THE BALTIMORE SUN — “Rubbing alcohol is a trigger for her,” I was told as we reviewed the intake of a new woman at the Triple Crown Academy. “Her ex-boyfriend set her on fire.”
The room went silent.
It started when she was just 16 and he was 25. Had she known what to look for, she might have recognized the signs. But like so many women, she was unaware. Domestic violence often begins like a frog in hot water: At first it feels survivable, until suddenly it’s boiling and escape seems impossible.
He isolated her. Demanded the passwords to every account. He showered her with affection one moment, then with insults and blows the next. He told her no one cared; that no one was looking for her. After a year, the violence turned deadly. He beat her all night. He took her son and threatened to kill him. Despite this, she survived. Barely. And now, with so much hope, resources, and skill sets, she is building a life where she can thrive.
And yet, as she recalls, “this isn’t even the time he set me on fire.”
This is what domestic violence looks like. Not a statistic. Not a line in a policy report. A woman — scarred, but resilient — sitting before us with the courage to start over in the construction trades.
At HER Resiliency Center, we work with women carrying stories like this every single day. Women whose partners got them addicted to drugs and beat them with crowbars when they refused to sell their bodies. Women stripped, locked in basements and forced to escape through windows. Women who have every mark of victimization the state claims to want to fight against.
And yet, in Fiscal Year 2025, the Governor’s Office of Crime Prevention and Policy decided that only 45% of the women we serve count as “victims.” Forty-five percent.
Why? Because we do street outreach. Last year, 852 women came to us directly from the corners of Baltimore City, where prostitution and sex trafficking are rampant. Somehow, in the eyes of the state, these women are not victims. They are dismissed as if the exploitation that put them there is not real enough, not violent enough, not worthy enough.
Let me be clear: This is wrong. It is also dangerous.
HER Resiliency Center served 1,100 women in 2024, and we double-checked all 852 victimization reports for the women reached through street outreach. Their stories make plain what policymakers seem unwilling to see: They are victims of domestic violence, sexual violence, human trafficking and abuse. To claim otherwise is to perpetuate their exploitation.
Baltimore residents are right to be concerned about prostitution in their neighborhoods. But let’s not confuse the women on the streets with the problem itself. The problem is the violence, the exploitation, the lack of off-ramps. And HER is one of the only organizations providing those exits — helping women get clean, access safe housing, gain skills and earn good-paying jobs. One of the women we helped is now making $80,000 a year at a partner organization after escaping the streets. That is what real public safety looks like.
The state should be standing with us. Instead, it undermines us.
This October, Domestic Violence Awareness Month, Gov. Wes Moore has a chance to show what his promise to “leave no one behind” really means. That promise must extend to the women society is most eager to ignore — the ones on the corners, in the basements, in the shadows.
Victims don’t need bureaucracy splitting hairs about who counts. They need the state of Maryland to recognize them, invest in them and back the organizations walking beside them into a different future.
Anything less is abandonment.
“Rubbing alcohol is a trigger for her,” I was told as we reviewed the intake of a new woman at the Triple Crown Academy. “Her ex-boyfriend set her on fire.”
The room went silent.
It started when she was just 16 and he was 25. Had she known what to look for, she might have recognized the signs. But like so many women, she was unaware. Domestic violence often begins like a frog in hot water: At first it feels survivable, until suddenly it’s boiling and escape seems impossible.
He isolated her. Demanded the passwords to every account. He showered her with affection one moment, then with insults and blows the next. He told her no one cared; that no one was looking for her. After a year, the violence turned deadly. He beat her all night. He took her son and threatened to kill him. Despite this, she survived. Barely. And now, with so much hope, resources, and skill sets, she is building a life where she can thrive.
And yet, as she recalls, “this isn’t even the time he set me on fire.”
This is what domestic violence looks like. Not a statistic. Not a line in a policy report. A woman — scarred, but resilient — sitting before us with the courage to start over in the construction trades.
At HER Resiliency Center, we work with women carrying stories like this every single day. Women whose partners got them addicted to drugs and beat them with crowbars when they refused to sell their bodies. Women stripped, locked in basements and forced to escape through windows. Women who have every mark of victimization the state claims to want to fight against.
And yet, in Fiscal Year 2025, the Governor’s Office of Crime Prevention and Policy decided that only 45% of the women we serve count as “victims.” Forty-five percent.
Why? Because we do street outreach. Last year, 852 women came to us directly from the corners of Baltimore City, where prostitution and sex trafficking are rampant. Somehow, in the eyes of the state, these women are not victims. They are dismissed as if the exploitation that put them there is not real enough, not violent enough, not worthy enough.
Let me be clear: This is wrong. It is also dangerous.
HER Resiliency Center served 1,100 women in 2024, and we double-checked all 852 victimization reports for the women reached through street outreach. Their stories make plain what policymakers seem unwilling to see: They are victims of domestic violence, sexual violence, human trafficking and abuse. To claim otherwise is to perpetuate their exploitation.
Baltimore residents are right to be concerned about prostitution in their neighborhoods. But let’s not confuse the women on the streets with the problem itself. The problem is the violence, the exploitation, the lack of off-ramps. And HER is one of the only organizations providing those exits — helping women get clean, access safe housing, gain skills and earn good-paying jobs. One of the women we helped is now making $80,000 a year at a partner organization after escaping the streets. That is what real public safety looks like.
The state should be standing with us. Instead, it undermines us.
This October, Domestic Violence Awareness Month, Gov. Wes Moore has a chance to show what his promise to “leave no one behind” really means. That promise must extend to the women society is most eager to ignore — the ones on the corners, in the basements, in the shadows.
Victims don’t need bureaucracy splitting hairs about who counts. They need the state of Maryland to recognize them, invest in them and back the organizations walking beside them into a different future.
Anything less is abandonment.
“Rubbing alcohol is a trigger for her,” I was told as we reviewed the intake of a new woman at the Triple Crown Academy. “Her ex-boyfriend set her on fire.”
The room went silent.
It started when she was just 16 and he was 25. Had she known what to look for, she might have recognized the signs. But like so many women, she was unaware. Domestic violence often begins like a frog in hot water: At first it feels survivable, until suddenly it’s boiling and escape seems impossible.
He isolated her. Demanded the passwords to every account. He showered her with affection one moment, then with insults and blows the next. He told her no one cared; that no one was looking for her. After a year, the violence turned deadly. He beat her all night. He took her son and threatened to kill him. Despite this, she survived. Barely. And now, with so much hope, resources, and skill sets, she is building a life where she can thrive.
And yet, as she recalls, “this isn’t even the time he set me on fire.”
This is what domestic violence looks like. Not a statistic. Not a line in a policy report. A woman — scarred, but resilient — sitting before us with the courage to start over in the construction trades.
At HER Resiliency Center, we work with women carrying stories like this every single day. Women whose partners got them addicted to drugs and beat them with crowbars when they refused to sell their bodies. Women stripped, locked in basements and forced to escape through windows. Women who have every mark of victimization the state claims to want to fight against.
And yet, in Fiscal Year 2025, the Governor’s Office of Crime Prevention and Policy decided that only 45% of the women we serve count as “victims.” Forty-five percent.
Why? Because we do street outreach. Last year, 852 women came to us directly from the corners of Baltimore City, where prostitution and sex trafficking are rampant. Somehow, in the eyes of the state, these women are not victims. They are dismissed as if the exploitation that put them there is not real enough, not violent enough, not worthy enough.
Let me be clear: This is wrong. It is also dangerous.
HER Resiliency Center served 1,100 women in 2024, and we double-checked all 852 victimization reports for the women reached through street outreach. Their stories make plain what policymakers seem unwilling to see: They are victims of domestic violence, sexual violence, human trafficking and abuse. To claim otherwise is to perpetuate their exploitation.
Baltimore residents are right to be concerned about prostitution in their neighborhoods. But let’s not confuse the women on the streets with the problem itself. The problem is the violence, the exploitation, the lack of off-ramps. And HER is one of the only organizations providing those exits — helping women get clean, access safe housing, gain skills and earn good-paying jobs. One of the women we helped is now making $80,000 a year at a partner organization after escaping the streets. That is what real public safety looks like.
The state should be standing with us. Instead, it undermines us.
This October, Domestic Violence Awareness Month, Gov. Wes Moore has a chance to show what his promise to “leave no one behind” really means. That promise must extend to the women society is most eager to ignore — the ones on the corners, in the basements, in the shadows.
Victims don’t need bureaucracy splitting hairs about who counts. They need the state of Maryland to recognize them, invest in them and back the organizations walking beside them into a different future.
Anything less is abandonment.
“Rubbing alcohol is a trigger for her,” I was told as we reviewed the intake of a new woman at the Triple Crown Academy. “Her ex-boyfriend set her on fire.”
The room went silent.
It started when she was just 16 and he was 25. Had she known what to look for, she might have recognized the signs. But like so many women, she was unaware. Domestic violence often begins like a frog in hot water: At first it feels survivable, until suddenly it’s boiling and escape seems impossible.
He isolated her. Demanded the passwords to every account. He showered her with affection one moment, then with insults and blows the next. He told her no one cared; that no one was looking for her. After a year, the violence turned deadly. He beat her all night. He took her son and threatened to kill him. Despite this, she survived. Barely. And now, with so much hope, resources, and skill sets, she is building a life where she can thrive.
And yet, as she recalls, “this isn’t even the time he set me on fire.”
This is what domestic violence looks like. Not a statistic. Not a line in a policy report. A woman — scarred, but resilient — sitting before us with the courage to start over in the construction trades.
At HER Resiliency Center, we work with women carrying stories like this every single day. Women whose partners got them addicted to drugs and beat them with crowbars when they refused to sell their bodies. Women stripped, locked in basements and forced to escape through windows. Women who have every mark of victimization the state claims to want to fight against.
And yet, in Fiscal Year 2025, the Governor’s Office of Crime Prevention and Policy decided that only 45% of the women we serve count as “victims.” Forty-five percent.
Why? Because we do street outreach. Last year, 852 women came to us directly from the corners of Baltimore City, where prostitution and sex trafficking are rampant. Somehow, in the eyes of the state, these women are not victims. They are dismissed as if the exploitation that put them there is not real enough, not violent enough, not worthy enough.
Let me be clear: This is wrong. It is also dangerous.
HER Resiliency Center served 1,100 women in 2024, and we double-checked all 852 victimization reports for the women reached through street outreach. Their stories make plain what policymakers seem unwilling to see: They are victims of domestic violence, sexual violence, human trafficking and abuse. To claim otherwise is to perpetuate their exploitation.
Baltimore residents are right to be concerned about prostitution in their neighborhoods. But let’s not confuse the women on the streets with the problem itself. The problem is the violence, the exploitation, the lack of off-ramps. And HER is one of the only organizations providing those exits — helping women get clean, access safe housing, gain skills and earn good-paying jobs. One of the women we helped is now making $80,000 a year at a partner organization after escaping the streets. That is what real public safety looks like.
The state should be standing with us. Instead, it undermines us.
This October, Domestic Violence Awareness Month, Gov. Wes Moore has a chance to show what his promise to “leave no one behind” really means. That promise must extend to the women society is most eager to ignore — the ones on the corners, in the basements, in the shadows.
Victims don’t need bureaucracy splitting hairs about who counts. They need the state of Maryland to recognize them, invest in them and back the organizations walking beside them into a different future.
Anything less is abandonment.
Photo by Kim Hairston. Read the original commentary by Natasha Guynes at the Baltimore Sun.