A companion piece to “Stepping Into the Training Room: My Journey to Becoming a SART Volunteer Advocate“
I did it!!!
After weeks of evening sessions, full Saturdays, skill practices that made my heart race, and more than a few moments of wondering whether I was truly ready for this — I walked out of the Center for Community Solutions on February 19th with a certificate in my hands and a group chat full of people who had just become some of the most important people in my life.
I am a certified Sexual Assault and Domestic Violence Crisis Intervention volunteer advocate!
And my first SART shift is next week.
What the Training Actually Looked Like
When I wrote about stepping into the training room, I was at the beginning — full of intention, a little wide-eyed, and not entirely sure what the next several weeks would ask of me. Now, on the other side, I can tell you: it asked for a lot. And it gave back even more.
The Center for Community Solutions’ Crisis Intervention Training spanned nearly a month — evenings and full Saturdays, a combination of virtual and in-person sessions at their Mission Bay Drive location. The curriculum was genuinely comprehensive. We didn’t just cover the mechanics of advocacy. We went deep.
We explored the neurobiology of trauma — understanding what happens in the brain and body when someone experiences violence, which changes everything about how you show up for a survivor. We spent time on vicarious trauma and self-care, because this work demands that we protect ourselves in order to protect others. We learned the Community Resiliency Model, practicing its skills not just once, but multiple times across the training — because resourcing someone in a moment of crisis is a skill, not an instinct, and it has to be practiced until it becomes second nature.
We covered intimate partner violence and sexual violence in depth. We talked about stalking, child and teen sexual abuse, sex trafficking, sexual assault in detention settings, and SA in the military — populations and contexts that advocates must be prepared to meet without flinching. We sat with a survivor speaker and were reminded, in the most human possible way, of exactly why we are doing this.
We learned motivational interviewing and practiced it. We worked through safety planning and risk assessment — including lethality assessment and high-risk teams — because sometimes the most important thing an advocate can do is help a survivor understand the danger they are in. We covered confidentiality, mandated reporting, victims’ rights, civil legal remedies, and criminal prosecution. We heard from law enforcement — both domestic violence and sexual assault units — and from the District Attorney’s office.
And woven through all of it: debrief. Every single session ended with space to process. That wasn’t incidental. It was essential.
The Part That Surprised Me
I knew the content would be challenging. I did not fully anticipate how vulnerable the skill practices would make me feel.
Every time we practiced — motivational interviewing, safety planning, CRM resourcing, hotline responses — my heart rate climbed. There is something about being watched while you try to hold space for someone in crisis, even in a practice setting, that strips away every pretense. You cannot perform your way through it. Either you are present, or you aren’t.
What I discovered in those moments was something I hadn’t expected: my voice is soothing. It calms people. And I am good — genuinely good — at resourcing someone who is in a heightened emotional state, at helping them find their footing when everything feels like it’s spinning.
I also learned that I am not afraid to go first. When a difficult question hung in the air, or when a role play called for someone to step into an uncomfortable moment — I stepped in. The training manager noted it. She told me she could count on me to be the first one to engage when things got hard.
I have spent years in law firms and business offices. I have spent years in therapy. I have spent years learning to face hard things directly. It turns out that those years were preparation I didn’t know I was completing.
The Seven of Us
I didn’t expect the community. That might be the thing I am most grateful for.
There were seven of us training together for SART volunteer roles. Seven people who showed up night after night, Saturday after Saturday, who stumbled through skill practices and asked vulnerable questions and cheered each other on. We have a group chat now. It is full of encouragement and nervous energy and the particular intimacy of people who have been through something together.
We are all nervous. Every single one of us. And there is profound comfort in that — in knowing that the nerves don’t mean we aren’t ready. They mean we understand the weight of what we’re walking into.
We want to do good. We want to show up for survivors at their most vulnerable moments and remind them that they are not alone. We want to change the world — one held hand at a time.
What Certification Means to Me
I want to be careful about what I claim here.
Certification is not the same as wisdom. It is not the same as experience. There are advocates who have been doing this work for decades who have forgotten more than I currently know. Receiving this certificate does not make me an expert. It makes me prepared to begin.
But it does mean something. It means I sat with the hard material and didn’t look away. It means I practiced skills that made me uncomfortable until they started to feel more natural. It means the Center for Community Solutions — an organization with more than 50 years of experience serving survivors — looked at my training record and said: yes, you are ready to stand beside our clients.
For someone who has been a survivor herself, who knows what it feels like to face a traumatic moment without anyone in your corner — this certificate carries weight that goes beyond professional credentialing.
It is personal. Deeply, wholly personal.
Next Week
My first SART shift is next week.
I will be on call, ready to respond when a sexual assault survivor arrives at a hospital for their forensic exam. I will stand beside them. I will offer emotional support, information, and advocacy. I will be a calm, consistent presence in what is almost certainly one of the worst moments of their life.
I am nervous. I am ready. I am showing up.
That, I’ve learned, is what this work asks of all of us — not the absence of fear, but the willingness to walk forward into it. For the person on the other side of that hospital room door, I will find every ounce of that willingness.
Follow along on this journey. In the weeks ahead, I’ll be sharing reflections from my SART shifts (with all identifying information protected), continuing my independent study on trauma-informed care, and documenting what it looks like to grow into this work — one call, one survivor, one moment at a time.