The youngest voice, a mighty impact: Janet Aguti’s story of power, healing, and hope

Humble, observant, and courageous.

I sometimes struggle to post about my work—not because I’m not proud, but because I don’t want to come across as bragging. A friend once told me, “That’s what makes you humble—you’re doing all this work and not showing it off.”

I’m observant because I like to take in everything around me—how people behave, how situations unfold—and I reflect before I speak.

And I say courageous because starting Totya Platform took real courage. When I began registering the organization, people didn’t take me seriously because I looked young. But I persisted.

And last year, my district recognized Totya as one of the  organizations that is actually serving people of the community and delivering what it set out to do ... I felt seen—and validated.

First, I’m proud of my children. They’re the reason I keep going. If I didn’t have them, I’m not sure I would’ve continued. I see the risks children face—even in families that seem safe—and I want to protect them and others.

Second, I’m proud of my personal transformation. Eight years ago, I couldn’t even stand in front of a group and speak. I was carrying the trauma of sexual violence and hadn’t shared it with anyone. Now, I speak publicly, run an organization, and people from my past are amazed. I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

And third, I’m proud to be part of the Brave Movement. This work used to feel so lonely. I was fighting in isolation, not sure if I was even making a difference. But now, when I introduce myself, I say, “I’m part of the Brave Movement,” before I say anything else.

At first, I joined for what I now call selfish reasons. Paul Zeitz (another co-founder of the Brave Movement) told me they were looking for survivor leaders who had spoken publicly about their own experience and were doing work to end sexual violence. I thought, this will help me grow my organization and connect with others. And it did. But I got more than I ever expected.

Brave became more than a network. It became a family. It gave me a sense of belonging I didn’t know I needed. I found incredible friends like Tabitha Mpamira and Florence Keya (both also co-founders of the Brave Movement)— people who supported me not just professionally, but emotionally.

Before Brave, I used to share my story as a victim—to get attention for the issue, sympathy, maybe support for my organization. Brave shifted that. Now, I share from a place of power. I share to inspire, to create change.

Listening to other co-founders share their experiences with strength and clarity taught me a new way of telling mine. It gave me courage.

Brave also gave me platforms I never imagined. People now invite me to speak—not just in Uganda, but globally. Even in places where I never thought I’d have a voice, people now reference Brave as a standard for how to do things right. Brave is setting the bar for child safeguarding, for survivor leadership, for advocacy. And being part of that legacy—it’s something I’m incredibly proud of.

What brings me hope is that people are finally talking about childhood sexual violence. In rural villages, in churches, in schools—it’s no longer a taboo. When I started my work, schools wouldn’t let me in to do awareness sessions. They would say, “we don’t want to talk about this because we don’t want to encourage sexual violence.” Now, they’re calling and asking me to come.

Brave—and movements like it—are making governments and institutions more accountable. And that gives me hope. We’re creating the kind of momentum we once only dreamed about. It’s like HIV awareness in the early days—once no one would speak about it, now everyone knows. I see that same shift happening for sexual violence.