I’ve always viewed my life as one giant game of Survivor. Growing up in the small, conservative town of Princeton, Texas, I often felt stranded on an island with people I didn’t choose and told to essentially “make the best of it.” Even worse than feeling surrounded by people who didn’t understand my identity was realizing I didn’t fully understand it myself: I knew little about my own Osage roots or sexual orientation. As I slowly began to understand what I stood for, I became a leader in my community, speaking up for those who felt silenced through organizing Black Lives Matter protests. I transformed my upbringing into an advantage and became the ultimate “Survivor,” finding my voice to outwit, outplay, and outlast the barriers that previously held me back.
Once I made it off the island and to New York to attend Columbia University, I was excited for the opportunity to finally find my own tribe — until my first day. During move-in, I was assaulted in my freshman dorm room. The experience not only made me feel alone and disconnected from the world around me, but it also left me with more questions than answers. Did this really happen to me? Was it my fault? In the months that followed, I realized that my actions were not to blame, which motivated me to stand up for myself and file a Title IX complaint against my assaulter.
The moment I did so, my life split into a before and after. What should’ve been a time of exploration and discovery, my freshman and sophomore years were instead eclipsed by a lengthy, dehumanizing Title IX trial, and at times, I didn’t know if I’d be strong enough to finish it. Yet, after I wrote my closing statement — the only time my attacker or the judges would hear me speak — I realized the power of my voice through personal narrative. Finally, my story shone through; I unleashed months of pent-up anger and grief through a carefully crafted statement. I knew that with just seven minutes to advocate for myself, I needed the person who inflicted this trauma onto me to understand the burden I’d been carrying. I looked directly into the eyes of my assaulter as I let go with each word. I reclaimed my autonomy, along with my identity, and was no longer a failed statistic. It didn’t matter if I won or lost. In those defining moments, I knew I’d become a survivor.
Now, I’m partnering with the organization that helped me take back my voice so no survivor feels alone on an island: Sanctuary for Families.
Sanctuary for Families is a New York-based nonprofit dedicated to helping survivors of domestic and gender-based violence. Each year, they provide life-saving legal, clinical, and shelter services to more than 8,500 adults and children. As one of those clients, I know firsthand the impact of their work because they didn’t just represent me in my Title IX trial or welcome me to their tribe—they saved my life.
This November 2nd, I’m running 26.2 miles to show every survivor that we can transform our darkest chapters into testaments of resilience and community. Since Sanctuary for Families helped me reclaim my story, I’ve dedicated my life to helping others find theirs through Indigenous youth advocacy and by pursuing my MFA in Creative Writing at American University.
Whether you’re a survivor, an ally, or someone who believes in justice—you’re part of this tribe now.
Interested in Sanctuary for Families and their lifesaving work? Learn more here.
Want to write to me? Send an email to tristanjespinoza@icloud.com.
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