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When we sat down to write this introduction, we thought of all the detached things an editor might say about an anthology like this. That it is necessary and timely. That the #MeToo movement has pushed us all to consider sexual assault and its lingering effects in new ways. That statistics show most women have been or will be harassed or exploited or assaulted in their lifetime. That it is imperative that survivors’ stories are heard by those who want to enact real change. That the responsibility lies with all of us.

These thoughts, facts, and ideas will be familiar to many. They are, of course, true and important, and we could certainly write pages and pages on them.

We could, but we didn’t.

Instead, we wrote notes about a black hole, one that lives inside the body and the mind. We wrote about how it can wax and wane with time, cling to and surprise you, how it can occasionally be forgotten, until it isn’t. We wrote about how that darkness can be a part of every decision, and every action, whether we like it or not. We wrote about how it can shrink and swell, can be unpredictable, debilitating, and all-consuming. How it can let you have a good day, only to take that day away.

This black hole—for the contributors in this book and for so many others—is the trauma of sexual assault.

In the years following sexual violence, many survivors learn to live differently. They learn to adapt to a trauma that attaches itself to them, building a new existence around that black hole that makes its presence known in every choice, every intimate act, every hope and dream. Its gravitational force is undeniable. Trauma makes it easy to fall in love with a person who hurts you because that’s what you thought love was supposed to feel like. It whispers that you’re not valuable, that your presence on this earth is expendable. It distorts your vision when you look in the mirror, just enough so that you hate what you see.

So when we sat down to write this introduction, the vital question became: How do we, survivors of sexual violence, actually endure living this way? And, more importantly, how can we—all of us—make things easier for survivors who are forced to endure living this way?

In the past few years, we have made remarkable progress in the conversation around sexual assault. Survivors have been given—or, rather, rightfully claimed as their own—high-profile venues to speak about the things that have happened to them. Many have worked hard to upend any notion that they should feel shame about what they have experienced. There have been incredible conversations about consent, education, justice, and restoration. There has been growth, and hope, and even victory in the face of so much pain.

But for us, one piece seemed to consistently be missing—how do survivors actually cope in the long aftermath of assault? The daily reality of surviving violence is not the stuff of headlines nor our collective sympathies, yet it is where some of the bravest and hardest work is done. It felt important to talk about that work and to interrogate how we might, as a culture and a community, best support it.

For many, recovery is long and it is arduous. It is even boring in its seemingly endless monotony, its progress in increments so tiny it doesn’t feel much like progress at all. Trauma affects the way you navigate the world in myriad ways, mars the way you move through moments, the ease of which others take for granted. It defines even the minor parts of your days, long after the headlines have run and the hashtags have stopped trending. It changes your relationships, your faith in yourself, and your ability to trust and connect with the world around you. Trauma can alter you irrevocably, with recovery moving so slowly it feels like it may never end—like you’ll never get “better.” (Whatever that means.)

So many of our popular narratives of sexual assault seem to end with either justice or the marked absence of justice. In fiction, there is a grievous act, a perpetrator caught, and a consequence delivered. Rarely do these stories, whether real or imagined, touch on how we walk the long road that follows, and all that journey entails. The sleepless nights. The ceaseless fear. The jobs and friends and opportunities lost. The emotional, physical, and literal costs. What justice really looks like. And what it has the potential to look like.

Despite all of our recent conversations, how enlightened we collectively claim to be, a great deal of the very heavy burden of moving forward from sexual assault still lies with those who have been harmed. Yes, we are outraged, and we express our disdain, but seldom do we ask how we are collectively and continually supporting those who deal with the real day-to-day realities of trauma. We so often fail at giving space for survivors to voice those unique realities. We don’t advocate for their safety and security when they speak out, nor do we make room for them to articulate what they need.

Beyond that, the systems in place to aid in healing are hard to navigate, and victims are left alone to figure them out. The pathways are riddled with cracks the vulnerable can fall through, making it hard to stay connected to community and care. What’s more, there isn’t a singular story or a one-size-fits-all guide to healing (if one exists at all), nor does the world make considerations or accommodations for the traumatized. Survivors face judgment, disbelief, pity, and subsequent pain, all while being expected to “get over it” and “move on.”

So we felt it was important to highlight the narrative of sexual assault we’re not talking about—the weeks, months, and years that follow the event. The difficulty eating, sleeping, working, or connecting with friends and family. The everyday pain and fear, and ultimately the incredible resiliency and strength. The unique and diverse forms that “coping” can take, whether considered acceptable, or branded as harmful.

We also know that very few survivors experience that journey of self-discovery we so commonly see celebrated in films or on bestseller lists—most of the time you learn how to cope while going to the grocery store, while picking up your kids, while simply being human. The big revelation or breakthrough may never happen. It often doesn’t.

Every survivor has their own definition of what “recovery” means. We don’t fit into neat and tidy models when it comes to traveling the way back from the experience of sexualized violence. “Recovery” is not a word that even applies to everyone. Sometimes “getting past” something actually just means living side by side with it, integrating its presence into your life, into every movement and moment. In fact, in creating this anthology, we often questioned whether this idea of “getting through” sexual assault was even possible, and if the popular perspective that one must “overcome” the past to move forward was actually helpful.

With all of these many ideas in mind, we reached out to writers with a simple yet extremely complicated question: What got you through? We asked this question with a sense of openness, understanding that we wouldn’t find the same answer twice, and knowing that what we would receive would have the capacity to change our perspectives on what it means to heal.

Was it traditional therapy? Was it a person or a place? Was it reclamation of self, or body, or mind? Was it a connection made or an interest fostered? Was there even any getting through this at all?

And we also understood the inherent vulnerability in posing this question—responding to our call necessitated writers to invite us into the very private spaces of their own healing, to share with readers those darker moments in the hope that it would make them feel less alone, that it would start a dialogue about what it means to live in the long shadow of another person’s decision to violate you.

And what we received in response was an act of the highest generosity, of incredible candor and insight, and a chance to really push the conversation on sexual assault out to its most important corners.

Narratives like these are never easy to write, or to read. Yet there is a compelling social need to know that, in the world, there are others—those who have crawled away from their abusers, who feel like they have found themselves again. While we are drawn to each other to share our trauma, we are also drawn to each other to share our coping.

The concept of healing or getting better, as Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha points out in the essay “Not Over It, Not Fixed, and Living a Life Worth Living,” is faulty. Trauma, like any chronic condition, never leaves us, and the challenge lies not in healing it but in managing its effects on our lives. In fact, the title of this anthology is very deliberate—we wanted to publish a book that centers not on abusers but on the voices of those who are simply getting through, even though that task is far from simple.

Here you’ll find essays from survivors who have rebuilt their lives around, and in spite of, that black hole of trauma. Alicia Elliott, with silence, consciously gives it no space. Karyn Freedman throws her body into the speed and chill and physical strain of ice hockey. Gwen Benaway searches for love. Elisabeth de Mariaffi finds older women to nurture and care for her. Soraya Palmer and her sister create new worlds that are equal parts dystopia and utopia. Amber Dawn asks her chosen partners to reenact traumatic events. These are all ways of getting through, of piling up moments of joy or accomplishment or healing around the edges of this black hole, saving them for the inevitable times when the great pit yawns wide again. It’s insurance, weighing the good when we can recognize it so that we know its value when we’re blind to its beauty. It’s how we learn to accept that getting through is our most Sisyphean task. It’s how we love the person we have become.

This book says there is a way forward, even if it’s not the prescribed or sanctioned one we’re used to. Even if it’s not acceptable, or pretty, or inspiring. Most importantly, it says that it’s a way created by individual survivors alone.

Even if, yes, there is no way of truly getting over sexual assault, no way to “overcome” it, or to “recover” what has been taken, there are ways to connect that will help us through. With bravery, honesty, and generosity, these writers are creating connections from the raw material of their own experiences and making the days, months, and years a little easier for those who read their stories.

These words are a gift in a world increasingly unsafe for and cruel toward their necessity. The contributors express both bravery and vulnerability, articulating a process of reclamation in both whispers and screams. And by sharing these truths the writers have fostered hope and offered a promise that we can use what we’ve learned to finally make a space for healing.

Words like “inspiration” and “courage” can be insipid, sentimental, and inadequate. They are among the detached things an editor might say about an anthology like this, things that can never really do justice to the monumental acts housed within these pages. Instead, we want to say that this book makes space for a diversity of voices and experiences, offering a place for survivors to speak and be heard, and a way to continue an important conversation well into the future. This heroic act of sharing has always been what we do, whether it’s in hushed tones warning others, or in public words asking for accountability. We share what we know and how we feel because it pulls us and others out of isolation, and because it creates strength in community.

And, above all else, it gets us through.