A few months ago, I did one of the hardest things I've ever done: I walked away from an abusive relationship I had been going in and out of for a decade. I shared my story publicly—not just as a release for myself, but as a way to give hope to others who might be stuck in silence. That story, like so many others I've shared over the years, wasn't just a blog post—it was my lived experience, my trauma, my healing, my survival.
And I was promised payment for the blog about my experience. Half up front and half when completed. Today, it's still 100% unpaid. Even though the work was completed well before my deadline, and turned over with full use rights.
Today, I had to borrow money from a friend—just to keep myself from moving backwards in my journey. Yes, I'm working. I'm currently making a little above minimum wage, and being exploited by an American employer making record profits at that job also. All of this while living in a country where people gaslight me into believing a hamburger will cost them $20 if they pay me a living wage to make it. Meanwhile, we're walking around with iPhones and Nikes that cost hundreds if not thousands of dollars —luxuries made by workers in China earning barely $1 an hour but no one can explain why those items are not only $20 each like that hamburger they claim will be $20 if I get paid a living wage! They call it the "free market," but there's nothing free about being forced to endure abuse because the alternative is homelessness.
Let me be clear: when you ask a survivor to relive their trauma for your newsletter, your grant report, or your event—and then you don't pay them on time—you become part of the harm.
This is not just about one missed payment. This is about a larger pattern I've witnessed far too often: nonprofits and agencies that claim to uplift marginalized voices, yet exploit the very people they say they're here to help. Too many times, low-income women—especially Black and Brown women, women living with HIV, women escaping violence—are asked to share our stories, our expertise, and our pain, and in return, we are offered silence when it's time for compensation.
I won't even bore you with the statistics of the men in those same situations and demographics who are being abused with no offer of compensation for their story because Americans do not believe a man can be abused much less want to read about them being abused.
Let me be clear: when you ask a survivor to relive their trauma for your newsletter, your grant report, or your event—and then you don't pay them on time—you become part of the harm. You recreate the same dynamics of power and control that we've been trying to escape.
We're not just your stories. We're not your marketing. We're not inspirational soundbites to boost your fundraising goals.
We are people.
And we deserve to be compensated fairly and promptly—just like your staff members, and your executive team. Our time, our labor, our emotional energy—it all has value. And when you withhold payment, especially to someone who is struggling financially, it's more than just an administrative delay. It's a betrayal.
What message does it send when organizations built to support survivors end up mimicking the same instability and manipulation we fought so hard to leave behind?
If we truly want to build communities rooted in justice and healing, that work has to start from within. That means putting systems in place that honor the people you claim to serve. That means paying survivors on time. That means not taking advantage of our desperation, our hope, or our generosity.
Because if your "empowerment" is built on our unpaid labor, then it's not empowerment at all. It's exploitation in nonprofit clothing. To my fellow survivors, advocates, and community members: keep speaking out. Keep demanding better. And to the organizations who say they stand with us—prove it. Start by paying us. On time. Every time.
