Chapter 70: Teaching the Tutors

Chapter 70: Teaching the Tutors
In March, I received an unexpected phone call from Dr. James Chen, a professor at Emory University's School of Social Work.
"Mrs. Miller, I've been teaching a course on trauma-informed practice for fifteen years. Every semester, I assign your memoir as required reading. My students consistently say it's the most impactful text in the entire program. I'm wondering if you'd consider being a guest speaker for my class."
I'd done guest lectures before, but something about this felt different. These were future social workers, counselors, advocates. The people who would be on the front lines helping survivors.
"What would you want me to talk about?" I asked.
"Whatever you think they most need to hear. Not about policy or programs, but about what actually helps survivors. What made a difference for you and what didn't."
I agreed to speak to his class in April.
The night before the lecture, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about all the counselors and social workers I'd encountered over the years. The good ones who'd saved me. The ones who'd meant well but gotten it wrong. The ones who'd made things worse through ignorance or bias.
Jake found me at two in the morning, sitting in the dark living room with my notes.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
"I keep thinking about how much power these students will have over vulnerable people's lives. What if I don't say the right things? What if I miss something important?"
"Lisa, you've trained thousands of advocates. You've spoken to countless groups. Why is this one making you so nervous?"
I thought about it. "Because these students are just starting out. They're still forming their understanding of what it means to help people. I have one chance to shape how they think about survivors. That feels like a lot of responsibility."
"So tell them the truth. That's what you always do."
The next morning, I walked into a classroom of thirty graduate students. They were young, mostly in their twenties. Eager and idealistic, the way I'd been before life taught me harder lessons.
Dr. Chen introduced me, then I stood before them.
"Thank you for reading my book," I began. "I'm not here to lecture you about best practices or intervention models. You'll learn that from your professors. I'm here to tell you what it feels like to be on the other side of your helping."
I had their attention immediately.
"When I first went to a domestic violence counselor, I'd been beaten so badly I could barely walk. I was terrified and ashamed and convinced it was somehow my fault. The counselor's first question was, 'Why don't you just leave?' Four words that made me feel more alone than I'd ever felt in my life."
Several students were taking notes frantically.
"That counselor had good training. She knew all the statistics about domestic violence. But she didn't understand that 'why don't you leave' sounds like an accusation to someone who's already drowning in self-blame. It suggests leaving is simple, that the survivor is choosing to stay."
I walked between the rows of desks.
"Here's what I need you to understand. When someone finally trusts you enough to tell you they're being abused, they've already overcome massive fear and shame. They're not coming to you because they don't know leaving is an option. They're coming because leaving feels impossible, and they need help figuring out how to do the impossible."
A young woman in the front row raised her hand. "So what should that counselor have said instead?"
"Something that validated how hard my situation was. Something like, 'I'm so sorry this is happening to you. It takes tremendous courage to talk about this. How can I support you?' No judgment. No pressure. Just presence and support."
For the next hour, I shared stories. The caseworker who'd helped me navigate the shelter system without making me feel like a failure. The advocate who'd sat with me at the courthouse without telling me what I should do. The counselor who'd let me cry through an entire session without rushing to fix me.
"The best helpers I encountered had one thing in common," I said. "They trusted me to be the expert on my own life. They offered information, resources, support. But they never took away my agency or made decisions for me. They understood that I'd already had my choices taken away by my abuser. I didn't need another person, even a well-meaning one, telling me what to do."
A student asked, "But what if someone's making choices that keep them in danger? Don't we have a responsibility to intervene?"
It was a fair question, one I'd struggled with myself when working with survivors.
"You have a responsibility to share information about risks and resources. But unless there are children in immediate danger, you don't have the right to override an adult's choices about their own life. Your job is to keep doors open, to be available when they're ready, to plant seeds that might grow later."
I thought of Patricia's daughter in Maine, the one who wasn't ready to leave yet.
"Some of the people you'll try to help won't leave abusive situations. They'll go back multiple times. They'll make choices you wouldn't make. That doesn't mean you've failed. It means they're on their own timeline, not yours. The most important thing you can do is remain a consistent, non-judgmental presence in their lives."
After class, students lined up to talk to me. One young man, maybe twenty-five, waited until everyone else had left.
"My mom was in an abusive relationship when I was growing up," he said quietly. "She tried to leave three times before she finally made it. Every time she went back, the social workers treated her like she was stupid or weak. It made her stop asking for help."
"I'm sorry that happened to your mother. And to you."
"That's why I'm getting my degree. I want to be the kind of social worker she needed but didn't have."
"Then you will be," I said. "Because you understand something crucial. You know what it feels like from the other side."
Driving home, I felt lighter than I had in days. Maybe I had said the right things. Maybe those thirty students would go into their careers with a little more empathy, a little more patience, a little more understanding.
If even one of them remembered my words the first time a survivor came to them for help, it would be worth it.