updated from March 20 2022 “That never happens.”Not because people who say it are always cruel.Often, afraid of truths that could make the world
updated from March 20 2022
“That never happens.”
Not because people who say it are always cruel.
Often, afraid of truths that could make the world appear any darker. Or avoiding their own pain. Remembering. Or speaking from the limits of their own experience.
But still—
it is not a sentence we can afford when it comes to women and violence and abuse. You can’t fix it if you don’t name it and stand up to it. I learned that from dealing with bullies in my childhood.
Because no one—no matter how well-read, well-meaning, or well-placed—can possibly know everything that happens behind closed doors, inside families, institutions, relationships, or systems designed to protect reputations before people.
Especially not when women’s survival itself often depends on silence. Some people would not be here had they not kept silent. (Meanwhile people will be on time to ask: “Buy why now?” when she comes forward.)
For the truth to reach daylight, a victim has to make it through layers most people never see.
They have to survive what happened in the first place.
They have to decide whether naming it is worth the risk.
They have to tell someone—and hope that person does not minimize, deflect, or protect the harm-doer.
They may encounter authorities whose hands are tied by inadequate laws, lack of training, cruelty, the good old boys network, or institutional fear.
They may be asked to repeat their story until it no longer feels like theirs.
And all of this happens while they are still trying to understand:
What happened to me?
Did I do something wrong? (Especially the way we communicate to girls that they are responsible for the feelings of men and boys)
Why didn’t I see it sooner?
Will anyone believe me? (I try not lie to victims because …how cruel. That’s a set up. Someone will, but not everyone.)
Shame creeps in quietly.
Guilt settles where responsibility does not belong.
And the world—too often—meets their courage with suspicion instead of care.
So when someone says, “That never happens,” what they are really saying—whether they mean to or not—is:
I have not heard this.
It does not fit what I know.
It is uncomfortable for me to imagine.
That is not the same as impossibility.
And we must begin holding that distinction with integrity.
Because history shows us, again and again, that violence and abuse are often hidden not because they are rare—but because they are inconvenient.
Because they disrupt power.
Because they demand change.
Because they ask something of us.
Accountability does not require accusation.
It requires humility.
It asks us to say instead:
I may not know everything.
I may not have heard these stories yet.
If someone survived, there is something here worth listening to.
That shift matters.
It creates room for truth to travel.
It creates space for victims to speak without first having to convince the world they deserve to be heard.
It reminds us that disbelief is not neutral—it has consequences.
Advocating for victims does not mean assuming guilt in every case.
It means refusing to dismiss reality simply because it has not reached us personally. Listening.
No one has the full picture right away. It will come into focus.
But we are all responsible for how we respond when pieces of it finally surface.
And the least we can do—for those who carried the truth through fear, silence, and survival—is to stop saying “that never happens”
and start saying:
Tell me more.