Recently, Jane Doe, a former student, initiated a civil lawsuit against Cornell University regarding a sexual assault she claims occurred in a fraternity in 2024. She mentioned that she had been drinking before arriving at the party and felt “pretty OK” with a previous encounter involving two acquaintances. However, things escalated quickly. According to her, she was pressured into taking ketamine, and subsequently, multiple men assaulted her. At one point, she took more ketamine, thinking that if she lost consciousness, it would confirm that any sexual acts against her were non-consensual. Following the incident, she even texted the men involved, which some interpret as her being “fine.” That’s not how I see it—especially since I’ve experienced something similar.
In 2016, when I was raped at a fraternity, I initially tried to bury the memory of what happened. It was fairly easy because I couldn’t recall the details. That false sense of security shattered when a “friend” from that frat texted me, bluntly stating that I had been raped. His casual, almost dismissive attitude suggested that it was just a wild night. In his eyes, it didn’t seem to matter that none of the other fraternity members intervened while an older brother assaulted someone who was practically unconscious. I ended up minimizing my own experience to mirror his approach.
Later, younger fraternity members confided in me that they had been aware of the assault and felt guilty for not stepping in. They at least had the decency to look apologetic when they expressed their remorse. I told them I was fine—a possible blend of shock, denial, or maybe just an overwhelming numbness to the violation I had suffered. I wanted to move past it, but part of me felt compelled to confront my rapist.
When I spoke to him, despite what others had told me about how out of it I was, he insisted that the allegations were just rumors and claimed I had consented. Like many women, I think I had been taught to prioritize appeasement over confrontation. Instead of challenging him, my instinct was to ease the tension. It made me sick to my stomach, but I found myself apologizing for my doubts and assuring him I would quash any talk of the incident.
To solidify my words, I agreed to return to the very house where the assault took place. I awkwardly sat on the couch, feigning interest in a television show to prove to him that I was okay. All I could think about was how soon I could leave. Perhaps part of me wanted to convince him that everything was back to normal.
More likely, I was trying to convince myself. In the months that followed, just hearing his name or seeing his face would fill me with revulsion. There was no way I would ever again engage in those forced-friendly couch sessions. I simply aimed to return to the life I had before he made that choice—something I believe many victims can relate to. But it doesn’t erase the fact that I was raped.
In the time after Jane Doe’s assault, she exchanged casual messages with two of the men implicated, both of whom were her friends. Some use those friendly texts as evidence that she wasn’t truly raped, relying on the age-old excuses that women change their stories out of regret. Having gone through part of Jane Doe’s ordeal myself, I can affirm that her reaction is one of many normal responses to an extraordinary violation.
Some women react by fighting back, either verbally or physically. Yet for many, allowing oneself to go limp, to endure the situation without resistance, and to later downplay it serve as coping mechanisms that starkly contrast the idea of a ‘perfect victim.’ Sometimes, surrendering feels like the quickest way to end the nightmare. In many situations, resistance might lead to even worse harm, or worse yet, death.
Legal advice typically emphasizes the importance of preserving evidence. But the reality is that not every assault survivor can clearly state, “I was raped.” Often, the desire to erase the trauma manifests as a need to cleanse oneself—to shower excessively, to go to bed, even to discard physical evidence while concocting more palatable narratives about what happened.
While Jane Doe’s case may not be typical, the need for societal acknowledgment of sexual assault shouldn’t be this complicated. The Centers for Disease Control now report that about 45.1 percent of women in the U.S. have faced some form of sexual violence. Given that most incidents occur outside the so-called ‘perfect’ scenario, it’s easy to see why many rapes remain unreported.
Perhaps the real issue with victim discrediting lies in people’s reluctance to confront the complexities of sexual assault. Acknowledging the murkiness might compel them to reflect on their own relationships and actions. Almost every woman I’ve talked to either knows someone who has been assaulted or has experienced it herself. Approximately 8 in 10 cases of rape are perpetrated by someone familiar to the victim. Yet, it’s oddly rare to find a man who will acknowledge knowing a rapist.
As long as society upholds the view that rape only occurs when a woman resists verbally and physically, we let ourselves and our acquaintances off the hook. We dilute the severity of sexual assault, allowing perpetrators to escape serious consequences. While reports indicate that none of the seven men Jane Doe has sued have faced jail time, the district attorney is reconsidering the criminal investigation. Two were expelled, two received suspensions, two were found not responsible, and one graduated. According to the lawsuit, some men were allowed to lessen accountability through essays called “reflection papers.”
Rape isn’t a mistake. It isn’t a minor transgression that can be papered over with a vague apology. Honestly, I’m weary of sharing my own story of being raped. If only we could reach a time when men felt just as exhausted by the act of committing such crimes.
