The Reality of Launching a Campaign
There’s no guidebook, just grit - from late nights and silence to small sparks of hope that keep it moving.
By Jade Blue
As I sit near the one-month mark before the CPS Victims’ Right to Review pilot finishes, I’ve been reflecting on what it’s really like to try to launch a campaign - one rooted in personal experience, justice, and years of pushing for change.
There’s no guidebook for this kind of work. Just like the justice system itself, you’re winging it - driven by passion, by anger, by hope. You learn as you go, juggling time, energy, and trauma. You spend nights rewriting letters, chasing press, following up with MPs, reminding yourself why you started in the first place.
You hope that the connections you’ve built over the years will help carry it forward, that the right people will see the importance, that your voice will somehow break through the noise. But the truth is, it’s exhausting.
Campaigning isn’t a straight path. People move on, job titles change, inboxes go quiet. You find yourself reintroducing your story again and again, trying to re-establish some kind of continuity in a system that constantly resets itself.
It’s not rejection that stings most - it’s the silence. The kind that echoes everything survivors already know too well about the justice process.
And then there’s an element I didn’t consider before starting this process - the rhythm of your own body. More than ever, I’m noticing how much my hormonal cycle shapes how I work: the bursts of creativity and clarity, the drive to push, the moments of deep focus - and then the days where everything feels heavier, foggier, less possible. It’s frustrating when those slower phases land right as an important meeting or follow-up looms, when you’re not quite as sharp or persuasive as you need to be.
But it’s also teaching me to be more forgiving of myself. To plan with more awareness, to lean into the inspired weeks and accept the quieter ones. There’s strength in recognising that our bodies aren’t machines - that even within activism and advocacy, we move through cycles of energy and rest.
Through it all, a few solid people remain. The ones who quietly keep the wheels turning and the spirit alive. Fellow victims and survivors who share their strength and stories. Advocates who remind you why this matters. Commissioners and MPs who take the time to listen - and I mean really listen. Stakeholders across the sector who carry the same frustration but keep showing up anyway.
They can’t keep us all sane single-handedly, but together they make the difference between burning out and carrying on.
Launching a campaign is rarely glamorous. It’s messy, emotional, and uncertain. But it’s also where hope lives - in the act of doing, of trying, of believing that even the smallest push might move something bigger.
Now, with just weeks left before the Victims’ Right to Review pilot ends, that hope feels fragile - but it’s still alive. Every letter or email sent, every survivor who’s spoken out, every bit of pressure matters. The Right to Be Reviewed campaign was never just about policy - it’s about people. About the right to be heard, to be treated with fairness and dignity, and to know that the justice system can do better. Whether the pilot becomes permanent or not, the voices behind it won’t fade quietly. Because once you’ve seen what’s possible, you can’t unsee it - and you can’t stop pushing for it.
To everyone who’s stood beside me - survivors, allies, friends, and colleagues - thank you for showing up, for keeping me grounded, and for reminding me why this fight matters. You’ve embodied what it means to make yourself heard - not just in words, but in action, solidarity, and strength.
