We live in an age of shifting language.A time when even the most basic truths—like what it means to be a woman—are being rewritten, not by science or
We live in an age of shifting language.
A time when even the most basic truths—like what it means to be a woman—are being rewritten, not by science or survival, but by social pressure and ideology.
And I’m not here to fight culture wars.
I’m here to protect women from being caught in the crossfire.
Because long after the hashtags fade, long after the headlines change, the courtroom remains.
And inside these four walls, words matter.
Definitions matter.
Because in court, you don’t get to protect people’s feelings over the facts.
You don’t get to say, “Well, I called him ‘she’ because that’s what he asked me to do.”
You don’t get to say, “I knew he was a man, but I was trying to be respectful.”
Because defense attorneys will lean forward, eyes sharp, and ask:
“So when do you tell the truth, Ms. Jones?
When it’s convenient?
When it’s popular?
When it’s safe?”
And we—the public, the advocates, the policymakers, the everyday women—we will have built that trap with our own hands.
Brick by brick.
Lie by lie.
Pronoun by pronoun.
This isn’t about hate.
This isn’t about exclusion.
This is about strategy.
Because we cannot build a safer future on sand.
We cannot tell women and girls to call male people “she” and “her” in public, then act surprised when those same women are cross-examined and discredited in court.
We cannot encourage a culture where feelings override facts, and then pretend we don’t know why Survivors are losing credibility in front of juries.
The system is already rigged against us.
Do we really want to hand over more weapons?
There are ways to support all people.
To hold compassion and truth in the same breath.
To create a world where dignity is non-negotiable—without abandoning clarity, biology, and the hard-won rights of women.
But not every way is the right way.
What we say today will echo in the future testimony of a teenage girl who was groomed.
In the court record of a mother trying to prove she was abused.
In the police report of a woman who said, “He hit me,” but society taught her to say “she.”
So we must ask ourselves—strategically, lovingly, and urgently:
Are we protecting people?
Or are we protecting illusions?
Are we building justice?
Or setting up landmines for the next Survivor?
We must think 50 steps ahead.
Because they are.
And they are watching how we blur truth, confuse categories, and twist our tongues around euphemisms.
They are watching how we lie, politely.
How we comply, nervously.
How we nod along, silently.
And when we are finally called to speak the truth—
they are ready to ask:
“So when did you start telling the truth?”
“Why should we believe you now?”
“How do we know you’re not just… confused?”
We do not owe anyone our silence.
We do not owe anyone the rewriting of reality.
We owe the truth.
To women.
To girls.
To every Survivor who will one day sit in that witness chair and say:
“This is what happened.
This is who did it.
This is what I know to be true.”
Let’s not make it harder for her to be believed.
Let’s think this through.
Strategically.
Lovingly.
Powerfully.
Because the truth doesn’t just set you free—
It keeps you alive.
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