Lately, I’ve found myself feeling increasingly triggered by the backlash against the Women’s March. It’s particularly disheartening when people pose questions like, “What’s the big deal about inequality?” or “Can you explain how you lack equal rights?” More often than not, they aren’t genuinely seeking answers; instead, they seem to be implying that inequality is nonexistent—or at least not significant enough to warrant concern. They dismiss women’s experiences as mere whining, suggesting that because we’re not living in a war-torn country, we should count ourselves lucky. I’ve seen comments urging women to stop complaining and just be quiet. The reality is that inequality persists, regardless of whether everyone has felt its sting. We’ve made progress, for sure, but there’s still much work to be done.
So, let’s discuss a heavy topic: rape.
This is my personal account, and it’s the first time I’m sharing it with anyone besides my husband. It’s just one of many stories that highlight the injustices faced by women, both in the U.S. and around the world. I’m not ashamed to share it; in fact, the recent events surrounding the march have compelled me to revisit my experience and reaffirm my status as a survivor. I refuse to identify as a victim; instead, I am an overcomer, and I wear that badge with pride.
I understand that my story may make some uncomfortable, and that’s perfectly alright. Even my husband felt uneasy as I read my account to him, asking me to lower my voice so our son wouldn’t overhear. It’s a dark secret, even in the best of circumstances.
I was about 14 when we relocated to Pennsylvania from Michigan. It was a challenging transition, and as a teenager, I desperately needed my friends to help navigate the turbulence of adolescence. Finding my place felt daunting, and I often felt isolated as I tried to maintain connections with my old friends while also forging new ones. My longing for companionship made me overly vulnerable.
When a boy my age expressed interest in me, I clung to his attention as if it were a lifeline. We hadn’t spent time together outside of school, but he pushed for that to change. I felt pressured, worried that if I didn’t comply, he would lose interest.
One evening, while my parents were out, he came over. What was meant to be a brief visit quickly spiraled when he brought out a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. I wasn’t an experienced drinker, but I thought, “What harm could one drink do?” That single drink led to more, and soon enough, I was feeling nauseous and needed to lie down. Instead of respecting my space, he followed me to the couch and made relentless advances. I begged him to stop, but he ignored my pleas. Even as I vomited on the carpet, he refused to relent. He dragged me upstairs to my bedroom, and despite my screams of “No!” he raped me.
In that moment, I felt utterly powerless, and strangely guilty for having let him into my home. I immediately internalized the blame, as society often teaches us: act a certain way, or face the consequences. I lost consciousness and woke up to find him escaping through my second-story window just as my parents pulled into the driveway.
My mother stormed into my room, furious at the sight of a naked boy fleeing our home. Her anger dissipated when I told her what had happened. We went to the hospital for a rape kit, an experience I had never anticipated. I was overwhelmed with shame, sitting alone in that sterile room, too embarrassed to have my mom by my side while a stranger examined my most intimate areas. I received some counseling afterward, where I was reassured it wasn’t my fault and advised to be strong. They provided me with the morning-after pill, as he hadn’t used protection—my consent was an afterthought.
A week later, police came to my home. I was eager for guidance on the next steps, but what followed was shocking. They stood in our living room, looking down at me as if I were contagious, taking notes without sitting down. They asked if I wanted to press charges, a weighty consideration at just 14.
Instead of support, I received a lecture. They questioned whether I wanted to ruin his future, pointing out that I had invited him over and that we had been drinking. It felt like they were blaming me for the assault. They suggested I seek a restraining order—a thinly veiled joke. I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s life, so I followed their advice and carried the shame with me into school. I faced relentless name-calling—“slut” and “whore”—and lost the few friends I had made. I sat alone in the cafeteria while he laughed with his friends, triumphant in his crime.
No one spoke to me in class. I felt utterly isolated. I had been assaulted and was also blamed for it, which was a deeper wound than the assault itself. To my peers and even law enforcement, he was the victim. This isn’t equality; it’s injustice.
This experience may not have happened yesterday, but it underscores that things haven’t fundamentally changed, and my story is far from unique. One in six American women has faced either attempted or completed rape in their lifetime. Each year, approximately 321,500 individuals aged 12 and older report being victims of rape or sexual assault. Alarmingly, only 344 out of every 1,000 sexual assaults are reported to the police, meaning around two-thirds go unreported.
Why? Because offenders of sexual violence often evade serious consequences. Statistically, 994 out of every 1,000 reported rapists escape justice. Just look at the cases of individuals like David Becker, Brock Turner, and others who received minimal punishment for their crimes. It’s appalling.
Rape is not treated as a serious crime in this country, and women are acutely aware of this reality. Many fear retaliation or doubt that law enforcement will protect them. Others believe their experiences are too trivial to report. This must change—this is not equal justice.
This is why those who criticize the Women’s March are fundamentally mistaken. Women have legitimate concerns. Life is not perfect for us, and to suggest otherwise is an affront to me and millions of others who share similar experiences. The fight for equality is far from over.
Let’s continue to raise our voices, advocating for our rights and the rights of others who are unfairly treated in this country and beyond.
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In summary, the struggle for women’s rights is ongoing and deeply personal for many. By sharing my story, I hope to shed light on the harsh realities of inequality and encourage others to join the fight for justice and equality.