[This piece is written in recognition of Sexual Assault Awareness Month (SAAM).
It reflects on belief, systems, and the lived experience of navigating harm and healing.]
I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be believed.
Not in an abstract sense, but in the quiet, complicated spaces where people decide whether or not to tell the truth of what they’ve lived through—and what happens when they do.
I’m writing this as someone who has survived a violent relationship. For a long time, I was in a situation that was not safe for me. I stayed longer than I should have because leaving was not simple. There were layers of control and fear that made it incredibly difficult to step away—financial strain, emotional pressure, and isolation from people who might have been able to help me.
It was not a situation where I felt I had free or safe choices.
What matters is that I eventually escaped. And that leaving took time, support, and a strength I didn’t always know I had.
Even now, my body remembers.
Not in detail, but in feeling. In instinct. In the way I carry myself through the world. There are parts of that time I won’t revisit here—not because they don’t matter, but because they are mine, and because not every story needs to be fully disclosed in order to be true.
What I have come to understand is that experiences like this do not exist in isolation. They exist within systems—social, cultural, and institutional—that shape how we speak, how we are heard, and sometimes, whether we are believed at all.
Research consistently shows that many experiences of harm go unreported. In cases of sexual violence, for example, estimates in the United States suggest that a large percentage—often over half—are never reported to law enforcement. This is not because the harm didn’t happen, but because the barriers to speaking are real.
Fear. Shame. Financial dependence. Social pressure. The expectation to minimize, to endure, to stay silent.
And those pressures are not distributed evenly.
Gender norms play a role in how people are expected to respond to harm. Women are often socialized to downplay their experiences or to prioritize the comfort of others. Men are often taught to suppress vulnerability altogether. People of all genders can find themselves navigating systems that were never built with their safety—or their voices—in mind.
This is where things become complicated.
Because when someone does choose to speak, they are often asked to prove their experience in ways that can feel invasive, exhausting, or even retraumatizing. And yet, at the same time, we live in a world where questions of truth and fairness matter. Where accountability matters. Where we cannot afford to ignore the possibility of harm being misunderstood, misrepresented, or misused.
That tension is real.
But it should not lead us to silence.
We do not have to choose between believing someone and thinking critically. We can hold both. We can listen with care while still caring about truth. We can ask questions without dismissing someone’s humanity.
Belief, in this context, is not about blind acceptance.
It is about willingness.
Willingness to listen without immediately turning away.
Willingness to take someone seriously without rushing to judgment.
Willingness to sit with discomfort instead of trying to resolve it too quickly.
Because for many people, the act of speaking at all is already an act of courage.
And whether someone chooses to share their story fully, partially, or not at all does not determine its validity.
It reflects only what they feel safe enough to say.
I don’t have all the answers.
But I do know this:
We can build systems that are more compassionate without abandoning truth.
We can listen more carefully without losing discernment.
And we can treat people with dignity while still holding ourselves accountable to fairness.
That balance is not easy.
But it is necessary.
Because if we want a world where people feel safe enough to speak, then we also have to create a world where what is spoken is met with care, patience, and a commitment to listening well.
That means slowing down.
It means choosing curiosity over assumption.
And it means remembering that behind every story—public or private—is a person who deserves to be treated as more than a headline.
That is something I am still learning.
And something I believe we are all still learning, together.
If you are reading this and it resonates with you in any way, you are not alone.
If you are someone who has experienced harm, you deserve to be heard and supported in ways that feel safe for you. If you are someone who wants to support others, one of the most meaningful things you can do is listen—without rushing, without assuming, and without needing to have all the answers.
If you are able, consider learning more about the resources available in your community. In the United States, organizations such as the National Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN) offer confidential support at 1-800-656-HOPE and online at rainn.org.
And if this piece prompted reflection, I hope it also invites patience—both with others, and with ourselves.
Because this work—understanding, listening, believing—is ongoing.
And it belongs to all of us. <3
