When Lived Experience Becomes a Buzzword

On reflection of the last week, I’ve come to realise why my motivation and optimism have been at an all-time low.

 

Bear with me. Buckle in, because I feel like this might be some ride.

 

A few days ago, I was sitting doom-scrolling when my phone rang. An unknown number.

 

I answered, and was greeted by someone from STV asking if I would appear on Scotland Tonight to discuss “Stacy’s Law” and the proposal to use GPS monitoring for perpetrators deemed high risk in domestic abuse cases.

 

Now, I knew very little about the specifics of the proposal.

 

But I was approached because I am a domestic abuse campaigner and have previously done some media work around the issue.

 

I spoke with the producer about my concerns, my thoughts and what I could bring to the conversation. I was told it would be a broad overview of the subject and that my perspective was exactly what they were looking for.

 

So I agreed.

 

And I suppose this is where the warning bells started ringing for me.

 

For multiple reasons.

 

The first was the feeling that, actually, it didn’t matter who filled that chair. They just needed someone to fill it.

 

And I think that does a complete disservice to the subject matter.

 

This campaign exists in someone’s loved one’s honour. A woman lost her life. A family has been torn apart in the most horrific circumstances imaginable.

 

That deserves compassion.

 

It deserves dignity.

 

It deserves seriousness.

 

And it deserves more than seven minutes squeezed into a television programme.

 

The second niggle I had was that a subject this important needs more time. More awareness. More conversation.

 

Not seven minutes on a news programme that many people may never even see.

 

Why isn’t this something we see discussed repeatedly? Why isn’t it part of the prime news? Why isn’t there sustained debate and scrutiny?

 

At first, I thought, seven minutes is better than nothing.

 

And then the penny dropped.

 

That is part of the problem.

 

We have become so accustomed to getting the bare minimum, particularly when it comes to violence against women, that we convince ourselves we should be grateful for whatever scraps of attention we are given.

 

We have seen it time and time again.

 

A woman loses her life.

 

There is media coverage for a day, maybe two depending on the circumstances.

 

People express their shock.

 

Politicians make statements.

 

Organisations issue condolences.

 

And then the news cycle moves on.

 

But the people involved don’t get to move on.

 

The family doesn’t get to move on.

 

The survivors don’t get to move on.

 

The trauma doesn’t disappear because the cameras have packed up and gone home.

 

I have been in this game long enough to have been privileged to enter spaces where my voice can, hopefully, be used for good.

 

And I am genuinely grateful for those opportunities.

 

But I keep seeing the same pattern.

 

You enter the room.

 

For those precious minutes, people listen.

 

Your story matters.

 

Your expertise matters.

 

Your lived experience matters.

 

You are thanked for sharing it.

 

You are told how brave you are.

 

And then you leave the room.

 

And suddenly, the attention moves on to the next thing.

 

The next campaign.

 

The next meeting.

 

The next person.

 

The next headline.

 

Please tell me you see the pattern too?

 

Because that is the part I find so frustrating.

 

The inconsistency.

 

It sometimes feels as though your worth exists only within the precious minutes someone has decided to give you.

 

As though they are doing you a favour by allowing you into the room.

 

But here’s the reality:

 

You are the expert in that space because you have lived through the horror.

 

You know what it is like to navigate the systems.

 

You know what it is like to be failed by them.

 

You know what survivors need because you have experienced what happens when they don’t get it.

 

The people sitting around the table have the power to make meaningful change.

 

But the harsh reality is that they need you.

 

And this brings me to the conversation around “lived experience”.

 

Because somewhere along the way, I feel like lived experience has become a buzzword.

 

Something organisations and people in positions of power can put into a sentence to demonstrate that they have listened.

 

“We consulted with our lived experience panel.”

 

“We included lived experience voices.”

 

“We engaged with survivors.”

 

And sometimes I have to ask:

 

What actually changed?

 

Because listening isn’t the same as acting.

 

Having someone in the room isn’t the same as giving them influence.

 

And saying you consulted survivors doesn’t automatically mean you represented survivors.

 

Often, the voices being heard are carefully selected through particular organisations or networks.

 

And those voices absolutely matter.

 

But what about everyone else?

 

What about the other organisations?

 

The other survivors?

 

The people whose experiences don’t fit neatly into the consultation process?

 

What about the voices that are harder to hear?

 

The ones that don’t have the confidence, capacity or opportunity to sit around that table?

 

Because there are so many of them.

 

And if we are serious about lived experience, we have to be serious about the word lived.

 

These aren’t case studies.

 

They aren’t statistics.

 

They aren’t convenient stories to wheel out when funding applications, consultations or policy discussions require the words “survivor voice”.

 

These are human beings.

 

People who have lived through unimaginable abuse.

 

People who have often been traumatised not only by perpetrators, but by the very systems that were supposed to protect them.

 

And when we ask survivors to repeatedly tell their stories, relive their experiences and put themselves back into those spaces, there has to be a purpose.

 

There has to be change.

 

Otherwise, what are we actually asking them to endure it all for?

 

Because if the outcome is simply that they are retraumatised so someone else can tick the “lived experience consulted” box, then we have completely missed the point.

 

This whole experience has been a bitter-sweet lightbulb moment for me.

 

I am proud of myself for using my voice.

 

I am proud that I stood in that space and spoke about something I care deeply about.

 

And, if anything, this experience has made me realise that I need to become even more vocal about how survivors are treated, particularly when it comes to lived experience.

 

But I would be lying if I said it hasn’t left a bad taste in my mouth.

 

Because this isn’t new.

 

During my conversation with the other panel member that night, I discovered they had been involved in discussions around this idea since 2018.

 

Eight years.

 

Eight years of conversations.

 

Eight years of people sitting around tables.

 

Eight years of people in positions of power discussing what might be done.

 

And yet, they described sitting around a table with people from one organisation within the violence-against-women sector, with no survivors’ voices represented.

 

And now, here we are again.

 

Back in the limelight.

 

Back talking about it because, heartbreakingly, another woman has lost her life to domestic abuse.

 

And I keep coming back to the same question:

 

Why does it have to reach this level before we start talking about measures that could potentially keep survivors safe?

 

Why does someone have to lose their life before it matters?

 

Why do we wait for tragedy before we act?

 

None of this is new.

 

The number of women who lose their lives at the hands of men is devastating.

 

And yet somehow, it still doesn’t seem to create enough urgency for meaningful, lasting change.

 

Instead, we see policies.

 

Promises.

 

Statements.

 

Consultations.

 

And then another headline.

 

Another case.

 

Another family destroyed.

 

Another woman whose life has been reduced to a news story.

 

And honestly?

 

I’m fighting with two very different feelings right now.

 

One side of me feels utterly deflated.

 

I’ve seen this pattern so many times.

 

I’ve watched the conversations happen.

 

I’ve watched people listen.

 

I’ve watched promises being made.

 

And I’ve watched very little actually change.

 

But the other side of me?

 

She’s fucking fired up.

 

Because if this experience has taught me anything, it’s that I cannot afford to lose my voice.

 

I am one of the extremely lucky ones.

 

I got out.

 

I survived.

 

And somewhere along the way, I found my voice.

 

I know not everyone gets that opportunity.

 

So I feel a responsibility to use mine.

 

Not because survivors should have to carry the responsibility for fixing a broken system.

 

We shouldn’t.

 

It shouldn’t be on us to keep shouting until someone finally decides to listen.

 

But until the people with the power to change things actually do, I will keep speaking.

 

I will keep challenging.

 

I will keep asking the uncomfortable questions.

 

I will keep calling out tokenism when I see it.

 

I will keep fighting for lived experience to mean something more than a sentence in a policy document.

 

And I will keep carrying that tiny, stubborn piece of hope.

 

Because sometimes, hope is all we have.

 

And maybe that’s why my motivation has felt so low.

 

Maybe it isn’t that I’ve lost my optimism.

 

Maybe I’m just tired of watching the same cycle repeat itself.

 

But tired doesn’t mean finished.

 

Deflated doesn’t mean defeated.

 

And angry doesn’t mean hopeless.

 

Sometimes anger is the fire that reminds you why you started.

 

So I’ll keep going.

 

I’ll keep using my voice.

 

I’ll keep standing up.

 

I’ll keep fighting for the women who didn’t get the chance to find theirs.

 

Because women’s lives matter.

 

They should matter before the tragedy.

 

Before the headline.

 

Before the seven minutes on television.

 

Before another family is destroyed.

 

They should matter now.

Lisa Walsh