We Are ALL Jane Doe: Why This Cornell Case Matters to Every Woman

Estimated reading time: 16 minutes

Let me be real with you for a second, as if I’m ever anything else. This and the next post are the kind that make me pause before hitting publish. These are the kind I used to write in 2009 – the kind that terrifies me with its vulnerability but, at the same time, lets me know, in my gut, that I’ve got something to say that might be important to someone going through the same things.

I’ve been very sick the past few days. Like, actually bedridden-all-week sick and incapacitated. But I can’t escape the ongoing horror that is continuing to happen across America and beyond to our girls and women. Even when I’m flat on my back with the flu, I can’t stop thinking about what happened at Cornell University. What happens to girls and women every single day, everywhere. It’s never been a matter of if, but when. We’ve lived our whole lives waiting for something terrible to happen to us because we know it will.

And here’s the thing that makes me so fucking angry I want to scream:

I’ve written this post before. Many times. Literally.

So have you. Maybe not literally, but you know what I’m talking about. You’ve said this to your friends. You’ve thought it. You’ve lived it. You survived it. Most of us did; some of us didn’t. None of us deserved what happened to us. It’s still happening to our daughters, their friends, our nieces, our sisters, and yes, still, even to ourselves.

This isn’t new. This will never be new. And that’s exactly what’s killing me. If we know it’s wrong, why do we keep allowing it? Why aren’t there stronger deterrents?

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We All Know What This Is

We, the people with vaginas, know that dicks are weapons. We’ve always known this. Ask any woman – it’s as lethal as any gun or knife could ever dream of being.

You can use a weapon to protect. You can use it with love. But you can also use it to hurt. To dominate. To violate. To take something that isn’t yours. To take a life because that is what happens when someone rapes you – they steal the part of you that felt safe, the part of you that trusted others, the part of you that lets you be “you.”

And that’s what seven men did to Jane Doe at Cornell. They used their bodies as weapons and they raped her.

But here’s what I can’t stop thinking about: 50 other men got a message in a group chat. “Free pussy upstairs.“

FIFTY. Men. Monsters.

And do you know what they did? Some went upstairs. Not to stop it. Not to protect her. To watch. To participate. To be part of it. They made a choice. She had none.

And when I say “be part of it,” I don’t just mean the ones who participated in the assault. I mean the ones who just stood there. The ones who did nothing to help. The ones who watched. They are just as culpable. This is why women teach little girls that if you’re ever being raped, yell “FIRE” and not “rape.”

Women know never to scream “rape” because most people don’t care enough to get involved and help a woman being raped. After all, it doesn’t affect them. “Help” doesn’t work unless it affects the onlookers directly. Most women know to yell “FIRE” because then people care because they might get burned too. But rape? That’s our problem, not theirs.

Because doing nothing? That’s a choice. That’s complicity. And it makes you just as guilty.

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The Cornell Rape Case: What Actually Happened

October 19, 2024 — Seven men raped a woman at Cornell University’s Chi Phi fraternity house.

Approximately 50 other men got a message in a group chat: “Free pussy upstairs.”

50 men. Not one of them stopped it. Not one of them called for help. They went upstairs. They watched. They participated in the violation.

The Aftermath — The woman, now known as Jane Doe, went to the police and reported the assault. She told investigators that she was raped.

But the District Attorney, Matthew Van Houten, decided there wasn’t enough evidence. He declined to prosecute.

Later, it came out that Van Houten allegedly never even read the full police interview transcript. He made a decision that would allow seven rapists to walk free without ever reviewing all the evidence against them.

October 1- 2, 2026 — Jane Doe’s case gained national attention. Gov. Hochul removed the case from Van Houten’s office. Special Prosecutor Letitia James took over.

The investigation was reopened, and Jane Doe’s allegations are now before a grand jury for consideration.

The Reality — Seven men are accused of rape. Approximately 50 men watched. The system initially tried to protect the rapists. And somewhere right now, another woman is deciding whether to report her assault or bury it, as so many of us have done, are doing, and will do.

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Why This Matters

I have two daughters at a major college campus. A good one. Private. Catholic. Prestigious. The kind of place where you’re supposed to feel the safest.

They receive sexual assault alerts at least twice a month; sometimes more. Sometimes twice a week.

Those are just the reported incidents. Those are the ones that made it through all the barriers to reporting – the shame, the fear, the knowing that nothing will happen anyway. How many unreported assaults happen on that campus in a month? How many women go home, shower, and pretend it never happened?

I know that’s what I did.

But we never forget. With each passing assault, we become more suspicious and jaded, less trusting and more afraid of men.

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My Assaults

I, like most women, was assaulted multiple times. These are just a few. I never reported any of them.

The Basketball Player – I Was the Girl at the Bar

There was a guy at a bar. You know the type – the guy everyone knows, the star athlete, 6’11” basketball player – the one who thinks the rules don’t apply to him. He grabbed me by my ass and lifted me around his waist like a rag doll. He tried to kiss me.

I was terrified. I fought to break free of his grip; an entire bar full of people watched, and nobody helped.

Nobody did anything. People just watched. But when a ‘friend’ finally found me outside, shaking and scared, you know what she said? “Don’t you know who that was?”

Not “are you okay?” Not “that was wrong.” But “don’t you know who that was?” – like his status somehow made what he did acceptable.

It didn’t.

The Frat Party – I Was the Girl at the Frat Party

Then there was the frat party. I was 18, a freshman in college and a little sister at the fraternity – comfortable there, or so I thought. That’s what made it worse.

There was this cute guy, a walkout from Ann Arbor. We were flirting. The vibe was there, mutual. And then, in the middle of a room full of people (mostly men), he pushed my head into his lap.

Just like that. No warning. No consent. Just took my head and pushed it toward his crotch.

I was drinking but aware enough to feel the violation of it. I felt vulnerable. Threatened. Angry. Scared.

The president of the frat saw the whole thing and kicked the guy out of the house. I should have felt protected, right?

But then he spent the rest of the night “comforting” me. And that comfort turned into his own advances. I let him because I felt like I owed him. He had helped me, so somehow that meant I had to allow him access to my body.

That’s what this does to us. It makes us trade one violation for another because at least the second one feels safer – less unpredictable and less violent.

I Woke Up to Hands on Me – I Was the Girl Who Woke Up to Hands on My Body

I was 19, visiting a friend at school. Met a guy who was visiting her boyfriend. Nice enough guy; seemed ‘normal’. We all hung out, drank, and had a good time – as college kids do.

I went to sleep.

And I woke up to his hands on me. His lips on me. He was kissing me, pressing up against me, touching my body while I was asleep and couldn’t consent.

I pushed him off immediately. But by the time I woke up, he had already been there. I don’t know for how long. I’ll never know how much he touched me while I was unconscious.

And you know what I did? Nothing. I didn’t report it. I didn’t even tell my friend what happened. I told no one until years later. I just pushed him off and tried to pretend it wasn’t that bad.

But it was that bad. Waking up to someone’s hands on you without your permission is assault. Not knowing what they did to you while you were incapacitated is terrifying.

The Married Man – I Was Threatened by a Cop

I was 21 at a cop party. A married guy didn’t care that he was married. I did. He made advances anyway.

I said no.

He then told me I should think twice about driving alone in ‘his city’ ever again because he could pull me over. Late at night on a dark road. And it wouldn’t matter if I was interested or not.

He threatened to sexually assault me. A man with a badge and a gun. A man with power and access.

He said it at a party. In front of a room full of people – other cops. Like it was funny.

And nobody did anything.

On the Sales Floor – I Was Locked in a Room by Grown Men

I was 20 years old, on the sales floor at work at a big-box store. Two grown men – security guards – called me to the back. I thought they needed a female employee as a witness for a female shoplifter. That’s protocol.

Instead, they locked the door behind me.

And they started making comments about how I looked in my uniform. They told me they liked watching me on the cameras. And then they looked me in the eyes and said: “You know we could do anything we wanted to you in here and no one would even hear us.”

I was trembling. I was terrified. They had just threatened to rape me.

Two grown men in positions of authority. With keys. With isolation. With power.

When I told my boss what happened, the response was basically: “Well, don’t go back there alone.”

Not “those men are predators and should be arrested.” Not “that’s sexual harassment and they should lose their jobs.” But “you need to protect yourself better.”

The burden was on me to avoid being raped. Not on them not to rape.

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There were several more instances, starting when I was a child. I never reported any of it.

Not because I thought I was to blame. I knew I wasn’t. These men made the choice to violate me. That’s on them.

But I knew what would happen if I reported it. I knew I’d be questioned. I knew people would ask what I was wearing, what I was drinking, why I was there, what I did to invite it. Society would make me feel like I somehow allowed this to happen. Somehow, I would become the villain.

So I stayed quiet.

I could go on for pages listing all the different times I’ve been accosted to one degree or another. The catcalls on the street. The unwanted groping at bars, public transit, and anywhere men are. The coworkers who touched my body without permission. The dates that didn’t stop when I said stop. The times I froze instead of fighting back because my body was too terrified to move. The times I said yes when I meant no because saying no felt even more dangerous. The times I let someone do things to my body that I didn’t want because the alternative felt worse.

All of this. All of it. Is my life as a woman.

And I am FURIOUS that this is normal.

That this is expected.

That we’ve all just accepted that this is the price of being born with a vagina.

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This Is Not About Cornell Alone

This is about EVERY CAMPUS where fraternity brothers rape women and face no consequences.

This is about EVERY POLICE DEPARTMENT that fails to investigate properly.

This is about EVERY DA who declines to prosecute because the victim didn’t say “no” loud enough or fight hard enough or remember every detail while being drugged.

This is about EVERY JUDGE who sentences rapists to 6 months like Brock Turner.

This is about EVERY SYSTEM designed to protect rapists and punish victims for having the audacity to report.

This is about EVERY MAN who thinks your body is negotiable.

This is about EVERY MAN who says “your body, my choice.”

FUCK. ALL. OF. YOU!!!

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This Is Our Reality

You already know what I’m about to say. You’ve lived it. You’re living it.

Women navigate the world in constant fear from childhood. When you’re five, adults touch your body without asking. By twelve, grown men make comments about your body. By high school, you learn that your existence is inherently sexual and that somehow you’re responsible for the reactions it creates. You get groped in hallways like it’s normal. Boys will be boys, right?

By college, you’re calculating safety at every turn. What are you wearing? Is it attracting the wrong kind of attention? Who are you with? Can they be trusted? How much are you drinking? Can you trust the people around you? Will you make it home okay? Will you be safe in your own dorm room?

And even when you do everything right. Even when you’re careful. Even when you follow every rule. Seven men can still rape you, and “approximately” 50 men might watch like your victimization is a Pay-per-View sporting event.

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We All Hide It

Most of the women in your life have been assaulted. And most of us never told anyone because society makes us feel like we’re the ones who carry the shame, the guilt, the dirtiness and the burden of proof.

We went to work the next day. We smiled. We pretended. We buried it.

We don’t talk about it because society makes us feel ashamed. Not because we think we’re actually to blame – we know we’re not. But because the world tells us we are. Because the burden gets placed on us to explain ourselves, to defend ourselves, to prove we didn’t somehow ask for it.

That message is loud enough to make us stay silent.

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The System Doesn’t Care

Society tells you: report it. Go to the police. Get justice.

So Jane Doe did what she was supposed to do.

She told investigators she was raped. Clearly. Directly. With 100% confidence.

And the District Attorney said there wasn’t enough evidence based on her initial statement. He declined to prosecute.

He never even read the full police transcript where she described everything.

He made a decision to let a rapist walk free without reviewing all the evidence.

He claimed he reviewed her statement but based his decision on what she described at the time. When her civil lawsuit revealed different or additional allegations, the case was reopened.

Did he apologize? No. He got defensive. He tried to explain why his incomplete decision was actually correct.

The Governor had to step in. A Special Prosecutor had to take over because the system failed so spectacularly that nobody could pretend it was okay anymore.

The problem is that 50 other guys allegedly watched the assault and did nothing. The problem is that authorities decided initially that their legal interpretation and comfort mattered more than her justice. The problem is systemic and cultural. We’ve normalized this so much that nobody blinks.

A woman says she was raped and we question her. What was she wearing? How much had she drunk? Did she say no loud enough? Did she fight hard enough?

NEVER do we ask the man: Why did you think you could do that? Why did you think her body was yours to take?

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Don’t Think Your Daughter Is Safe

Don’t think for a minute that if your kid goes to a prestigious school, a private school, a Catholic school, an Ivy League school, or even an all-girls campus, they’re safe. They’re not.

The system is broken at every level. It’s broken everywhere.

People say: “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The truth is she just had the misfortune of being born with a vagina instead of a penis.

As if being raped is like being caught in bad traffic. As if there’s a right time and place to not be violated.

There isn’t. I’ve had friends raped while they slept in their beds in their locked apartment. There is no wrong place and no wrong time. There’s just wrong. There’s just a man deciding your body is his to take. That’s the only factor that matters.

Not where she was. Not what she was wearing. Not what she was drinking. Not whether she was high.

Just the fact that someone decided your body wasn’t yours anymore.

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This Is Personal

I hate what happened at Cornell. I hate that 50 men watched. I hate that the District Attorney tried to protect the rapists. I hate that Jane Doe had to have her trauma validated by a Governor stepping in.

I hate that my daughters get sexual assault alerts at least twice a month on their college campus.

I hate that I never reported my own assaults. The basketball player who grabbed me and lifted me up like I was nothing. He went on to the NBA. The frat boy who pushed my head into his lap in front of everyone. Networked himself into a Fortune 500 company. The man who touched me while I was asleep and unconscious. Still free and, probably, unbothered. The cop who threatened to sexually assault me if I didn’t give him what he wanted. He’s still on the job. The security guards who locked me in a room and told me they could do anything they wanted to me. They’re still living their lives like it never happened.

They’re out there living their lives. They faced nothing.

And I carried it. All of it. Every single thing.

But I’m not carrying it alone anymore. And neither are you.

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So What Now?

We’re done being quiet. We’re done being polite. We’re done asking for permission or waiting for the system to protect us.

I’m tired of being told to be careful. I’m tired of modifying my behavior so I don’t get raped. I’m tired of changing my clothes, my route, my plans, my very existence to accommodate men’s violence. I’m tired of “not all men” when we’re talking about systematic violence against women. I’m tired of being told to report it when the system doesn’t prosecute. I’m tired of victim-blaming disguised as “safety tips.” I’m tired of raising my daughters to live in fear. I’m tired of teaching them to smile and be polite even when someone violates their boundaries. I’m tired of telling them their safety is their responsibility.

I’m tired of a world that asks women: “What were you wearing?” instead of asking men: “Why did you think you could do that?”

I’m tired of being told I was “asking for it” because I went to a party. Because I wore a certain outfit. Because I smiled at someone. Because I existed.

I’m tired of men who think they have a right to my body.

I’m tired of a culture that treats women’s bodies like they’re public property.

I’m tired of “your body, my choice.”

And I’m done accepting it.

That’s why I started something. Read about #ChastityByChoice in the next post and how you can join us.

If you need help, RAINN has a 24/7 confidential hotline: 1-800-656-4673. You can also text HOME to 741741 to reach the Crisis Text Line.

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P.S. – To my daughters and every young woman at every college campus: I see you. I know you’re scared. I know some of you have already been violated. I know most of you won’t report it. I know because I didn’t either. But I want you to know that it’s not your fault. Not one bit. Not your clothes, not your choices, not where you were or what you were doing. None of it. We’re coming for the system that failed you. And we’re doing it for you.

Please share this post with every woman you love and want to keep safe.