Content Warning: This review discusses sexual assault, rape, and trauma.
As I work toward becoming a certified victim advocate while navigating my own healing journey as a domestic violence survivor, I’ve learned that the stories we need most are rarely the easiest to read. Pagan Kennedy’s The Secret History of the Rape Kit is one of those necessary, challenging books—one that many readers found “too personal” or “too graphic,” but one that I found deeply validating.
I picked up this book as I prepared to apply to volunteer with San Diego’s Sexual Assault Response Team (SART), where I hope to provide crisis intervention and advocacy to survivors during their evidentiary exams. I needed to understand not just the technical process, but the why behind it—the decades of struggle that made survivor-centered care possible at all.
Why This Story Matters
At its heart, this book tells the story of Martha “Marty” Goddard, a woman who revolutionized how we collect evidence and treat survivors of sexual assault. In the 1970s and 80s, Goddard developed the rape kit and fought tirelessly to change a system that treated survivors with suspicion and contempt. She educated police departments, prosecutors, and healthcare workers—pushing them to confront their own misogyny and see survivors as credible witnesses rather than liars.
And then, as so often happens with women’s contributions, she disappeared into obscurity while a man received credit for her work.
Kennedy’s investigation into what happened to Goddard becomes a meditation on how we remember—and forget—the women who fight for justice.
On the Author’s Personal Narrative
I’ve read several reviews criticizing Kennedy for weaving her own experiences with sexual assault throughout the book. Some called it “trauma porn” or felt it distracted from Goddard’s story. I understand that reaction, but I experienced it differently.
As a survivor myself, I recognize the way trauma weaves through our lives—how it shapes what we notice, what we care about, what we dedicate our energy to understanding. Kennedy’s personal investment in this story isn’t a distraction; it’s the reason she pursued it with such tenacity. Her assault and her desire to write this history are inseparable, and for me, that made the book more honest, not less.
When you write about the rape kit, you write about rape. When you investigate why our systems failed survivors so catastrophically, you inevitably confront your own experiences within those systems. Kennedy doesn’t shy away from this, and I respect her for it.
What I Learned (And Why It Matters for SART Work)
Reading this book while preparing for SART volunteer work gave me crucial context that I wouldn’t have gotten from training manuals alone:
The rape kit wasn’t widely adopted until the 1980s, and even then, faced massive resistance from law enforcement and medical professionals who didn’t believe survivors deserved that level of care or investigation. Understanding this history helps me appreciate that when I respond to a call as a SART advocate, I’m standing in a space that Marty Goddard literally fought to create—a space where survivors are treated with dignity during evidence collection.
By 2009, over 400,000 collected rape kits sat untested across the United States—some dating back to 1980, for victims ranging from infants to elderly people. It wasn’t until the Obama administration’s Sexual Assault Kit Initiative that this backlog began to be addressed. This sobering reality reminds me that having the kit isn’t enough; we need advocates at every level pushing for survivors’ cases to matter.
The systemic barriers facing Black women were—and are—even more profound, with racist stereotypes used to dismiss their reports and deny them justice. Kennedy addresses this important context thoughtfully, which has deepened my understanding of how I need to show up for all survivors, particularly those facing intersecting forms of oppression.
The role of the advocate didn’t exist when Goddard started this work. She had to convince hospitals and police departments that survivors needed someone in their corner during the exam—someone whose only job was to support the survivor, not investigate the crime or collect evidence. Now, as I prepare to step into that role, I carry the weight of knowing how hard-won it was.
Marty Goddard herself declined into alcoholism and paranoia, eventually dying in obscurity with no memorial, no funeral, no obituary—just as she wished. She poured everything into helping others and received little recognition or support in return. This is a stark reminder of the importance of self-care and community support for those of us doing this work.
Preparing for the Work Ahead
Kennedy writes: “Now, in a growing number of cities across the country, when a victim testified, she no longer did so alone. Doctors, nurses, and forensic scientists were there to lend validity to her version of events.”
As I prepare to volunteer with SART, I think about this often. My role will be to provide emotional support and act as a liaison between the survivor and the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiners and law enforcement. I’ll respond to forensic facilities across San Diego County, providing crisis intervention during one of the most vulnerable moments in a person’s life.
Reading about Goddard’s vision—that survivors deserved both dignity and justice, that these two things shouldn’t be mutually exclusive—has helped me understand the deeper purpose of this work. It’s not just about being present during an exam. It’s about embodying the principle that survivors deserve to be believed, supported, and treated as whole human beings whose needs matter.
Who This Book Is For
This book isn’t perfect. Its structure can feel scattered, and Kennedy’s approach won’t work for everyone. But if you’re a survivor looking to understand how we got from “she’s probably lying” to having standardized forensic protocols, this book offers crucial context. If you’re studying victim advocacy or working in this field—or preparing to volunteer with programs like SART—it provides important historical grounding about the tools we use and the battles that were fought to create them.
Kennedy reminds us that progress in survivor care didn’t happen naturally or inevitably—it happened because women like Marty Goddard refused to accept the status quo, even at great personal cost.
My Takeaway
Reading The Secret History of the Rape Kit reinforced something I’ve learned in my own healing: our personal experiences and our advocacy work aren’t separate. They inform each other. The people who fight hardest for systemic change are often those who’ve lived through the system’s failures.
Marty Goddard understood this. Pagan Kennedy understands this. And as I prepare to begin my work with SART, I carry their example with me—along with the knowledge that the work of supporting survivors is never finished, and the people who do that work deserve to be remembered.
When I receive that first call to respond to a forensic facility, I’ll be thinking of Marty Goddard and the decades of advocacy that made my role possible. I’ll be thinking of every survivor who came before, who endured exams without advocates, who faced systems designed to doubt them. And I’ll show up ready to honor that history by providing the kind of support that Marty fought her whole life to make standard practice.