Recently, I had the privilege of catching up with someone I have known and worked alongside for many years. He is a parent of a child who was exploited, and over that time, I have watched him channel one of the most painful experiences a family can endure into advocacy, education, and a relentless drive for change.
Throughout the years, we have had countless conversations about child exploitation, safeguarding, systems, language, professional responses, and the experiences of families navigating unimaginable circumstances. He has consistently challenged thinking and pushed for better understanding.
It is difficult to put into words the admiration, respect, and appreciation I have for him. Like many people with lived experience, he did not choose this path. Yet he has given so much of himself to help ensure that others are better understood, supported, and treated with the respect they deserve.
Our recent conversation felt particularly significant because it came at a point of change. He had decided to step back from being as actively involved in advocacy work. Not because the issues matter any less, but because the work takes a toll. The constant fight for change, the need to revisit painful experiences repeatedly, the emotional labour of educating others, and the weight of carrying lived experience into professional spaces can be exhausting.
For many advocates with lived experience, there is often a tension between wanting to create change and protecting their own wellbeing. For the advocates I have worked with, the drive comes from a desire to make things better for those who follow: to improve systems, the language used, the support made available, and understanding. But that drive can come at a personal cost.
As he talked about wanting to focus more on his family, on living rather than constantly fighting, our conversation turned to language. Specifically, the terms victim and survivor.
This is a discussion that has taken place across many sectors for years. We debate which term is more appropriate, more empowering, more respectful. Yet what he said next stopped me in my tracks.
“Being a survivor is hard. Really hard. Because you’re surviving. When does the living start?”
This stayed with me long after the conversation had ended.
The term survivor is often used with the best intentions. It reflects resilience, strength, courage, and endurance. For many people, it is a powerful and meaningful identity.
But his comment made me think about whether we spend enough time considering what comes next.
If someone is always a survivor, are they always surviving? Does the language we use sometimes keep people tethered to the experiences they are trying to move beyond? At what point does healing become more than survival?
I do not believe there is a universal answer. For some, the identity of survivor may remain empowering throughout their lives. For others, it may feel limiting. The point is not to replace one label with another, but to recognise that people experience these words differently and that healing is not a single destination.
Perhaps the most important lesson from this conversation is the need for curiosity rather than assumption. To ask rather than decide. To recognise that people are more than the experiences they have endured.
As I reflect on our conversation, I am left with a deep sense of gratitude.
Gratitude for the challenge he has brought to my thinking over the years. For the honesty with which he has shared his family’s experiences. For the time, energy, and emotional investment in helping professionals better understand the realities of exploitation and its impact, not just on children and young people, but on entire families.
There are many people working to improve responses to exploitation, but there is something uniquely powerful about those who advocate from lived experience. They often carry the weight of their own pain while trying to prevent others from experiencing the same. They repeatedly revisit some of the most difficult chapters of their lives in the hope that systems will improve, professionals will listen, and future families will receive better support.
The insights he has shared, the conversations he has started, the challenges he has posed, and the passion he has brought have undoubtedly influenced practice, shaped understanding, and contributed to positive change for countless professionals and families.
So, while this conversation left me reflecting on the language of victimhood, survival, and healing, it also left me wanting to acknowledge something else.
To say thank you.
Thank you for the years you have dedicated to advocating for change.
For your honesty, courage, and willingness to speak when it would have been easier not to.
For challenging professionals, including me, to think differently and do better.
Thank you for helping to create a greater understanding of the experiences of children, young people, and families affected by exploitation.
And thank you for recognising when it is time to prioritise yourself.
Advocacy should not have to come at the expense of living.
The systems, services, and professionals who have learned from you are better for it. I know I am.
And perhaps that is the question I will continue to reflect on:
If survival is a stage of healing, what language do we have for what comes next?