In the early morning hours in a quiet New Jersey suburb, Dani Bensky struggles to get her energetic, wannabe "ninja" out the door and to school. Her son Dax bounces around the house throwing impressive kicks that only the agility of a 6-year-old allows.
Bensky's home is littered with kid stuff: A small backpack rests on the floor, red and purple kindergarten scribbles hang on the fridge, and a half-full Danimals smoothie sits on the kitchen table. A stuffed rabbit called "Mommy Bunny" watches over the pair when they eat breakfast.
But it's hard to miss the signs of her other life — the one consumed by the abuse of convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein.
Dozens of photos of a young Bensky in leotards and with dance teachers are scattered on the dining room table. They represent her life before Epstein. Before Bensky went to Epstein's New York penthouse to give him massages, starting when she was 17 in 2004.
"I miss the kid that I was," she says when she looks at them.
In the top drawer of her dresser, Bensky leaves stacks of printed papers from the Department of Justice's Epstein files for easy access. A black pin on her bedroom floor reads "Release the Files," and hanging on the wall is a nude portrait of a dancer that reminds her of herself. It's what she believed a nude portrait should look like, not the "exploitative" nude portrait she stared at 22 years ago in Epstein's massage room.
"There's no real escaping, you know?" Bensky says. She says Epstein's abuse led to a diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Epstein died in a New York prison cell in 2019 while awaiting trial on federal sex-trafficking charges.
As acting Attorney General Todd Blanche faces lawmakers this week, survivors of Epstein's abuse are among those pushing to stop his confirmation, and Bensky is scheduled to be a witness for the Democrats. Former Attorney General Pam Bondi said Blanche, when he was her deputy, was the one who oversaw the release of nearly 3.5 million DOJ documents related to Epstein. The files contain the names of wealthy and high-profile people, and spotty redactions, which Bensky and other survivors say put their lives and privacy at risk.
Despite the flurry of publicity over the last year, no additional arrests have been made since the files' release. While the House Oversight Committee continues to interview people connected to Epstein, survivors say they're frustrated at times.
"It's transitioned from this very hopeful thing to being more in the warrior mentality," Bensky says of the ongoing probe into Epstein's associates. "The fight is longer than I think we expected it to be."
Bensky is one of a group of about 15 survivors (out of more than 1,000 victims of Epstein) who continue to publicly fight for more people to be held accountable, even when that fight might feel bleak and overly politicized. As they navigate the world of advocacy on the national stage, they are still raising children and working through their trauma. By and large, they are not getting paid for their advocacy work. Some, like single mom Bensky, have been living off settlements reached with Epstein's estate and working part-time jobs.
They relive the worst moments of their lives, Bensky says, because they hope their stories can help lead to new laws against sexual assault and trafficking.
"There's a lot more to it than being a quote, unquote professional Epstein survivor," Bensky says. "But it feels that way sometimes. … Sometimes it could feel like you've been branded for life."
Fighting in the nation's capital
It's a Monday morning in early June in Washington, D.C., and Bensky is in town for a conference focused on ending sexual exploitation and human trafficking.
In the crowded lobby of a hotel a mile from the White House, Bensky spots Annie Farmer, a fellow Epstein survivor. She sits down next to her and immediately they embrace, closing their eyes and squeezing each other tight.
While Bensky came into the public eye only months ago, Farmer has been part of this advocacy work for years. She testified that she was sexually abused in 1996, at age 16, at Epstein's Zorro Ranch in New Mexico.
The two women's morning coffee date is an outgrowth of their past tradition of a dance party in their hotel rooms before events to psych themselves up. Next to Farmer, Bensky is full of laughter and energy.
They say moments like these are a respite from recounting their stories of abuse over and over. "You're either crying laughing or you're crying sad, and I would rather be crying laughing," Bensky says.
Today, Bensky and Farmer are on a panel called "Courage is Contagious: How Epstein Survivors are Reclaiming the Narrative." The World Without Exploitation conference brought together hundreds of sexual abuse survivors and advocates.
All eight people on the stage wear matching butterfly pins, an homage to Virginia Giuffre, an outspoken survivor who died by suicide in 2025. Before any of them begin speaking, they receive a booming standing ovation. In this world of advocacy, the Epstein case has renewed attention to sexual trafficking that advocates feel has been missing for a decade.
Farmer said that can be a blessing and a curse. "People get so in the weeds and focus on just one case," she says. "That's frustrating, and I want people to understand it as part of a wider issue."
Bensky nods her head in agreement: "We're living in this little microcosm in the Epstein, [Ghislaine] Maxwell world. But it's so much bigger than all of that."
These days in D.C. are long and emotionally draining. The conference is an all-day affair. In between panels, the group of nine advocates has a meeting with New Mexico Attorney General Raúl Torrez. The survivors are constantly being pulled to the side to meet fellow activists and local politicians.
And it's an emotional toll that manifests physically. During a day of advocacy on Capitol Hill in May, "my body probably didn't stop shaking from when I woke up at 4:30 a.m. in the morning to when I went to bed that night," Bensky says.
At the conference, one of the other advocates spends hours throwing up, and Bensky finds another survivor quietly shedding tears outside the conference room.
"There are so many days where you feel like you can't keep going," Bensky says during the panel.
But the family they've created, which they call the "survivor sisterhood," and the hope for broader change are what hold them together, she says.
Back to "mom life-ing"
Bensky's trip to D.C. is one of many — she often makes the trip twice a month for hearings and meetings. She's also traveled to Florida and Chicago in recent months.
The constant travel takes time away from her other life: as a dancer, a partner and a mom. She's forgotten where her normal life ends and her "Epstein life" begins.
"You come home and you still have family waiting for you — and you have the PTA," she says, laughing.
Back to "mom life-ing" in New Jersey, Bensky is making a valiant effort to get Dax to his kindergarten classroom. They're already running an hour late.
Bensky starts a timer on her phone to encourage some movement that isn't bicycle-kicking into the air. After a struggle, she finally manages to get him to strap on his Pokémon sneakers over two mismatched socks, and out the door.
As Dax speeds down the street to his school playground, Bensky mentions how he's become friends with the children of other Epstein survivors, and he even had his first-ever sleepover. "It's becoming this interesting family affair," she says.
After she drops her son off at school, Bensky looks down at her phone, which buzzes all day with texts from "survivor sisterhood" group chats.
"I hate that he connected me to all my favorite people," Bensky says of Epstein. Maybe someday they'll remove the name Epstein from "Epstein survivors," she said, but for now he's still as present in their lives as ever.
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