by Amy Trask
I was sipping my hazelnut coffee last week when I got a text that read “Go online RIGHT NOW. He signed it! Congratulations!”
I had tried to prepare myself for every possibility concerning this final step, yet I ran to my laptop in the other room. I opened a new tab, navigated over to the Governor’s Report, double checked on the Senate website, and sure enough — I read “Approved by Governor.”
My kids (who were very confused) followed me and read over my shoulder, then screamed out in excitement. My husband told me how proud he was of me. Tears filled my eyes. It was one of the most profound and surreal moments of my life.
When the Governor signed the HAVEN Act, I felt myself exhale a steady breath that I didn’t realize I’d been holding. It wasn’t just vindication or triumph, or even closure, albeit all of those feelings existed. It was deeper. The only way I could think to describe it is: It was the kind of breath you take when you realize that a door that was once locked — or a door that never existed before — a door you once needed, is now open for someone else. That means everything to me.
When I wrote HAVEN, I thought of the women and the children that lived in the shelter with me. I thought of friends and neighbors, and folks I had met on the campaign trail that had experienced violence. I thought of how small I felt before I was safe, how broken and scared I felt even after I was safe, how difficult navigating trauma was in a world that asks “well why didn’t you just leave?” and how justice seemed to evade my — and so many others’ — abusers. I thought about how traumatizing it was to realize there was no system designed to catch me.
I pored over research. I consulted with people in law enforcement. I spoke with friends in tech. I spoke with DV shelters, advocates, and survivors. I knew that addressing that gap — the moment when someone needs help but cannot safely call for it — was paramount.
Florida’s 106,615 reported cases of domestic violence per year are estimated to be two to three times higher in reality (the national underreporting average is around 50 percent). In our state, over 70 percent of DV homicides happen when a survivor attempts to leave or seek help, and DV is a leading cause of death for pregnant women. Florida — and really, the country — has no one silent, secure way for survivors to reach emergency services without tipping off their abuser. 911 is dangerous in those moments. Writing out an explanatory text to 911 is dangerous. Ordering a pizza is dangerous. That gap cost lives. HAVEN closes it.
HAVEN begins building the necessary infrastructure for a secure, silent digital pathway to emergency services for people who cannot safely make a call and report violence. It’s simple. It’s lifesaving. And it should have existed already. Through a generated phone number (not a uniform 3 digit code), a victim can use a unique PIN or code word to call for help. It functions like a panic button — no conversations, no pizza orders, just automatic dispatch to their location via geolocation.
We’ve been assured this is feasible, but a feasibility study is underway (due by the end of January) to ensure we have the best possible method to designate those generated numbers as emergency numbers with local carriers before we roll it out.
HAVEN also closes a dangerous loophole in access to resources. Currently, “dating” and “domestic” violence are defined separately under the law, yet our resources are designated for the latter. By ensuring statutory congruence, by ensuring they weigh the same, we ensure that survivors of dating violence can access the same resources after the fact, including the Attorney General’s Address Confidentiality Program, which can be vital for rebuilding a life free from violence.
Claiming Our Power
With that said, HAVEN isn’t just a technological fix — it’s a reminder of what happens when everyday people refuse to accept a broken status quo.
The truth is, the government doesn’t always see or make space for the people who need it most — not because those people are invisible or unworthy, but because our systems weren’t built with them in mind. That’s where lived experience comes in. As AOC said, “They’ll tell you you’re too loud, that you need to wait your turn. But the truth is, they’re just not used to people like us showing up.” HAVEN is what happens when we show up anyway.
I wasn’t (and I’m not) a lobbyist. I wasn’t backed by huge political machines. I’m not (yet, anyway) a legislator. I was a survivor with a Lenovo laptop and a stubborn belief that we could do better. I refused to sit by and do nothing when I knew people were hurting the way I had been. And the thing is: that was enough.
I hope, from this bill, you’ll be inspired to hear: you do not need permission to change your state, and your power doesn’t come from titles.
Florida’s Capitol (and DC) can feel distant — geographically, politically, and emotionally — but the truth is simpler: the legislature belongs to the people. The government belongs to all of us — the single parent, the shift worker, the student, the retiree, the person rebuilding their lives after trauma. Our stories are not footnotes; they are blueprints.
And when we bring those blueprints into those halls of power, policy changes. Lives change. Futures change. We need to have the collective courage to say that your story is not a liability — it’s a lens — because government works best when it treats people not as problems to manage, but as partners in building what comes next.
I think, especially right now, when so many Floridians feel the ground shifting under their feet, it’s easy to feel powerless. We see and feel the impacts of our rights being chipped away — whether it’s reproductive freedom, voting access, LGBTQ+ protections, home rule, or the basic expectation that our government should make life safer, not harder. It can feel like the walls are closing in, like the people in charge are more interested in controlling our lives than improving them.
Moments like this are designed to make people give up. To make us believe we’re too small to fight back. To convince us that the system is too rigged, too distant, too hostile to be changed.
And that’s exactly why involvement matters. HAVEN is proof that’s not true.
Because even in a political climate where rights are being restricted and voices are being dismissed, survivors — people who have every reason to feel powerless — showed up to committees to testify and met with lawmakers to share their story and support. They helped change the law. We walked into the room. We told the truth. And we shook the ground.
This is what it means when we talk about “democratic power being built from the bottom up.” When people who have been pushed to the margins step forward, the center of gravity shifts. When we refuse to be silent, the system has to listen.
Florida is strongest when every one of us has a voice, a place at the table, and a Legislature willing to listen. I wrote HAVEN because I knew what it felt like to need a door that didn’t exist, and folks from across the state who had felt that same pain stepped forward with me. HAVEN is proof that when we choose each other, we change what’s possible.
So, come July 1, HAVEN becomes law. On November 3, we elect our new representatives, senators, and congresspeople.
And when we step into that moment—together—we won’t be choosing fear or silence or the status quo.
We will choose us. We will choose progress. We will choose the era that comes next.
And when we do, the ground will shake again—not because we asked for permission, but because we remembered who this government belongs to.
…and they’ll be forced to listen.