Seen but Still Silenced: The Complicated Gratitude of the Sex Worker Rights Movement

When a certain child rescue organization—you know, the one whose name sounds like a Christian indie band—published their recent reflection titled “Mistakes happen in anti-trafficking work. We must learn from them,” a strange thing happened across the sex worker rights community.

Audio Version Available HERE!

We collectively blinked.

Really slowly.

Not in shock, but in that tired, long-suffering way you blink when someone finally repeats back something you’ve been saying for twenty years and calls it a revelation.

No one was surprised. We’ve lived these “mistakes” in real time. Some of us built our volunteer advocacy careers on cleaning up the messes these mistakes created—messes made in the name of “saving” us.

So sure, seeing harm acknowledged at all—and not in a private email chain or a grant report nobody reads, but on a public platform from one of the loudest, pearl-clutchiest voices in the rescue choir—stirred up some feelings. But relief? No. Not exactly. It was more like… a warm glass of bittersweet with a twist of I told you so. A little gratitude, a little grief, and a lot of earned, simmering rage.

Because yes—we’re a little angry.

Okay, we’re actually furious. 

Not because we enjoy holding onto resentment like it’s a personality trait. But because we’ve watched this cycle repeat so many times: ignore us, harm us, silence us, then offer up a beautifully written apology post after the funding cycle closes. If it feels like we’ve got a chip on our shoulder—it’s because we do. It’s carved out of decades of being called “too angry to collaborate” by people who were too comfortable to listen.

So yeah, if our anger makes you squirm in your ergonomic nonprofit office chair… sit with that. It means you might be on the edge of something real.

Yes, We’re Glad You Said It… Eventually

Let’s give credit where it’s due. Sort of.

Because truthfully, it does matter when one of the Big Name Organizations—the ones that usually roll out red carpets for traumatized survivors while quietly criminalizing our peers—admits to:

• Treating survivors like mascots during fundraising season

• Forcing disclosures under the guise of “storytelling”

• Flattening complex experiences into Lifetime movie clichés

• Slapping “survivor-led” on brochures while gatekeeping the actual leadership

That’s rare. In a field so allergic to accountability it might as well carry an EpiPen, public acknowledgment of harm is… notable. Not revolutionary, not enough, but notable.

It’s also painfully overdue.

Advocates—especially those of us who’ve sold sex, survived violence, or both—have been ringing this alarm bell since the early 2000s. In strategy meetings, on panels, in messy Facebook threads, in whispered warnings to baby organizers about who not to trust.

And when we spoke up? We were called disruptive. “Hard to work with.” “Not real survivors.” Or our favorite: “too biased.”

So yes, this tiny crack in the façade of respectability feels validating. But it also feels like watching someone proudly discover a problem we’ve spent our lives being punished for pointing out.

Because It Took This Long

Let’s stop pretending the harm was all unintentional.

Survivors of trafficking and consensual sex workers alike have often been wounded more deeply by the “help” than the harm we were supposedly being rescued from. We’ve seen people with clipboards and savior complexes re-traumatize us for donor dinners, design “empowerment” programs with no input from those of us in the trenches, and support policies that sent our friends to jail—all in the name of care.

And when we said, this is hurting us, the silence was deafening. Or worse—polite nods followed by business as usual.

So when a rescue org suddenly drops a Medium post like it’s a mic? Forgive us if our reaction is more side-eye than standing ovation.

The Harm Isn’t Just What You Did. It’s That You Ignored Us While You Did It.

This is the part they missed. 

The pain isn’t just in being misrepresented or manipulated—it’s in knowing you told them, clearly and often, and they did it anyway. It’s being invited to be the “sex work perspective” at a panel, only to have your mic cut the second you challenge the script. It’s watching your story get edited until it’s unrecognizable and conveniently brand-safe.

It’s not just exploitation—it’s erasure with receipts.

The gaslighting cuts deep. Being told we’re “too emotional,” “too negative,” or “don’t understand how advocacy works” while our trauma is being converted into six-figure grant checks? That leaves scars.

Especially when all we got was a $25 Target gift card and a thank-you card from an intern.

This Isn’t a Call-Out. It’s a Call-In—with Conditions

To the well-meaning reformers in the khaki dockers and the emplazoned polo shirt: we see your essay. 

We appreciate the gesture. 

But we’ve been hurt too many times to call it a breakthrough without proof.

What would accountability look like, for real?

• Fund the people you once excluded

• Hire us into actual leadership, not just advisory side gigs

• Name names. Detail the harm. Make amends.

• Redistribute actual power, not just feel-good Instagram quotes

Because unless that apology post comes with a line item in your budget and a seat at your board table, it’s just another round of performative repentance.

And spoiler alert: if we were right before when we said your policies hurt us, odds are we’re still right now—about the new ones you’re quietly piloting without us in the room.

We’re Not Just Your Trauma Porn. We’re the Architects of Real Change.

We don’t want your pity. 

We don’t even really want your apologies unless they come with action. 

What we want is partnership—with dignity. 

Not the kind that puts us on the homepage but leaves us off the payroll. Not the kind where we’re only consulted after you’ve already made the decisions that affect our lives.

We want a seat at the table that we helped build.

Because while y’all were printing glossy brochures about ending trafficking, we were the ones holding hands through jail bars, staffing mutual aid hotlines, doing street outreach, building reentry programs, and pushing policy with no budget and a burner phone.

We’re not asking you to be perfect. We’re asking you to be honest. To redistribute your resources like you mean it. To stop pretending saviorism is a substitute for solidarity.

You finally said, “We made mistakes.”

Great.

Now show us what you’re going to do about it.

We’ll wait—just not quietly.