Content warning : This essay deals with sexual assault. Reader discretion is advised.

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I never expected this to happen. I didn’t even know it was happening. I have sometimes wondered what I would ever do in this kind of situation, and I have always thought I would do something, say something, at the very least realize that it had happened. I thought it had a shape and form that I knew how to recognize. But that’s not what happened.

When I realized what was happening, there was no anger, no panic. What registered was alarm and confusion, and maybe the need to stop, but I didn’t want to ruin the mood or seem like a prude. I felt reckless, spontaneous, desirable. I never stopped it, I never removed myself from the situation.

I never said no.

Apparently, there are stages to this just like there are the five stages of grief. Apparently, it’s very common for you to not even realize what you’re experiencing. Apparently, it’s shock, it’s denial.

When I met up with a friend the day after, it was a funny story to share, something to laugh about. I knew it was somewhat outrageous, what-the-f***, can-you-believe-it. But her reaction was beyond what I had expected, and when I went to Yale Health, both the nurse that I spoke with to make the appointment and the doctor I saw — both women — advised me to do the same thing. The doctor, who looked like she could be the same age as my mother, even gave me a pamphlet. Scared and confused, I broke down in the examination room.

There are still so many questions about consent, important questions that were brought into the spotlight by the #MeToo movement. I’ve taken workshops and training sessions that specifically emphasized the nuances of consent under the effects of peer pressure or alcohol and drugs. We nod, we ask polite questions. When asked to share what we learned, we offer thoughtful, appropriate, cookie-cutter answers.

But outside the carefully controlled, censored atmosphere of the workshops, I hear men grumbling that they can no longer lift a finger without being called rapists; I hear them joking about making their partners sign contracts stating that they fully consented to everything. I read upvoted answers on online forums declaring that consent can’t be retroactively retracted. Sometimes, social learning can be more powerful, more convincing than anything we learn in a classroom.

Why is it so much easier for me to recognize the violation of consent in other women’s stories than my own? Why is it so easy for me to label myself as an attention-seeker? Is all of this indicative of subconscious self-hatred, some dismally low self-esteem? I would be instantly outraged on the behalf of another woman, and I have been multiple times.

Why me?

Coming into Yale as a wide-eyed first year, I had idealistic expectations about the student body, and now, in the spring semester of my sophomore year, I think about how I have memorized a list of Yale men who are facing Title IX complaints and sexual assault allegations. I think about how long the list is, and those are just the names whispered in the circles that I run in. I hear about how those men take gap years, how they blame the women and gain the support of their friends, how they move on with their lives.

The thing is, even with all the resources Yale offers us, even with the more liberal leaning of our student body, I don’t think Yale is a safe space for women or for sexual assault victims. There is too much procedural kindness and consideration and not enough action. Why are these men still allowed to return to campus, why are they transferred to another residential college — where they continue to assault an entirely new community — instead of being expelled completely? Why is Yale a playground for the wealthy, privileged and powerful? Why is Yale a space where the victim is forced to hide and evade?

This is a lot for me to say when I’m still so confused myself. But now the shock is wearing off, and I am furious. Maybe rage is just an easier emotion for me right now than shame or fear or regret or self-hatred. But right now, through all the conflict, I feel brave. And that’s something I think I can be proud of.

HYERIM BIANCA NAM is a sophomore in Saybrook College. Her column ‘Moment’s Notice’ runs on alternate Wednesdays. Contact her at hyerim.nam@yale.edu.