Chapter 63: The Next Generation

Chapter 63: The Next Generation

In December, Emma came to my office with an announcement that shocked me more than the UN invitation had.
"I'm writing a book," she said. "About growing up as the child of a domestic violence survivor. About how childhood trauma shapes us and how we can heal from it."
I set down my coffee carefully. "Are you sure? That's going to be very personal."
"That's exactly why I need to write it. Mom, there are millions of children who witness violence. Most of them grow up thinking they're broken. I want them to know they're not. I want them to understand that what they experienced wasn't their fault and that healing is possible."
Emma had always been private about her childhood. Even in the documentary, she'd spoken carefully, sharing only what she felt comfortable revealing. This book would require much deeper vulnerability.
"What would you include?" I asked.
"Everything. The early memories of being scared of Dad. The years of running and hiding. Coming to Riverside. Watching you heal. Learning to trust Jake. The nightmares I had for years. The anxiety that still sometimes shows up. All of it."
"That's brave."
"You taught me to be brave. You showed me that our stories have power when we share them."
Over the next months, Emma worked on her book while maintaining her therapy practice. She interviewed other adult children of domestic violence survivors, weaving their stories with her own. She consulted with child development experts about the long-term impacts of witnessing abuse.
I read the manuscript in February. Emma had written with raw honesty about things I hadn't known she remembered. The night we fled, and she'd held her stuffed rabbit so tight she'd ripped one of its ears. The weeks in shelters when she'd been terrified of every noise. The first time in Riverside when she'd seen me smile genuinely and realized we might actually be safe.
"I didn't know you remembered so much," I said when I finished reading.
"I remember everything, Mom. I just didn't talk about it because I didn't want to hurt you. But I'm thirty-three now. I've processed my own trauma. And I think other kids need to hear that remembering doesn't mean being broken."
Emma's book, titled "The Rabbit's Journey: A Child's Perspective on Surviving Domestic Violence," was published in June. The response was immediate and overwhelming.
Parents bought it to understand their children better. Therapists used it with young clients. Schools added it to their counselor resources. And most importantly, adult children of domestic violence survivors found their own experiences validated in its pages.
"I thought I was the only one who felt guilty for not protecting my mom," one young woman wrote to Emma. "Reading that you felt the same way, and that it wasn't rational guilt—that helped me finally let it go."
Emma started doing speaking engagements specifically for adult children of survivors. She talked about breaking generational patterns, about recognizing trauma responses, about building healthy relationships when you'd never seen what healthy looked like.
Elizabeth, now a doctor specializing in trauma medicine, decided to join her sister's efforts. She started a program training pediatricians to recognize signs of domestic violence in their young patients and to respond with trauma-informed care.
"You can see it in how kids carry themselves," Elizabeth told me. "The hypervigilance, the people-pleasing, the way they watch their parents' faces for signs of anger. Once you know what to look for, it's obvious."
Watching my daughters take the work in their own directions filled me with pride and also with a sense of completion. This had never been just about me. It had always been about creating something bigger, something that would continue growing long after I stepped back.
In July, Danny's fiancée, Sarah, joined the institute staff. She brought expertise in community organizing and quickly developed a program connecting young people affected by violence with mentors who'd overcome similar experiences.
"The thing that helped me most," one teenage boy told her group, "was meeting Danny and realizing that having a grandfather who was abusive didn't mean I would be abusive. I get to choose who I become."
That's exactly what Danny had always believed. And now he was helping dozens of young people believe it too.
The four of them—Emma, Elizabeth, Danny, and Sarah—represented something I hadn't consciously planned but was deeply grateful for. A next generation of advocates who brought their own perspectives and skills to the work. They weren't just continuing what I'd started. They were expanding it, deepening it, taking it in directions I never could have alone.
In September, they came to me with a proposal.
"We want to create a youth leadership program," Emma explained. "For teenagers and young adults who've experienced violence. Teaching them advocacy skills, connecting them with each other, helping them understand they can be part of the solution."
"We could call it the Betty Ann Johnson Youth Initiative," Danny added. "In honor of the woman who showed all of us what chosen family could look like."
I loved the idea immediately. Betty Ann would have loved it too. She'd always believed that young people had more wisdom and strength than adults gave them credit for.
The first cohort of the Betty Ann Johnson Youth Initiative started in January with twenty young people ages fifteen to twenty-two. Some had experienced violence directly. Others had witnessed it. All of them wanted to help create change.
Watching them in their first session, I saw myself twenty-five years ago—scared but determined, broken but refusing to stay broken. The difference was they had support and guidance from the beginning instead of having to figure everything out alone.
"You're building something that will outlast all of us," Jake observed one evening as we watched the young people in their session.
"That's the goal. None of this should depend on me. It should be bigger than any one person."
"It already is. Look at what Emma and Elizabeth and Danny have created. Look at those kids in there, already planning their own projects to help their communities. You started a movement, Lisa. Movements don't end when their founders step back. They keep growing."
He was right. What had begun with one terrified woman and her daughter had become a global network of survivors, advocates, and allies. It had grown beyond anything I'd imagined possible.
And the most beautiful part was knowing it would continue growing long after I was gone. The next generation was ready. They'd taken our lessons and added their own insights. They'd inherited our courage and multiplied it with their own.
The work would go on. That was the greatest legacy of all.