Is it Foolish to Disclose CSA publicly?

This is a question that has crossed my mind a lot over the past few years, particularly when the going got tough. “Foolish” means lacking good sense or judgement; unwise. So, is it wise to share one of the most intimate and sensitive parts of your life when you already know doing so can bring stigma, distort how people see you, and change the trajectory of your future? Why would you do that when the lie is so comfortable and warm? 

The truth is: the lie isn’t comfortable. Not deep down.  

I believe many CSA survivors who have reached a level of self-awareness will reach a point where the real question becomes unavoidable: Am I living in truth, or am I managing a performance? Truth isn’t an abstract concept. It has weight. It can be the source of our power in life. It shapes how you carry yourself in the world, what you tolerate, what you build, what you refuse. And for a survivor, the cost of truth is often higher because the culture still treats disclosure like a disruption rather than a reality.

So, is it foolish to disclose publicly? 

I don’t believe it is. But I do believe it can be dangerous, and it would be insincere to say it’s easy. There will be moments, sometimes with almost overwhelming pain, when disclosure can feel like a mistake. Not because you were wrong to speak, but because you spoke into a world that was not prepared to respond with protection, solidarity, or justice. When survivors tell the truth, it creates shifts: inside us, inside our relationships, and inside the systems we move through. This kind of honesty is an act of integrity, and integrity is not reliably rewarded in the modern world. It is often punished.

 Too often, the response to our truth is avoidance. A gentle, soft exclusion. The career consequences are subtle and rarely acknowledged. You will find a polite silence where support should be. You will discover a cultural reflex to keep you “contained,” to make your story easier for others to digest, or easier to ignore. We saw that clearly during the first Victorious Voices exhibition at the University of Glasgow, where the discomfort wasn’t subtle. The unspoken message was familiar: this truth is inconvenient; keep it quiet and out of sight.

Our society doesn’t reward radical honesty. It rewards silence and performance. It rewards neat narratives, survivors who can package pain into something inspirational and palatable. And when you refuse that script, the penalties can be real: isolation, economic fallout, exile from opportunity, stigma, shame. A world that still protects abusers more readily than it protects survivors.

In my case, it cost me things I can never get back.

But I’ve had to learn not to confuse cost with failure, because there’s a difference between failing and being failed. There’s a difference between regret and foolishness. Regret is what you feel when the price is high. Foolishness is rushing in blind.

I did not rush in blind to any of this. I stepped onto this path with my eyes wide open as someone who refused to conform to the script survivors are handed. I didn’t dilute my story. I didn’t turn it into a marketable “healing journey.” I chose truth, at cost, at scale, and on my own terms. There will have no doubt been moments when people have thought, ‘Why would he say that out loud for everyone to see?’

The answer is simple: because it was my truth and my reality, and it’s the hidden reality millions of CSA survivors live inside. So why disclose publicly if it hurts and causes so much strife? Why not continue to cling to the comfort of the lie and stay on easy street? Because if you do the work to understand trauma, and if you choose to live in truth, you gain something this world struggles to offer: uncompromising clarity.

In a culture built on distortion, denial, and reputational self-protection, clarity is a form of power. Speaking truth doesn’t always feel like freedom; it often feels like ruin. It will cost you comfort, belonging, money, relationships, and momentum. But truth also creates a different kind of foundation, one that can hold weight, one that you can build a life worth living from.  

I’m still standing, and I’ve built something out of the wreckage in Victorious Voices that doesn’t just speak for me. It amplifies others who are finding their voice, and it brings to light the reality that so many people are pressured to carry alone. Is that foolish? I’ll let you decide and say to any CSA Survivor who feels like they are ready to share:

“Come on in, the water’s fine.”