The Barriers That Prevent Survivors from Coming Forward

There’s a question people love to ask—loudly, publicly, and often without a shred of compassion:
“Why didn’t they say something sooner?”

It’s a question rooted in the luxury of distance. It assumes silence equals complicity, that time dulls the truth, or worse, that truth has an expiration date.

But if you’ve ever spoken with someone who’s lived through child sexual abuse, you learn very quickly:
Silence wasn’t a choice. It was survival.

This isn’t about defending delay. It’s about understanding it. We’re not here to judge why someone didn’t speak up—we’re here to understand what kept them quiet. Because the truth is, until we understand the barriers that silence survivors, we’ll never dismantle them.

Why Do Survivors Delay Reporting Abuse?

Imagine you’re eight years old, and the person hurting you is the same one telling you it’s your fault. That no one will believe you. That if you tell, your family will fall apart. Now ask yourself—how fast would you come forward?

For many survivors, the answer is: they couldn’t. Not then. Maybe not for decades.

Childhood sexual abuse often involves grooming—a deliberate, manipulative process that makes the child feel special, complicit, confused, or dependent. It blurs the lines between care and control. Between love and exploitation. That confusion doesn’t magically disappear at 18.

The human brain processes trauma differently from everyday experiences. Some survivors repress the memory altogether. Others remember it in fragments, like shattered glass with pieces missing. The fear of speaking out becomes internalized. Saying the words out loud feels like betraying your family, your church, your community—even yourself.

And then there’s the fear of not being believed. Or worse, being blamed.

When people ask, “Why do survivors stay silent?”—this is the answer: Because silence often felt safer than truth.

The pain doesn’t disappear. It just hides behind the curtain of time. Until one day, something—a headline, a news story, a child’s question—pulls it out. And the survivor realizes they’re ready to speak. But now they’re 42. And people say, “Too late.”

But is it?

What Stops Victims from Seeking Justice?

By the time a survivor finds the strength to come forward, a new wall stands in their way: the system.

Let’s start with the basics. Many victims delay reporting abuse for years—sometimes decades—because they:

• Don’t want to relive the trauma through interviews or depositions. 
• Fear retaliation from their abuser or the community. 
• Believe there’s no hope of justice without physical evidence. 
• Feel ashamed, broken, or convinced they’re “damaged goods.” 

That last one? That’s the most insidious barrier of all. Shame doesn’t whisper—it shouts. And when survivors are told, explicitly or subtly, that they should’ve fought back, should’ve spoken up, or should’ve “gotten over it”—they absorb that shame like a toxin.

Now imagine trying to explain to a courtroom that what happened 30 years ago still feels like it happened yesterday. That your body remembers even when your brain doesn’t. That your silence wasn’t forgetfulness—it was fear.

Many don’t even know the laws have changed. They still think if too much time has passed, there’s no legal path forward. That used to be true in a lot of places. But Arkansas, like many other states, has taken steps to expand survivors’ rights.

Still, the legal barriers are real. Filing a case against a trusted figure—like a priest, teacher, or coach—isn’t just taking legal action. It’s challenging a pillar of the community. It’s stepping into a storm of doubt, scrutiny, and pressure to “let it go.”

Some survivors have come forward in cases involving Catholic Church clergy, only to be met with silence or denial. Others were told their abuse didn’t “count” because there wasn’t a conviction. Or because too much time had passed.

What’s stopping survivors from seeking justice? It’s not lack of courage. It’s the feeling that the world still protects the powerful—and punishes the vulnerable.

How Can We Encourage Survivors to Come Forward?

If we want to help survivors speak up, we have to stop assuming they’re waiting for us to give them permission.

They’re waiting for safety.

They’re watching how the world responds to other survivors. They’re asking themselves:

• Will I be believed? 
• Will I be blamed? 
• Will this cost me my peace, my job, my family? 

Survivors don’t need a cheerleader. They need an advocate. Someone who can help them navigate the legal system without forcing them to relive every painful detail. Someone who gets that trauma and disclosure of abuse don’t follow a script.

Education matters too. Many survivors still don’t realize that legal doors might be open. That the law in Arkansas allows certain cases to move forward even after many years have passed. That Arkansas sex abuse laws have changed in response to exactly this kind of delay.

We also need to dismantle the cultural myths:

• That abuse only happens in “bad” families. 
• That only girls are targeted. 
• That a delay in disclosure means someone is lying. 

Those beliefs? They’re poison. They’re why so many survivors suffer in silence—believing their pain doesn’t fit the narrative.

So how can we encourage survivors to come forward? We can:

• Listen without disbelief. Survivors aren’t looking for interrogation. They’re looking for dignity. 
• Respect their timeline. Healing doesn’t follow a clock. Some take years to speak. Others never do—and that’s okay. 
• Push for trauma-informed systems. Legal, medical, and community structures must shift from “prove it” to “we hear you.” 

We can also remind them: you don’t need a criminal conviction to take legal action. The civil justice system offers a separate path. A path focused not just on accountability—but on healing, closure, and often, protecting others from future harm.

The Real Question Isn’t “Why Didn’t They Tell?”

It’s: “What kept them from feeling safe enough to speak?”

For every survivor who comes forward, there are countless others still holding the weight of their story in silence. That silence doesn’t mean the abuse didn’t happen. It means the world hasn’t yet earned their trust.

And if we want to change that, we have to earn it.

That means believing survivors—even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it challenges our institutions, our communities, or our sense of comfort.

It means creating space for someone to say, “This happened to me,” and knowing they won’t be shamed, silenced, or shoved back into the shadows.

It means remembering that behind every delayed report is a person—one who was failed when it mattered most, and who is now trying to reclaim what was stolen from them.

If you or someone you know is wrestling with whether to speak up, know this:

You are not alone. You are not weak. And you are not too late.

Legal options may still be available, and there are attorneys—like those who handle cases involving Catholic Church clergy members and other institutions—who are prepared to walk with you, not ahead of you.

Healing doesn’t start with a court date. It starts with being heard. And the first step doesn’t have to be public—it just has to be yours.