An estimated 433,000 people in the U.S. experience rape or sexual assault each year. Each of these incidents represents a life permanently changed and a path toward healing that is often lengthy, painful, and deeply personal. 

“It is a lifelong journey,” said Samantha Antoniett Cierra, a survivor of sexual assault.

Cierra first sought help from a support organization at the age of 14, after suffering childhood sexual abuse perpetrated by a family member.

During her early teens, Cierra struggled with flashbacks, confusion, and suicidal attempts before connecting with a counselor at San Mateo County’s only rape crisis center, Rape Trauma Services (RTS). Years later, at 18, she was assaulted again, this time raped by an acquaintance, and once more turned to RTS for support. 

“It was peaceful. A place to call home. A place to breathe, to cry if needed. It was a place to feel heard and to be believed,” Cierra said. “I used to tell my counselor, Sarah Jarvis, that she was like my guardian angel and that without her, I would either be dead somewhere or out in the street.”

Cierra’s experience reflects a broader reality: survivors rarely arrive at these organizations by a single path.

According to advocates across Bay Area support agencies, including RTS and the San Mateo County Victim Services Division (VSD), survivors often arrive through hospitals after forensic exams, others through law enforcement, some through school or community referrals, and many by searching for help on their own.

“We meet survivors where they are, support their safety and healing, and help them feel informed and supported throughout the process,” said Rachel Smith, an RTS Advocate

No matter how survivors arrive, advocates serve them with care and understanding. RTS advocates receive 80 hours of specialized training to provide trauma-informed support to those in need.

“A lot of the advocate role is elevating survivors’ voices in various settings and making sure their wants and needs are heard and respected,” Smith said. “Having support services available for survivors to access, so they don’t have to navigate systems alone, is incredibly impactful. Providing services that are solely focused on supporting survivors is crucial, and it is a privilege to do this work.”

According to RTS Deputy Director and therapist Lorry Thomas, in 2024, RTS advocates provided crisis intervention services to 637 survivors, 458 of whom were children ages 2-17.

Advocates offer emotional support, explain legal rights, and outline options for the future, while prioritizing safety in every decision. 

“Sometimes it’s right after an assault. We call those acute accompaniments. The emotional support in the aftermath is the thing that either helps somebody move on to healing or hinders it,” Thomas said. “You can’t heal if it’s a shameful secret. There has to be some way to rid yourself of guilt and shame to get to the things that help you heal.”

At VSD, survivors may be as young as infants or as old as grandparents, so the people who work with them must be very skilled to be able to support this vast demographic range.

According to VSD Director Elisa Kuhlm, VSD served nearly 8,000 crime victims in the recent year, including more than 600 survivors of sexual assault or abuse. Children under 12 made up almost 1/3 of those sexual-assault cases.

“Sexual violence affects everyone,” Kuhl said. “It’s not just an individual issue. It ripples across families, communities, and generations.”

For advocates, their role is both simple and emotionally challenging – they must help survivors understand their options and feel supported as they navigate complex systems, including medical procedures, law enforcement, and the courts.

“I’ve seen survivors face disappointing outcomes: court delays, unfiled cases, plea deals they don’t agree with,” Kuhl said. “My job is to support them through those realities without pressuring them or taking control of their choices.”

Supporting survivors is often immediate, sometimes beginning at hospitals or police stations.

“Our work is about providing services and guidance while honoring autonomy. Healing doesn’t follow a straight line. Some days are good, some are bad,” Thomas said. “Even when survivors aren’t actively healing, we remind them, ‘you are not your trauma. You are more than this moment.’”

Kuhl also finds a way to balance compassionate care with the demands of a justice system that often moves at its own pace.

“The most difficult part of the job is witnessing trauma’s impact: fear, fractured relationships, identity struggles, and seeing how legal systems sometimes fail to respond meaningfully,” Kuhl said.

Yet the work is sustained by moments when survivors regain their voice and control. Kuhl remembers supporting a young adult who felt isolated and unsure of her options. Over time, with the help of emotional support, the survivor began attending counseling, making medical decisions based on the information she was getting, and eventually reaching the point where she could engage in advocacy.

“Being able to witness that growth, knowing I contributed to a survivor feeling empowered rather than pressured, is profoundly rewarding,” Kuhl said.

Cierra’s story presents a rarely heard survivor’s perspective on this issue. In doing this, she also shows why organizations like RTS and VSD matter. According to Cierra, when she arrived at RTS after her second assault, four years had passed since she had seen her counselor. The agency door opened, and Jarvis smiled, recognizing her immediately.

For Cierra, that moment of recognition marked the start of a peaceful and safe healing space.

“It was a place to cry, breathe, and exist without judgment,” Cierra said.

Before support, she felt isolated and lived mentally alone, while also being overwhelmed by emotions and flashbacks. With help, she reached a point where she could live with and coexist with these feelings and, in some ways, move past them.

“It helped me heal and allowed me to guide others toward support,” Cierra said.

Over time, Cierra found another tool for healing: writing. Days after her assault at 18, she wrote a poem about what was then labeled “date rape.” She did this to give herself a voice for her experience in a way she could control.

“I chose to share my story in solidarity with other survivors,” Cierra said. “If, by sharing my story, I could help others, then I knew I was doing the right thing.”

She later published her poem in a literary magazine and read it aloud to high-school students during RTS educational presentations.

“Healing doesn’t stop. Once something like that happens to you, you’re kind of healing your whole life. The hope is that people are healed to a point where it doesn’t hijack their life or define them,” Thomas said.