Goood Morning!!
When I launched this newsletter, I named it Coffee & Lemonade. It felt personal, warm, and inviting—a space for women who give a damn to connect, reflect, and take meaningful action. (Also, it’s the name of my favorite summertime drink at The Roosevelt Coffeehouse in Columbus, Ohio. Don’t knock it before you try it.)
Today, as this community grows and evolves, this our newsletter is stepping into a new chapter. Together, we are more than…
500 women (and a few good men) who give a damn.
500 hearts committed to connection, action, and impact.
500 voices ready to spark change in their communities.
And, with over 500 of us gathered here, I want our name to reflect our shared mission more clearly:
So, welcome to The Advocate Next Door.
Advocacy isn’t a word I’ve always embraced. In fact, it used to make me cringe. For many years, words like advocate or activist felt like they belonged to someone else—to Angela Davis, Gloria Steinem, or the changemakers whose names are etched into history.
Not me. I’m just a mom. I’m simply a woman from a relatively small town in Ohio.
But the truth is, I am an advocate, and so are you. Advocacy lives in all of us.
It’s in the small acts of care and kindness we show every day. It’s in the conversations we have, the choices we make, and the moments we choose to speak up.
The word advocate comes from the Latin advocātus, meaning “to summon, call to one's aid.” I chose The Advocate Next Door because I want this space to feel like a conversation with a neighbor—approachable, passionate, and invested in making a difference.
For me, to be an advocate is more than a word. It’s the bridge between pain and purpose.
A Sentence That Shaped My Life
November carries a lot of weight for me. It’s the month I became a mom, holding my tiny daughter and feeling the weight of her future in my hands. It’s the month I began having hard, vulnerable conversations sparked by posting #metoo for the very first time.
And it’s the month, 21 years ago, that I was raped.
That night shattered everything I thought I knew about safety and justice. I trusted the system to believe me, to deliver justice, to hold my rapist accountable. Instead, it failed me.
Years later, I saw the police report for the first time as an adult. There, in stark black and white, were the typed words that denied me justice:
"Trp. … said that DAVIS admitted that she, (DAVIS), had fabricated the claim of rape."
Davis: My maiden name, a name I carried with pride, now tangled in lies.
Fabricated: A word that warps truth into terror.
Claim: A cold term reducing my lived horror to a debate.
That single sentence was a lie. A cruel, bold-faced lie that served as the foundation for destroying my rape kit and leaving me without recourse. For years, I carried the weight of knowing the system didn’t believe me. Seeing those words in writing broke me.
But maybe, in that breaking, something new was built.
Finding My Voice
Advocacy didn’t come easily. It wasn’t born from some dramatic epiphany or singular moment of clarity. If I’m being honest, it was formed through years of therapy, tears, doubt, and painstaking, incremental steps. It was learning the tactics and systems that drive civil society. It was a journey marked by the highs of pageantry (literally), the weight of frustration and heartache, and, finally, the unexpected joys of bliss, fulfillment, and purpose.
At first, I learned to advocate for others. I discovered how laws are passed, how stories create change, and how voices are amplified. But in 2016, something shifted. Becoming a mom forced me to realize I couldn’t just advocate for others—I had to advocate for myself, for my daughters, and for the world they’d inherit.
It was terrifying, but it was also liberating. Advocacy became my way to reclaim the humanity that the system tried to erase. It became my bridge between pain and purpose.
Have you ever seen a tulip, bruised and bent, reaching toward a single sliver of light? That’s what it felt like—finding that glow and letting it pull me toward something brighter, something whole.
What The Advocate Next Door Means
Yes, yes, I never thought anyone would read my words. But, truthfully, this newsletter is more than a project—it’s my work in service. Growing up in an evangelical church, I was taught to view meaningful work as “God’s work,” a calling tied to purpose and impact. While my faith has evolved, and I now find resonance in the quieter, reflective principles of Quakerism, one thing remains the same: I believe in the power of purposeful work to create change.
For me, that purpose is fostering civic wellness—helping women balance self-care with community engagement and empowering us all to use our voices for good. It’s not just something I do; it’s an essential part of who I am.
This newsletter is where civic wellness meets community care.
Civic wellness is about understanding the tools and resources to engage in civic life—how to vote, how to speak up, how to make a difference. But it’s also about self-reflection and care. Change starts with individuals who feel whole, grounded, and ready to take on the world.
As women, we’re often positioned as advocates—by circumstance, responsibility, or choice. Advocacy lives in the care we provide and the courage it takes to speak up. When women share their voices and stories, we create ripples of change far beyond what we can see. If you want to change a community, start with women. If you want to change the world, follow their lead.
That’s what The Advocate Next Door is about: empowering everyday women to take small, meaningful actions that make a big impact.
A Glimpse Into My Journey
Last week, I had the opportunity to share my journey with Today.com. The piece reflects on my years in pageantry, my search for self-worth, and the hard truths I learned about resilience and identity as a Black woman in public life. If you’re inclined, feel free to read it here: “You’re so pretty … for a Black girl”: My life as a beauty queen
It’s a personal story, but it’s also about reclaiming our voices and worth. I hope it resonates and reminds you of the power we hold when we choose to speak up.
Looking Ahead
Friends, no matter where you are in your advocacy journey, I hope this space inspires you to take one small step.
To find your voice.
To start unsure.
To start scared.
To start anyway.
Because your voice matters. And, when you use it, you’re not just advocating for yourself—you’re building a bridge for others to follow.
Thank you so much for believing in this work. Thank you for giving a damn.
Love + Light,
Sophia
P.S.
If this next chapter resonates with you, share it with a friend, follow me on social media, or consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support fuels this work and helps support causes that matter—50% of net proceeds go directly to organizations that support survivors of sexual assault, enhance civic engagement, and empower women and girls.
Let’s grow this movement, together.☮️
P.S.S.
If You Need Support:
I know this topic can be heavy, and if it’s brought up difficult emotions, please take care of yourself. You are not alone, and there are resources available:
RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network): Call 1-800-656-HOPE (4673) or visit rainn.org for confidential, 24/7 support.
National Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or text “START” to 88788.
Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741 to connect with a trained crisis counselor.
Take whatever steps you need to feel supported and safe.
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