This piece was first published in Spanish on Mad in Puerto Rico.
We live in a culture of silence, and this is something that affects many of us from childhood. The struggle to end this silence belongs to all of us. The same mechanisms used to silence survivors of childhood and adolescent abuse, and those who experience gender-based violence, racism, and more, are used to silence survivors of psychiatric violence. So, ending the silence is a collective fight.
Those of us who have survived violence are expected to remain silent, and when we speak publicly about these violences, attempts are made to silence us. This culture of silence fuels the culture of abuse and allows it to continue. In silence, abuse spreads like a black fungus, consuming those who have been harmed and other potential victims. Abusers and those who support them feed off this silence to continue their patterns. Many do so to maintain their reputation while continuing to destroy the lives of those they abuse in insidious ways.
Those who speak openly about abuse are often isolated, attacked, intimidated, and questioned. Not only is the legitimacy of what they’re saying discredited, but also the platform they chose to speak from. As if it hasn’t already been attempted in private, within family, partnerships, or therapy—spaces where abuse is often repeated and victims further harmed. Still, the abuse continues. The culture of silence not only sustains but hyper-perpetuates abuse.
Survivors who are silenced often experience high levels of emotional distress and physical consequences from the abuse their bodies endured. Studies indicate that having a higher number of Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) is associated with higher rates of partner violence. Those who survived childhood sexual abuse face exceptionally high risks of experiencing partner violence later in life (Seon et al., 2022). Duration, relationship to the abuser, frequency, and type of abuse impact how people respond to these adverse experiences and affect their ability to imagine a positive future. This relates to emotional issues such as depression, eating disorders, anxiety, trauma, intensity and frequency of suicidal ideation, and other mental and physical health problems (Sahle et al., 2022).
This culture of silence leaves victims feeling shame, guilt, and questioning what they did to deserve it, wondering what is wrong with them. Often alone, believing no one else has gone through the same. Breaking the silence not only validates our own experiences but also those of others. Sometimes this inspires others to speak about abuse they experienced from the same person. As we’ve seen in cases involving famous individuals, these are patterns, not isolated incidents, and survivors feared speaking out due to the reprisals of the culture of abuse and silence we live in. Abusers want silence. They want their lives intact, their actions hidden. Often their first concern is their reputation—not the person they harmed—and they use the moment to continue abusing psychologically. This is also done by people close to them, even when the survivor is a close relative. In fact, most people who commit abuse are known to their victims (Lyon, 2014; Lyon & Dente, 2012). In Puerto Rico, according to the Gender Observatory, 52% of sexual assaults are committed by family members.
Others worry about how breaking the silence will affect the abuser and their circle, rather than how it affects the survivor. Talking about abuse is uncomfortable, but necessary if we want to prevent it. If we want it to stop, we must talk about it, and it shouldn’t be solely the responsibility of survivors. If we truly want to support them, end the stigma around assault and violence, and prevent it from recurring, we have to talk about it—even if it makes us uncomfortable. If we want to honor and safeguard the dignity of survivors, we must create supportive spaces where they can speak, in the contexts and terms they choose.
Acts of solidarity are essential in breaking silence. Many times we think the abuse itself is the most traumatizing aspect—but often, it is the reaction of others when survivors disclose what happened to them.
In Latin America, there’s a culture of respect that demands loyalty to parents, elders, and authority figures—respect defined as unconditional. This too silences survivors. Common phrases include: “they’re your parents, siblings, your blood, your partner.” This sacrifices people to their abusers, making them more vulnerable.
Many families depend on survivors’ silence to maintain the status quo and comfort. They avoid difficult conversations that would require change and accountability for the violence and its impact. Instead of confronting the abuser, silence is imposed on the survivor to protect family unity and elders. Tactics include urging the survivor to consider the health of others above their own and burdening them with the responsibility of silence. Let it be clear: even if a survivor breaking the silence affects a relative’s health, the responsibility lies with the abuser.
Many families avoid questioning, choosing to maintain appearances—a common pattern in Latin American households. When a survivor threatens the blood family’s image, it’s seen as violent against the family itself. Survivors are left isolated, abandoned, and often defamed, while abusers are embraced.
So what does a survivor gain by speaking out or “lying”? They often face backlash in this culture of silence, which lacks solidarity. Survivors are questioned about how, when, and why they speak. Most survivors of childhood abuse reveal it in adulthood (Ullman, 2023). Yet the abuser goes unquestioned. As a society, we replicate patterns of aggression toward those who have already been harmed. In this culture, speaking out risks family, jobs, and reputation.
No act of speaking out is meant to seek revenge. Talking about what happened won’t restore what was taken, but it can help us heal, validate ourselves, and remind others that this could happen to anyone. Speaking up lets us reclaim power and control—of our narrative, our reactions, and our future. And what revenge is there beyond making the truth known and honoring our stories? We know that justice systems often fail and that the burden of proof is placed on victims. Even with evidence, justice is rare. We carry not only the weight of silence but also the weight of the abuse itself. When we speak, we protect others too.
Silence allows abuse to grow. And then, we ask survivors why they never said anything. People rarely consider how abuse begins—in private. Abusers depend on our silence to continue. Survivors are already isolated and alone.
We’re often asked, “why didn’t you report it?” But most of the time, there is no evidence. And even when there is—as in the case of Andrea Ruiz Costas—survivors are not believed. They are blamed. So who would want to endure a legal process where they will be doubted, attacked, and dehumanized? Especially when this already happens within their own family. Survivors are asked to be the “perfect victim.” But what does that even mean? What’s the “perfect” way to respond to being abused?
To those who feel discomfort, I urge you to reflect on why. If your first instinct is to question the survivor and not the abuser, ask yourself: what does your silence protect? Who else are you silencing? Why can’t you show solidarity with the survivor? Why is the burden of accountability placed solely on them? If it’s uncomfortable for you to talk about or read, imagine what it’s like for someone who lived it. Until we face this discomfort, survivors will not feel safe to speak, and we won’t be able to face the violence they endure.
Research shows that sharing testimony normalizes these experiences, helps survivors feel less alone, and frees them to speak openly about their abuse. This is inconvenient for abusers and families that perpetuate cycles of harm. That’s why they want us isolated. Quiet, we seem more palatable.
We carry the consequences of breaking silences. When survivors carry shame and guilt, it doesn’t lead to healing—it leads to torment. We only live once, and if we live protecting those who hurt us, we give them our lives. Not speaking up can take away the opportunity to live fully. That’s why the silence ends here.
