These are the highlights—snapshots of sexual entitlement and harassment I’ve faced over the years—not every instance, and certainly not the worst. I don’t tell these stories for attention or pity. So many women and femmes have endured far worse. Sharing for attention would be pointless—and anyone who assumes a survivor is doing it for pity is missing the point entirely. I share because people are often shocked to hear that harassment and assault happen to the women and AFAB—assigned female at birth—people they know and care about. They can’t believe the men in their lives—their friends, neighbors, colleagues—could ever be perpetrators. I share because I hear disbelief about the prevalence of #MeToo experiences. The numbers are high because the problem is widespread. Believe it.
I share because shame silences survivors, even when we have nothing to hide. Our culture tolerates harassment and assault, victim-blames, and hesitates to believe women and gender non-conforming (GNC) people. It scrutinizes survivors’ words more than the actions of those who harmed us. That culture tells us we should be ashamed, quiet, invisible. It tells us not to complain, not to accuse the “nice men” around us. But the reality is that these problems are systemic. They are deeply rooted in how men are socialized. “Nice guys” harass, assault, and manipulate, often leaving trauma in their wake. “Nice people” blame the victim or deny what happened altogether. This culture silences us. And that’s not okay. Our words—and our silence—should always be our choice. I share with anxiety, yes. Will they believe me? Will they blame me? Will I be judged or dismissed? But I also share with hope: that my voice, joining countless others, can help raise awareness and push for change. That perhaps, through shared stories, we can create a safer world for women, femmes, and girls.
I was seven, wearing my first two-piece swimsuit. It barely showed a sliver of stomach, but my parents had hesitated to let me wear it, saying it was “immodest”—meaning it might tempt boys to misbehave. The swimsuit had sparkly ruffles, and I begged to wear it. We arrived at Grandpa’s pool, just my cousins and some of their friends. Almost immediately, a few boys my age chased me, yelling, “Get her! Strip her naked!” I ran, feeling embarrassed, dirty, and afraid. An adult yelled only, “Kids, don’t run around the pool!” That summer, I didn’t wear another two-piece until I was twenty-one.
At fourteen, I went on a trail ride with a boy I worked with at the stable. Out on the trail, he asked, “Have you had sex?” I said no. Then, “What if you had sex with me?” I declined. He prodded, “What if I held you down and made you do it?” I told him I’d punch him and tried to act tough as my horse carried me toward safety. We were miles from the stable, with only some dilapidated barns in sight. He laughed and circled me on his horse. My face burned, I hurried back alone, terrified. I never told anyone. I felt dirty, embarrassed. And somehow, I felt it was my fault.
At sixteen, I went for a hip x-ray. Draped in a thin gown, I lay mostly on my side. The technician, a man in his forties, finished positioning the equipment and then, without warning, drummed my upturned butt cheek four times with both hands. He did it casually, as though it were nothing. Driving home, I questioned myself: had it really happened?
At seventeen, I had my first long-distance boyfriend, in the Marines. I knew little about healthy boundaries or standing up for myself. I’d been raised in a fundamentalist Evangelical church, taught that women were made to nurture and serve men. So when he begged for phone sex and I repeatedly said no, I felt guilt, responsibility. He described cutting himself, blood, near-suicides, all while pleading for my love. I tried to comfort him, even as I felt trapped, disgusted, and sick with anxiety. I stayed on the line, pretending not to notice, fearing the consequences if I hung up. I eventually ended it, alternating guilt and relief.
Also at seventeen, a young man waited for me outside the women’s locker room at my community college gym. Tall, persistent, always standing too close. I called a friend to meet me for the rest of the semester, and with her there, he no longer crowded me. At eighteen, a male student followed me while visiting a friend at her college, leering and stepping closer, forcing me to maneuver to safety. At twenty-one, I was in a relationship with a man who seemed kind and supportive. Yet he disregarded my “no,” over and over, manipulating until I complied. I felt confused, guilty, ashamed—but remembered what I had been taught: “Men will only go as far as you let them.”
At twenty-six, a friend kissed me when my husband was asleep upstairs. I froze, tried to deflect, but panic overtook me, triggering flashbacks. I cried myself to sleep. My therapist called it a PTSD response. At twenty-seven, a man followed me through a nearly-empty liquor store, closing off exits, leaving me hyper-aware, calculating escape routes, checking doors. Protective vigilance had become a way of life.
From childhood through adulthood, the message was clear: protect yourself, or the consequences fall on you. Men go as far as society allows, and society allows too much. But change is possible. Start by listening to women and femmes. Believe us. Believe the harm. I’ve seen people learn, change, become teachable. I have hope for the next generation, as #MeToo sparks dialogue about raising boys who respect women and femmes, and raising girls and femmes who know their worth and boundaries. I am proud of survivors, whether or not they share their stories.
