We Can Do Better, And I Know We Can
Content Warning: This survivor story includes mention of physical violence and police reporting.
We need to do better for victims, and I know we can.
A little over a week ago, I walked into a precinct to report an assault that left my arm bruised and swollen. I had been threatened to remain silent, warned that if I continued reporting my history of childhood abuse, the next attack would be worse. Just a few months earlier, I had walked into a precinct and reported years of abuse I had endured.
At first precinct, I was met with empathy and compassion. I was taken to the Special Victims Division, where I spoke with a detective who understood the implications of trauma. Our first conversation lasted six hours, and I moved through it ten seconds at a time because that was all I felt I could handle. At one point, I froze completely, unable to move past the fear in front of me. We sat in silence, and somehow that silence felt safe. “I believe you.” And for the first time, my story didn’t fall into silence, it was heard.
Three months after this, I found myself in another police station, but this experience was entirely different. As I tried to explain what had happened, my anxiety escalated and my words became fragmented and difficult to follow. Instead of listening, the officer continued to interrupt me, reshaping my words into something I wasn’t saying. Her patience wore thin as my fear grew. Then she stopped and asked, “Do you know the difference between the truth and a lie?” She drew two pictures, labeled A and B, and explained them to me as if I didn’t understand basic facts. “So you’re telling me two different stories, which one is it?” Before I could respond, she continued, “You know there are people who experience real crimes and need our help?” By that point, I was in a full panic, struggling to breathe, the room spinning around me. “You know it’s a crime to lie to a police officer?” I nodded, unsure how I had suddenly become the one being questioned. Another officer stepped in when he saw how overwhelmed I was, but she remained in the room, quietly laughing. I looked up at her and said the only thing I could manage: “You don’t have to believe me, just please stop laughing at me.”
And in that moment, I regretted everything. I regretted ever walking into that Manhattan precinct and telling my story. I understood, in a way I never had before, why so many survivors stay silent. I was sitting there, three months after reporting years of abuse, with an arm so swollen I couldn’t move it, wondering how I would safely get home, while the person I had turned to for help laughed at me. I felt small, powerless, and insignificant, just as I had for so much of my life.
There were so many things I wanted to say to her. I wanted to explain that trauma changes the brain, that fear overrides the prefrontal cortex and makes it nearly impossible to think, organize, or speak in a clear, linear way. I wanted to explain that what she saw as inconsistency was not dishonesty, but the result of a severely traumatized nervous system trying to survive. But I didn’t say any of that, because my body wasn’t trying to educate her, it was trying to get through the moment.
This is how I know we can do better, because I have seen what better looks like. If my first experience had been like my second, I don’t know if I would have ever reported at all. If we are going to ask victims to recount the moments they were harmed, we have a responsibility to understand what trauma does to the brain and body. We need to create safety before we demand clarity. We need to listen before we question. A victim’s story cannot be separated from the survival mechanisms that kept them alive. When we mistake trauma responses for dishonesty, we don’t just fail victims, we silence them. And when we silence them, we allow cycles of abuse to continue.
We can do better, and we have to.