Growing up, I was surrounded by true crime. My mom had a small library filled with non-fiction books about murder, not just because she was fascinated, but because she had lost her best friend under mysterious circumstances. That experience shaped her interest in justice and the darker sides of humanity. I inherited that passion, diving into the genre myself. After exhausting R.L. Stine and Lois Duncan novels, I stumbled upon Duncan’s true crime memoir, Who Killed My Daughter?, which chronicled her relentless quest for justice after her daughter was murdered. My admiration for her led me to write her a letter, and to my surprise, she replied! We even connected on Facebook.
In college, while pursuing a degree in psychology, I took every class on abnormal psychology I could find. I dreamed of working as a criminal profiler for the FBI. But just two weeks after graduation, my world shattered when my mom was murdered by my brother. The trauma of losing her and the lengthy legal battle that followed was almost unbearable. It’s a common misconception that co-victims can start healing right away. In reality, the legal process often prolongs our pain.
Now, I’m faced with the lifelong task of advocating against my brother’s parole. Just nine and a half years after his conviction, the parole process began, coinciding with the release of my own true crime memoir. True crime for me is no longer just a genre; it’s intertwined with my personal history.
With over 16,000 new murder victims each year in the U.S. — a number that has skyrocketed since 2020 — there are countless co-victims like me. Amidst the growing library of crime stories and documentaries, I urge fellow true crime enthusiasts and creators to be more mindful of their language and approach.
I’m not suggesting we abandon the genre. True crime has shaped my identity as much as my heritage. I believe it’s vital to educate society about these issues. However, sensitivity is key. For instance, the popular podcast My Favorite Murder has a title that feels deeply triggering for me. While it shouldn’t solely cater to my feelings, a little awareness about how their title may affect victims and co-victims could go a long way.
As a culture, we’re learning to be more considerate of others’ experiences. But it shouldn’t fall solely on victims to share their stories. Many of us are working to bring humanity back into the true crime narrative. Creators like Emma Johnson, who delicately explores various forms of abuse on her podcast, or Sarah Turner, who used social media to seek justice for her sister, are making strides in this direction.
I encourage you to be selective about your true crime consumption. For us, it’s not merely a fad or a fascination – it’s a painful reality. Our stories and the memories of our loved ones deserve respect and compassion.
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In summary, true crime is an integral part of my life, shaped by personal tragedy. I ask for awareness and sensitivity from fellow fans and creators. Together, we can create a respectful dialogue around this genre while acknowledging the realities of those affected.
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