A Letter to Readers

Dear Readers,

A year ago, I started writing more regularly on this Substack without a clear plan for what it would become.

I had ideas — about sexual violence, about restorative justice, about the failures of the criminal legal system — but I didn’t yet know how those ideas would unfold in this space. I just knew I needed a place to share my thoughts.

Academia feels simultaneously like my home and also like I don’t belong. It is a strange place to talk about the complexities of sexual harm, especially while I navigate the world as a “pracademic.” Academic writing demands a certain distance. Policy reports require neutrality. Conferences reward tidy conclusions rather than messy questions.

But my work on harm and repair is messy.

And this Substack has become the place where I let that messiness live.

Some of the posts I wrote this year could easily have been academic articles.

Others never could have been.

Writing about queer survivor experiences, for example, required me to talk openly about my own life. As a queer survivor, I know what it feels like to weigh whether reporting sexual violence will lead to justice or further harm. Those experiences shape how I think about restorative justice and the possibilities it offers survivors who feel alienated by the criminal legal system.

I’ve been a public survivor for more than a decade, but writing about it sometimes still makes me feel uneasy.

But the response from readers reminded me why it mattered.

A few pieces from this year continue to linger in my mind.

One explored the idea that our obsession with “monsters” prevents us from seeing the broader social dynamics that produce sexual harm. When we frame violence as the work of a few deviant individuals, we avoid examining the cultural norms and institutional failures that make abuse possible.

Another piece used the Tuna Net Analogy, first coined by my colleague and friend Dr. Danielle Harris, to describe how sex crime policies have expanded far beyond their original purpose. Laws designed for a small set of severe offenses now capture an enormous range of behaviors, creating systems that appear protective but that don’t actually make us safer.

And then there were the pieces that forced me to confront the deeper structures of violence.

Writing about dehumanization — and how societies decide whose suffering counts — was particularly difficult. Once you see how systems treat certain people as disposable, it becomes impossible to unsee.

Over the past year, writing here has taught me three things.

First, survivors are hungry for conversations about justice that move beyond punishment. Many readers have written to say they are searching for accountability models that acknowledge harm while still allowing space for healing.

Second, the public conversation about sexual violence is still dominated by myths — about monsters, about “stranger danger,” about black-and-white solutions.

And third, people are willing to engage with difficult ideas when they are presented honestly and humbly.

That gives me hope.

If you’ve been reading this Substack for a while, thank you.

If you’ve shared a post with a colleague or student, thank you.

If you’ve written to tell me that something here made you think differently about justice, thank you.

Writing often feels like shouting into the void.

But your responses remind me that this space is a conversation, not a monologue.

As we embark on our second year together in this Substack space, two things are true: First, I don’t know what fresh ideas or stories will move me. I don’t know what the next year will bring. Simultaneously, I have decided that what it will entail is a paid subscription model.

I will continue to write one Substack post a month for my readers and followers, which will be public for everyone. I will also create a second post for paid subscribers only. This might be a written post, an interview with a key stakeholder, or even a short podcast.

Your contributions to the paid Substack model will help fund our work with survivors. We will launch this model next month in honor of Sexual Assault Awareness Month.

I don’t know exactly what the next year of writing will bring, but I know that the questions we ask here matter. They compel me to continue searching for answers, and I believe they shape the future of justice.

I’m grateful that you’re here to explore them with me.

In solidarity,

Alissa