One of the most important things I’ve learned from working with survivors is that healing is never one-size-fits-all.
Two people can experience similar trauma and have completely different journeys afterward—not because one is stronger than the other, but because they are navigating different obstacles.
When we talk about barriers to healing, people often think about the obvious ones: money, transportation, access to therapy, or insurance.
Those barriers matter.
But some of the biggest barriers are the ones we cannot immediately see.
Living in a rural community taught me that early in my career.
In small towns, survivors often don’t have the luxury of anonymity. The person who harmed them may attend the same school, play on the same sports teams, attend the same church, or be connected to the same family networks.
I’ve worked with young people who had to continue seeing the person who abused them because there was only one school district. I’ve worked with children who ended up on the same athletic teams as the person who hurt them because there was only one community sports program available.
In larger communities, creating distance may be possible.
In rural communities, distance is often a luxury.
Research has found that survivors in rural areas frequently face additional barriers to reporting and seeking support, including concerns about confidentiality, fear of community judgment, limited access to specialized services, transportation difficulties, and concerns about knowing the professionals involved in the response process. For many survivors, the question isn’t simply, “Will people believe me?” It’s also, “Who will find out?”
Those concerns are real.
At the same time, rural survivors are not the only survivors facing barriers.
Years ago, I worked with a college student who came from a financially comfortable family. After she experienced sexual assault, her family took her away on an extended vacation. Looking back, I remember thinking that she would probably be okay. She had resources. She had support. She had opportunities that many of my underserved clients didn’t have.
I checked in occasionally, but not as much as I should have.
When we eventually met again, she told me something I never expected.
While she was trying to process the assault, her father was dying.
What I didn’t know at the time was that the vacation I had viewed as an opportunity for healing was also a period of grief, fear, and loss. She wasn’t simply coping with one trauma. She was carrying multiple burdens at once.
That experience stayed with me.
It reminded me how easy it is to see the barriers someone doesn’t have while missing the ones they do.
Some survivors struggle because they lack resources.
Others struggle because they feel responsible for everyone around them.
Some face discrimination because of their race, sexual orientation, gender identity, disability, or immigration status.
Some fear they won’t be believed.
Some fear they will.
Some worry about losing relationships.
Others worry about losing housing, financial stability, or community connections.
The barriers may look different, but they all have the potential to make healing harder.
This is why comparisons are rarely helpful.
Trauma is not a competition.
Suffering is not a contest.
One survivor’s challenges do not cancel out another survivor’s challenges.
The reality is that every survivor arrives with a unique history, a unique support system, and a unique set of obstacles.
The question isn’t who has it worse.
The question is what does this person need right now?
When we stop assuming and start listening, we create space for survivors to tell us what those needs are.
And often, what we discover is that the barriers we couldn’t see were the ones that mattered most.
Healing begins when people feel understood.
That understanding starts with recognizing that no two survivor journeys are exactly alike.
Different barriers.
Different paths.
The same need for compassion.