On the crisp autumn morning of our opening, I stood behind a wooden podium in a bright room filled with women of every age. Women who had been slapped, silenced, financially suffocated, routinely dismissed, and told to be grateful for the breadcrumbs of their abusers.

I looked out at their faces and saw my own reflection in their tired, hopeful eyes.

The bruise on my cheek had long since faded, leaving no scar.

But my voice hadn’t softened. It had hardened into something unbreakable.

I smiled and leaned into the microphone.

“Society teaches us that a woman’s silence is a symptom of her weakness,” I began, my voice ringing clear across the room. “They mistake our patience for permission.