Long before anyone was recognizing Sexual Assault Awareness Month, activists and survivors had been fighting for justice. In fact, the first testimonies of sexual violence to be a part of a U.S. trial were from five black women who in 1866 survived the Memphis riots and the sexual violence against them.

Ida B. Wells was another early activist who led anti-rape movements throughout the South. While Rosa Parks is most well-known for her refusal to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus, she was also an investigator for the NAACP and in 1944 helped raise awareness of the gang rape of Recy Taylor.

The founder of the #MeToo movement, Tarana Burke, also ignited a modern-day movement that she hoped would help all survivors, but especially women of color.

Having just come off the heels of the awareness months for Black History and Women’s History in February and March, this history of black women sexual assault activists in April, Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month, is a powerful testament to the importance of recognition.

The #MeToo movement inspired survivors to shed light on their own stories of sexual assault—stories not just of celebrities, but of everyday people—introducing a new kind of public awareness. The idea was to give a face to the statistics: One out of every six women in the U.S. has been a victim of attempted or completed rape—and one out of every 10 victims is male. Numbers on a page are disheartening, but knowing it was your relative, friend, or co-worker leaves a keen sting.

I have spoken about my own #MeToo experience in which I was assaulted while working my way through college only to learn a few weeks later that I was pregnant.

So often when pregnancy intersects with sexual violence, the conditioned automatic response is to provide an abortion referral. No matter how far women have advanced, the paternity of a child still seems to matter more than the maternity. Granted, the response often is coming from a place of empathy, wanting to help but not knowing how.

Well-meaning people may think ridding the child conceived in rape will ease her suffering; instead the pain is passed on in violence. Rape hurts and no abortion can heal that.

So how do we find victory over violence? My own victory was choosing the maternity of my child. I did not know at the time if I was pregnant by the perpetrator or my boyfriend, but I did know who the baby’s mother was — and that was me. I saw in my son’s eyes and tender hands that part of me: fragile, needing love and support, but also full of life.

There is victory in carrying on, calling for justice, and refusing to be silent. But greater will be the day when movements and Sexual Assault Awareness months are no longer needed.

Greater will be the day when we no longer read the news to see the latest case reminding us why sexual violence is an epidemic.

Greater will be the day when all bodies are safe from violence, and when justice is not temporary.

It is the bravery of survivors and allies, including Feminists for Life, who refused to be silenced that heralds this day.