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TECHNOLOGY - In the hidden war against domestic violence, silence is both a shield and a shroud. It conceals trauma, mute cries for help, and isolates victims. But it can also be a tool of resistance, a quiet force working behind the scenes to save lives.
That’s the idea behind Nexion Solutions, a tech startup founded by Liz Kohler, which is quietly revolutionizing how survivors seek help. At the heart of the company’s innovation is a discreet, wearable safety device designed to transmit GPS, biometric, and audio data, without alerting the abuser.
“The device needs to stay hidden,” Kohler told me in a recent interview. “People are very respectful of that. It’s a delicate balance.”
That balance between invisibility and intervention is exactly what makes Nexion’s technology so potent. Disguised as everyday jewelry or clothing, the device communicates silently with trained dispatchers, enabling emergency response in as little as seven seconds. Unlike smartphone apps that can be detected or deleted, this device stays operational, even under threat.
“It’s not an app,” Kohler emphasized. “We don’t advertise. That’s intentional. We talk about outcomes, not products. Our users become advocates.”
These outcomes are needed more than ever, in cities like Los Angeles, where domestic violence continues to wreak havoc. In 2023, California police received about 18 reports of domestic violence per hour, underscoring the persistent nature of this crisis.
But behind every statistic is a human life: mothers, teenagers, children, men, transgender individuals—all navigating trauma, often in silence.
“Tech was both a threat and a tool,” said Taylor Gillette, a former analyst at the Center for Missing and Exploited Children in Rochester, NY. “We taught survivors to secure their communications, but digital stalking, spyware, and impersonation were constant threats.”
That’s why stealth is everything. Kohler recounted the story of a survivor—let’s call her M—who used the device over 30 times to protect herself from three different abusers, including a gang-affiliated trafficker.
“None of them knew what she was doing,” Kohler said. “But just knowing the device existed altered their behavior. It became a deterrent.”
In at least six cases, audio recordings from the device have been admitted in court. In one instance, it captured an abduction in progress. “It changes the dynamics of credibility,” Kohler noted. “It’s not just one person’s word. It’s a data trail.”
In moments of crisis, seven seconds can mean the difference between escape and tragedy. Yet the most impressive feature of this technology may be its quietness, its ability to keep the survivor safe without making a sound.
“This isn’t about fixing a tech glitch,” Kohler said. “This is about closing a lethal gap.”
Advocates in Los Angeles are ready. A staff member at a local women’s shelter told me:
“So many clients say, ‘No one believed me.’ A device like this shifts the narrative. It creates a record—your voice, your vitals, your GPS. Your truth.”
Of course, no gadget alone can reform a broken system. Survivors still face immense barriers: from a shortage of affordable housing to the high risk of violence during attempts to leave. As Gillette explained, “One of the most dangerous misconceptions is that leaving makes you safe. It’s often the most dangerous time.”
She speaks from experience. Her 21-year-old cousin, pregnant and trying to leave a violent partner, was killed in 2021. “No piece of technology can fix that,” she said. “We need survivor-centered systems—trauma-informed care, legal aid, mobile advocacy, and non-police crisis options.”
That survivor-centered vision drives activists like Colleen Murphy, founder of My Body Tells the Truth (MBTTT), a grassroots initiative that began in a Chicago hair salon and has grown into a national campaign for bodily autonomy and abuse prevention.
Murphy helped pass the Child Abuse Notice Act and championed Illinois House Bill 4350, which requires child abuse prevention notices in businesses where youth gather. Her goal: federal expansion.
“Just seeing a poster in a salon or airport or school can change someone’s life,” she told me. “It says, ‘You’re not alone. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Her core message is deceptively simple: listen to your body.
“Survivors often say, ‘I should’ve listened to my instincts,’” Murphy explained. “Our bodies know. They always know.”
Murphy adds: "Supporting survivors who often doubt themselves and showing them they were right all along is vital. It validates what they endured while restoring the confidence needed to speak out. I don’t want any victim to feel at fault for not speaking up sooner. Many carry the abuser’s voice long after the abuse ends, and my goal is to help them distinguish that from their own survival instincts."
Murphy also sees promise in tools like Tell Sid, a trauma-informed AI chatbot designed for survivors when human support is unavailable.
“I tested it by pretending to be a six-year-old,” she said. “The responses were calming, accurate. It felt like holding a flashlight in the dark.”
Unlike humans, AI doesn’t sleep.
“I know adults who fear talking to a therapist,” she added. “But a chatbot might help them take that first step.”
Yet both Murphy and Gillette warn against reducing the survivor experience to pain alone.
“Survivors need more than safety,” Gillette said. “They need community, dignity, joy, and rest. Not just survival—healing.”
In this new frontier of survivor safety, the tools may be powered by AI and cloud data—but their purpose is ancient and human: to bear witness, to protect, to believe.
Sometimes the quietest signals carry the greatest power. In the war against domestic abuse, a whisper of data, a hidden heartbeat, or a silent beacon could be the clearest cry for justice we’ve ever heard.
(George Cassidy Payne is a writer, social ethicist, and suicide prevention counselor. He is a frequent contributor to City Watch LA.)
