"Nothing worth doing is easy," I reply with newfound determination. "And this is worth doing."
"Thank you all for coming," I begin, surveying the circle of women gathered in the shelter's meeting room. "I know many of you have busy schedules and limited transportation."
Eight survivors from various rescue operations sit in mismatched chairs, their expressions ranging from curious to cautious. Some I know well—Miranda, Rachel from the shelter, two women from the warehouse raid. Others are newer to me, referred by Maggie for this initial consultation meeting.
"As Maggie explained in her invitation, we're exploring the possibility of creating a new center specifically designed for trafficking survivors." I take a deep breath, pushing through the nervousness of public speaking—once natural to me as a law student, now an exercise in vulnerability. "Before we make any plans, we want to hear directly from you about what would be most helpful."
"You mean like what services we need?" asks a woman in her early twenties, her accent suggesting Eastern European origins.
"Exactly," I confirm. "But also the physical space, security features, program structures—everything. You've lived this experience. Your insights are invaluable."
"Why are you doing this?" Another woman speaks up, her tone not accusatory but genuinely curious. "What's your stake in it?"
The question is fair and deserves honesty. "I was trafficked for five years before being rescued by the Saints MC three months ago," I explain simply. "Like many of you, I found there weren't enough resources designed specifically for what we've experienced."
Surprised glances pass between some of the women who didn't know my background. One leans forward, studying me with new interest.
"You're the one they talk about," she says. "The woman who's going to testify against Hargrove."
I nod, acknowledging without elaboration. "My experience gives me perspective, but each of your experiences is equally valuable. That's why we're here—to create something that addresses the real needs we face."
The initial hesitation dissolves as women begin sharing—first tentatively, then with increasing confidence as they realize their input is genuinely sought. Their suggestions are practical, specific, and often surprising:
"Private rooms with locks we control. Not dormitories."
"Job training that doesn't just mean minimum wage service jobs."
"Legal help with identity documents. Many of us had everything taken."
"Childcare for those with kids."
"Security we can see and trust. Knowing someone's watching out for us."
I facilitate rather than dominate, drawing out quieter voices, recording every suggestion. Throughout the discussion, I notice a pattern emerging—beyond specific services, these women crave dignity, agency, and community. The very elements traffickers systematically strip away.
"I never thought anyone would ask what we needed," says Rachel near the meeting's end, emotion thickening her voice. "It's always been people telling us what's best for us, what we should want."
"That's exactly what we're trying to change," I tell her, feeling a surge of conviction. "This center will be built on the principle that survivors know best what survivors need."
As the meeting concludes, a woman who has remained mostly silent approaches me. Older than most, perhaps in her forties, with a quiet dignity that suggests resilience hard-won.
"Your story inspired me to leave," she says simply. "I was in Seattle when news spread about a woman rescued after five years who was fighting back. Some of the girls started whispering that maybe escape was possible after all."
The revelation stuns me. "I didn't know."
She smiles slightly. "That's how it works. Small ripples creating larger ones." She presses something into my hand—a small card with a phone number. "I was an architect before. If you're serious about building something, I'd like to help design it."
By the time the women disperse, we have pages of notes, potential partnerships, and a sense of collective purpose that transcends individual trauma. What began as an idea has transformed into the beginning of a movement—survivors reclaiming power not just for themselves but for those who will come after.
"Security concerns are significant," Maggie notes as we walk the perimeter of the property we're considering. "Remote enough for privacy but accessible for services."
Two weeks after our initial meeting, we're evaluating a former retreat center on the outskirts of town—twenty acres with a main building, several cabins, and extensive grounds. Currently bank-owned after a foreclosure, the property has sat vacant for nearly a year.
"The main building would need renovation," I observe, studying the weathered exterior. "But the basic structure is sound. And the layout provides natural security advantages."
The circular drive creates a single access point. Woods surround three sides, with the fourth facing a rarely-used county road. Sight lines are clear from the main building to all approaches, and the property's elevation provides strategic advantage.
"Price is within reach if we combine the club's contribution with the federal grant," Maggie adds, reviewing notes on her tablet. "Renovation costs are the bigger concern."
