Support Serena van orman

A Mattress, A Marathon, A Mission—Because Every Story Matters

Last year, I ran the 26.2-mile Carmel marathon carrying a 15-pound mattress, weighing just 88 pounds, to raise funds for Firefly and bring awareness to sexual assault survivors.

This year, I’m doing it again. Just like in a race, each step brings progress – every effort to support survivors makes a difference, no matter how small. I’m running to remind myself and others that every mile counts—just like every story, voice, and act of support for survivors matters.

My choice to run with a mattress is inspired by a university student’s activism to protest the university’s handling of her campus rape. For the entirety of an academic year, she carried a 50-pound mattress, akin to those in dorm rooms, everywhere she went.

The analogy of sexual assault being something heavy – carried forever – made running with a mattress resonate deeply. I’ve also found long distance running mirrors trauma recovery: It’s a lot of just focusing on your next breath and next step and pushing yourself forward, even when the finish line is out of sight.

My Story and Message

My name is Serena Van Orman. I currently teach the human sexuality course both on-campus and online for IU Indy. I’ve been an educator since my undergraduate years, when I also began my advocacy work for survivors with Firefly Children and Family Alliance.

As an educator, I believe subject matter should be taught comprehensively and in a way that applies to real life; otherwise, it’s not useful. Effective education must be honest and translatable to lived experience. When teaching about sexual violence and consent, I emphasize that sexual assault and rape are grave, systemic, and widespread issues. Every one of us knows and cares about someone—likely multiple people—who are survivors, even if they haven’t disclosed it to us.

As is the case with one in every four women undergraduate students, I am a sexual assault survivor. I was raped in the second semester of my freshmen year of college.

­I sometimes feel conflicted about how to present my experience. It would be easy to share that, similar to 70% of sexual assault victims who experience moderate to severe distress—the highest rate for any violent crime—I initially struggled after the traumatic event. However, I didn’t just survive; I thrived. Now, I’m an advocate for survivors, working in hospital response, serving as president of a nonprofit’s young professionals board, while pursuing my PhD and working in higher education.

But framing my story this way isn’t comprehensive and it certainly isn’t honest.

The dehumanization in sexual violence comes in twofold: first, in the assault itself, and then in the unrelenting blame that follows. In being asked “What were you wearing?” or assumptions that you must have sent mixed signals or somehow asked for it. Victim-blaming asserts that the victim played a role in the assault and should share responsibility, even though the responsibility lies solely with rapists and rape culture. Watching your drink, carrying pepper spray, and dressing conservatively do not prevent rape. While these actions may hypothetically protect the person practicing them, they simply shift the risk to someone else.

At its core, victim blaming implies you deserve what happened to you. It’s no wonder 33% of women who are raped contemplate suicide and 13% of women who are raped attempt suicide. I fell into that 13%.

Tackling mental health stigma is a whole other issue, but I want to state that my suicide attempt at eighteen was not selfish. Suicide is not selfish; it is often the result of depression, the final symptom of an overwhelming illness. A final collapse under unbearable weight. I wasn’t just consumed by depression from living in a world where people thought I deserved to be raped; I also believed that if my life was deserving of that, it couldn’t matter much. I thought it was a life no one would miss.

For a long time after being raped, I believed it would have been more merciful if the person who had raped me had just killed me afterwards. The following years were plagued by severe PTSD and overwhelming shame for what had happened, what I should have done, or what I hadn’t done. I had graduated high school at the top of my class in three years, but it took me five and a half years to get a four-year degree. That shame evolved into the belief that I shouldn’t be as affected by something that had happened years ago. I wish I had known that “resilient” does not mean “unaffected” and that “affected” doesn’t mean “destroyed” – or “defined by.”

We must stop telling people how they should feel about things that never should have happened to them. Sexual assault is traumatic. You do not need to be ashamed of needing help. I owe being here today to the help I received from essential services for survivors. Helplines, support groups, counseling, and advocacy. I owe being here today to the amazing people in my life who have consistently reminded me that I am loved, capable, and strong. I am all of those things – both as a survivor and for who I am beyond that.

Support changes everything. Survivors need to be believed, and Firefly ensures they are. By raising awareness, donating, and showing up, we prove that no one has to carry their burden alone. I cannot give enough thanks to everyone who has ever supported and contributed to my healing or that of any survivor. I want to end by sharing a very running-heavy analogized message for every survivor:

That I am so proud of you. I honor and hold space for the pain and despondency that I know somedays feels like a 5,000-mile race carrying a 500-pound mattress. But know that I also hold hope for your future healing. Your future self and future moments of triumph. And moments of joy and the cherished memories with loved ones. And everything you are, you are good enough and deserving of achieving and becoming.

Healing isn’t linear. And you may hit a wall. You may need to walk. Or sit. Or lie down for a while, and that’s okay. Go at your own pace, but know you’re not alone. That I am running with you. And for you. Know that there are people and organizations available to help you keep going. And that at the next mile marker—and every one before and beyond the finish line—there is so much more that is worth running and living for.