different for each person, reflecting their unique experiences of love and loss.

Unfinished stories. The protagonist reads her mother's story, "Lan, 1978," detailing her harrowing escape from Vietnam and the tragic loss of her own mother. This narrative highlights the intergenerational trauma and the sacrifices made for survival, offering a deeper understanding of her mother's choices and the complex legacy of their family. It underscores that healing involves confronting and understanding these unfinished stories.

Letting go. At the end of Sadness's realm, the protagonist is forced to "let go" of Sadness and a younger version of her mother, 10, as the bridge collapses. This act symbolizes the acceptance of loss and the necessity of moving forward, even when it means leaving parts of the past behind. It's a painful but essential step towards healing, acknowledging that some things cannot be saved or changed.

10. Forging a Future of Freedom and Hope

A life worth living is one that is free.

The final push. Maria, the senior counsel from the Senate Judiciary, orchestrates a "miracle," moving the bill out of committee and onto the Senate floor for a "hotline" vote. This fast-track process, however, is met with an anonymous "hold" from Chad's party, confirming their continued obstruction. The protagonist's recorded transcript of Chad's threats becomes the decisive leverage, forcing his party to retract the hold and allow the bill to proceed.

Victory and its meaning. The bill passes unanimously, a testament to the power of persistence, collective action, and unwavering commitment to justice. This victory is not just about a piece of legislation; it's about reclaiming agency, breaking the cycle of betrayal, and ensuring that "twenty-five million rape survivors are closer to having rights." It's a profound act of self-love and a promise kept to all versions of herself.

A chorus of justice. The journey culminates in a return to Harvard, where the protagonist confronts her 22-year-old self. She assures her past self that they "did win," though it "cost everything." The initial "bloodcurdling scream" of outrage has transformed into a "chorus of justice," a "steady beat of thousands of footsteps for centuries to come." This transformation signifies not the erasure of pain, but its integration into a powerful force for good, creating a "new reality already made possible because you existed."

Last updated: September 1, 2025