Content warning: This article contains references to sexual assault and violence.

Every year on the last Wednesday of April, you’ll see them: hundreds of people decked out in jeans and denim. To a passerby, it’s just casual clothing. But to those who know, it’s so much more. It’s Denim Day.

It began with a 1992 Italian Supreme Court ruling that overturned a rape conviction because the victim wore tight jeans. The judges argued that the attacker could not have removed them without the victims’ help and, therefore, the victims’ consent. The women of the Italian Parliament wore jeans to work the next day in protest. That moment would inspire the founding of Denim Day in 1999.

Decades later, Denim Day continues to be a protest against those judges’ ruling. It is a global refusal to stay quiet. A promise to believe survivors. And — if we let it — a radical practice in hope.

To those who have survived, the message you’re often given is simple: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” But the truth — the one we rarely realize — is this: surviving can make you tender.

And that tenderness is not a failure of strength. It is its own kind of wisdom — the ability to feel deeply, to break and still show up, to live without neat answers. In surviving, you come to understand that strength is not physicality, but the willingness to remain open, even when it hurts.

Writer Chanel Miller has become a resonant voice on what it means to endure, to speak and to define survival on one’s own terms through her writing and her refusal to be known only by what was done to her.

“I survived because I remained soft, because I listened, because I wrote,” Miller wrote in “Know My Name.” “Because I huddled close to my truth, protected it like a tiny flame in a terrible storm.”

That tenderness should extend to how we treat survivors, too. We live in a society that demands they become symbols — northern stars of a movement. But in doing so, we force survivors, often involuntarily, to relive their darkest memories while expecting them to carry on with the routine of their lives. Sometimes, we should just simply acknowledge that survivors exist and do our best to improve a broken system without demanding they lead the way.

Part of improving the system meant to address sexual violence — our schools, legal institutions and cultural norms — also means preventing harm before it happens. That can start with honest sex education, not just sketches of anatomy, but lessons that teach the real, human truth.

Though education around the nuances of consent won’t prevent every tragedy, it can give people the language and understanding needed to navigate complex intimate situations. A baseline for doing so is ensuring that everyone feels safe, comfortable and fully able to consent. This means recognizing when someone is not in the right state of mind, and understanding that consent must be clearly given, can be revoked at any time and must be actively communicated. These principles are one of many necessary steps toward prevention. 

Beyond prevention, there is the harder work of bearing witness. When you hear a survivor’s story, resist the instinct to turn away. Look closer. Because beneath the headline and report is a whole, beautiful person who may not give you — and does not owe you — a timeline, a neat narrative or a cathartic breakdown. Stay anyway. Listen anyways.

And there is no perfect script or best plan of action. Say “It’s not your fault.” Sit with them. Healing begins when someone listens, not when someone attempts to fix. 

Survivors shouldn’t feel forced to speak out, either. No path is linear. We tend to imagine growth as always moving forward, but it is more often cyclic — a slow process of growing around our past, not past it. And yet, survivors are often pressured in quieter ways: not to speak, but to have spoken sooner, to explain their timing, to justify why it wasn’t “earlier.” But for many, it has never been about courage alone — it’s about safety. When openness risks retaliation, silence becomes protection.

“I am not sure exactly what healing is or looks like,” Miller wrote, “I do know that when I was four I could not lift a gallon of milk, could not believe how heavy it was … Looking back I don’t remember the day I lifted it with ease. All I know is now I do it without thinking, can do it one-handed, on the phone, in a rush. I believe the same rules apply … It will just be part of my life, every day lighter to lift.”

So much of surviving is learning to hold two truths at once: The world has hurt you, and it still holds beautiful things. You don’t need to know what comes next. You just keep moving.

“Living is an incredible thing,” Miller wrote. “Just to have been here, to have felt, if only briefly, the columns and depth of others’ empathy. I wrote, most of all, to tell you I have seen how good the world can be.”

Similarly, we, the writers of this article, write not to demand performative strength or to insist on being inspiring. Instead, we hope this article carries a small amount of light — a reminder that you exist, that you are important, beautiful in your entirety.

If you are in need of support, here are some resources you can contact:

USC Relationship and Sexual Violence Prevention and Services: Located at Engemann Student Health Center Suite 356. Individuals can call 213-740-9355 and request to speak with an advocate or counselor. Services are confidential.

Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN): A free, confidential hotline that is active 24/7. Individuals can call 800-656-4673.