Breaking the Silence: Why Prevention Work Must Continue

by Lindsey Hayes, MS, SARA Prevention Manager

There’s so much I’m proud of about growing up in rural Appalachia. Community runs deep, and people show up for each other. We share stories that stretch across generations, shaping how we make sense of the world, pass on wisdom, and stay connected. It’s one of the most beautiful parts of where I’m from. 

But when it came to stories of sexual violence, they were told behind closed doors or framed as precautionary tales that blamed and shamed survivors. Some denied the experience altogether or excused the actions of those who committed the violence. These stories silenced survivors and placed abusers on pedestals to protect the narrative.  

So when harm happened to me, I didn’t have the language to name it. I shaped each violation of my body and mind through the only lens I had been given: silence and self-blame. I told myself to toughen up, stay quiet, and stay small—even when the harm came from people I was taught to trust, like teachers, boyfriends, peers, and employers. I knew no one wanted to hear that story.. 

That silence didn’t just shape my story; it kept me from understanding that what was happening was not normal, and it was not okay. 

That’s why I’ve dedicated my life to serving my community through violence prevention. I believe survivors deserve better stories—stories that name the harm, call for accountability, and make room for healing. Stories that interrupt silence, not reinforce it. 

Prevention starts with real, honest storytelling. Not the kind that protects power, but the kind that disrupts cultural norms. Stories that name what’s happening and give people the tools to see it, stop it, change it, and take accountability. 

We can’t change what we won’t talk about, so I’m committed to helping us talk about it—loudly, clearly, with love for the places that raised us, and with an open hand inviting them to change how we tell stories about our survivors, our siblings, our family, and our friends, because they deserve better.  

My work focuses on stopping sexual violence before it starts. I’ve led community-based prevention efforts focused on the restaurant industry, one of the least-protected sectors when it comes to harassment and abuse. It’s work grounded in both professional expertise and lived experience.  

I’m a prevention and human services professional now, but I paid my way through school by bartending and serving tables in Tennessee. In that industry, harassment wasn’t the exception, it was the rule. I earned $2.13 an hour (the tipped minimum wage in Tennessee, unchanged since 1991) and was expected to tolerate whatever behavior brought in money. I was routinely harassed by customers and coworkers. The male owner of one restaurant referred to me solely as “Tits” in front of coworkers and customers alike. A female owner of another told me, “If I threw every creep out, I wouldn’t have a bar.” So I figured out quickly who to steer clear of, when to smile, when to stay small and silent, and how to laugh at things that weren’t funny. I learned to keep my head down and protect my income. 

When I joined the team at SARA and began facilitating prevention programs designed specifically for the restaurant industry, I felt I had come full circle. Our prevention team didn’t just talk about harassment—we created real, structural change. We trained owners, supported staff, and helped workplaces implement policies that actually meant something. For the first time, I got to bring safety and dignity to the same kinds of spaces where I was once made to feel small. 

And now, the federal government has decided that this work doesn’t matter. 

Last week, the Trump administration quietly shut down the Office of Violence Prevention. To many, it might sound like just another budget cut. But for those of us doing the work—and for the communities we serve—it’s a gut punch. 

Prevention is not a luxury—it is essential. It’s how we interrupt the conditions that allow violence to occur in the first place. For survivors in rural communities like mine, where resources are scarce and stigma is strong, prevention can mean the difference between isolation and connection, between silence and safety. 

When prevention is done well, it creates ripple effects. It reaches young people before harm is normalized. It gives employers tools to protect their workers. It helps communities unlearn the notion that harassment is “just part of the job.” I know prevention works because I’ve lived without it, and I’ve worked within it. 

To the Trump administration: you may have quietly shut down an office, but what you really did was threaten to silence survivors, undermine progress, and abandon the communities that need you most. 

To survivors: your voice still matters, even when systems fail you—especially when systems fail you. 

And to my fellow prevention workers: I see you. I stand with you. We’re still here, and we’re not done yet.