Bearing Witness to Suffering
Yesterday, I attended the California Senate Public Safety Committee hearing to testify in support of the Survivors Act of 2025 AB 938 (Bonta) on behalf of the Justice for Survivors Coalition, the bill sponsors.
I proudly testified with an incredible survivor-advocate. I sat beside her as she recounted her painful and traumatic experiences to advocate for survivors to have the opportunity to share their stories in their cases.
As she opened up her heart and placed it in the committee’s hands, I choked back tears of sadness and rage. The entire room was filled with her pain. We took in her trauma. Not just our minds, but we felt it reverberate through our bodies.
On my trip home, I thought a lot about bearing witness to suffering.
The entire day-long hearing was filled with courage, truth-telling, and the kind of advocacy that can only come from people who have lived through unimaginable things. And somehow, they still choose to share their stories as a means of helping ensure others don’t have to live through what they’ve endured.
Yesterday reminded me of the emotional weight so many of us carry in this work.
Whether you’re an advocate, survivor, lawyer, therapist, legislator, judge, social worker, case manager, researcher, medical professional, first responder, or law enforcement, part of our job is to bear witness to the suffering of others. We listen to stories of violence, injustice, and survival. We hold space. We try to hold power accountable. And we do all of that while keeping our composure, because the job requires us not only to feel with others, but to function at the highest level while doing so.
And for those with lived experience involved in this policy work, the weight is even greater. Not only are you re-traumatized by having to retell your own stories in pursuit of justice, but you are also bearing witness to the trauma of others. Your advocacy demands that you walk into rooms filled with pain and stay open, again and again. That takes a toll we rarely acknowledge.
When we don’t have time to process what we’re hearing, when we push down the feelings so we can keep doing the work, we don’t leave that pain behind. We carry it with us. We carry it in our bodies.
That’s what vicarious trauma is. It’s the weight of someone else’s pain, lodged in your own nervous system. It’s your body not knowing the difference between your trauma and theirs. And it’s not a sign that you’re weak, it’s a sign that you’re human.
I came home from the hearing feeling both inspired and depleted. The stories I heard were powerful. They moved legislation. They made meaning out of pain. And yet I also felt a familiar kind of heaviness. The exhaustion that comes from staying composed in rooms full of suffering. The kind that catches up with you when you finally get home and there’s no one left to hold it together for, but somehow you still can’t cry.
I know I’m not alone. So many of us are carrying not just the pain of those we serve, but the weight of what’s happening in the world right now. The grief, the violence, the injustice, the heartbreak. It’s a lot. It’s layered. It’s too much, sometimes.
So what do we do?
We start by naming it. This is hard. You’re not imagining it. You’re not too sensitive. You’re not bad at boundaries. You’re a person who is trying to make change in a world that too often breaks people open.
And then, we practice. We practice finding ways to let our bodies release what they’ve absorbed. We practice rest, movement, breath, community, creativity, ritual, therapy, spirituality, stillness, whatever helps us feel again.
We can’t always prevent vicarious trauma, but we can honor it, and we can learn to tend to it.
A few trauma release practices I’ve found helpful:
Shake it off. Literally. Try shaking your arms, legs, and torso while breathing deeply. Shaking is a natural way for animals, and humans, to discharge stress.
Grounding exercises. Place your feet flat on the floor. Name five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste. This helps bring your nervous system back to the present.
Tapping (EFT). Gently tap on points like the side of the hand, eyebrow, or collarbone while naming what you’re feeling. It can help shift stuck emotions.
Vocal release. Humming, singing, sighing, or making sound while exhaling helps regulate the vagus nerve and release tension.
Somatic check-ins. Ask your body, not your brain, how you’re doing. Where are you tense? What does that part of your body need?
Connecting with others. Sometimes, we just need to be seen and heard. Sharing the weight helps us carry it.
To everyone who showed up yesterday, who testified, who listened, who held it together, thank you. Your courage is changing lives. And your nervous system deserves care, too.
If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear how you care for yourself in the face of vicarious trauma. What practices help you stay grounded, connected, or restored? Feel free to share in the comments or pass this along to someone who might need it.
