Taking a Breather

A pause in a week that asked a lot - and a reminder that care is part of how we keep going

By Jade Blue

Source: Not Your Polite Feminist

This weekend, I slowed down. Not because the news paused or because anything had been resolved, but because there comes a point where staying constantly alert stops being awareness and becomes harm. The latest release of the Epstein files landed heavily, as expected. More documents, more images, more names circulating alongside the same careful language, the same disclaimers, the same insistence on restraint. I read enough to understand what had been released, enough to grasp the significance, and enough to feel that familiar internal weight settle in my chest. Then I stopped.

Some weeks, the news doesn’t just inform us - it presses on us. Stories of sexual violence, abuse of power, institutional failure, and delayed accountability accumulate rather than pass. They arrive one after another, asking to be absorbed, processed, and responded to. This week felt like one of those moments where the pattern was impossible to ignore. Not because it was new, but because it was so recognisable.

Powerful men named. Survivors are still waiting. Systems speak carefully. Accountability deferred.

The Epstein files are not an isolated event. They sit within a much longer continuum of stories that tell us the same thing in different ways: that harm can persist for years when it is shielded by money, influence, and status, and that truth often emerges slowly, partially, and at great personal cost to those who carry it. The language surrounding these releases is precise, almost surgical, designed to manage risk and protect institutions. Survivors read that language differently. We understand what it means when information is released late, heavily redacted, and framed defensively. We know who that caution is for.

Source: US Department of Justice

I shared a brief reflection online in response. Survivors are watching. And the message this sends is not one of safety, closure, or justice - but of how power continues to outrun accountability. It wasn’t intended as provocation. It was a marker. A way of naming what so many people were feeling without escalating the noise. And then, for the rest of the weekend, I stepped back.

One sentence from a NYPF post echoed throughout those days: don’t tell women to “come forward” when men accused of violence still hold power. It captures a contradiction we rarely address honestly. “Coming forward” is framed as courage, as progress, as empowerment, yet too often it becomes a demand rather than an offer. Survivors are encouraged to disclose while the structures they are disclosing into remain unchanged. The risk remains personal. The consequences remain uneven.

Within MYH, we often return to the difference between being heard and being held. Disclosure alone does not equal safety. Visibility without accountability does not equal justice. Survivors are repeatedly asked to tell their stories - to courts, to media, to the public - while institutions retain the ability to delay, dilute, or deflect responsibility. That imbalance is not incidental. It is structural.

What is less visible is the cumulative effect of witnessing this cycle, especially for those who are not neutral observers. Reading these stories is not passive. Watching men continue to hold power, credibility, and protection while women recount harm - sometimes years later, sometimes posthumously - does not remain on the page. It filters into the body. It shapes how we move through the world. It shows up as exhaustion, grief, hypervigilance, numbness, or anger that has nowhere obvious to land.

This is not fragility. It is a rational response to repeated exposure to injustice.

This weekend, slowing down was a conscious decision to interrupt that accumulation. I didn’t stop caring. I stopped consuming. I cooked, rested, and allowed my nervous system to settle. I didn’t read every update or analysis. I didn’t feel compelled to respond immediately. That choice mattered. The pressure to react quickly mirrors the pressure placed on survivors to speak clearly, coherently, and convincingly, often while still carrying the impact of what they are naming. Stepping back disrupts that expectation.

Justice work often collapses time. Everything feels urgent, immediate, critical. But justice, if it is to be meaningful, moves differently. It requires stamina, memory, and the ability to return without being depleted. Burnout does not serve survivors. Exhaustion does not dismantle power. Silence born of overwhelm is far more dangerous than a pause taken with intention.

The Epstein files continue to demonstrate not only individual wrongdoing, but a broader architecture of protection. Information is released in stages. Responsibility is dispersed. Survivors are asked to wait, to trust the process, to believe that transparency is coming. That waiting has consequences, and they are most often felt by those with the least protection and the fewest resources.

When leaders speak about being victim-centred, the question is always: what does that look like in practice? Centring survivors is not a value statement; it is a set of actions. It looks like full disclosure, not partial release. It looks like accountability that does not depend solely on public outrage. It looks like systems that do not require survivors to repeatedly expose themselves in order to be believed. Until those conditions exist, calls for people to “come forward” remain incomplete.

MYH exists because survivors are tired of that gap. Tired of being told their stories matter while watching the same dynamics repeat. Tired of being asked to educate, explain, and endure. This platform is not about extracting narratives or fuelling outrage. It is about holding space for truth in a way that honours the people carrying it and recognises the cost of doing so.

This weekend reminded me that it is possible to hold anger and care at the same time. To remain critical of systems while being gentle with ourselves. To understand that stepping back does not weaken the work - it sustains it.

The work does not disappear when we rest. It waits. And when we return, we do so with greater clarity and steadiness.

There will be more files. More headlines. More carefully worded statements that prioritise institutional comfort over survivor reality. I will return to these conversations. I always do. But I will do so resourced, not depleted. Present, not performative.

Making yourself heard is not about volume or constant visibility. It is about longevity. It is about knowing when to speak and when to pause, when to push and when to protect yourself. This weekend, slowing down was not an escape. It was an act of care - for myself, for other survivors, and for the work that still needs doing.

It’s okay to pause when it becomes too much.