I Am Jane Doe

On dignity, safety, and the power of being believed

[Content warning: sexual assault and harassment]

A recent headline has caused national attention related to an assault that occurred on a college campus. On a human note, it has reignited conversations about human dignity, safety, and the power of being believed. On a personal note, it has also brought back a vivid memory I have carried with me since the summer before college.

In the case now widely known as the Cornell Seven, a young woman identified as Jane Doe has alleged that she was drugged and raped by fraternity members at Cornell University. As I read her story, the many online opinions, and the scrutiny surrounding the institution’s response, I have recognized something familiar to many women: the confusion, the self-doubt, and the fear of speaking up.

On social media, women have been posting “I am Jane Doe” in solidarity, with some also telling their own experiences. While the details of our individual stories differ, those words stayed with me.

Behind every Jane Doe is a human being whose story deserves dignity and care. These difficult stories are often hard to think about, but they challenge us to examine our own assumptions and to resist the urge to turn away.

I’ve been sitting with this one for a while, because I, too, am Jane Doe.

It was the summer after I graduated high school in the small town where I had lived my entire life. I was the classic “good girl” - not perfect by any means, but goodness I sure tried. (Bless my heart.) I was a rule follower who checked all the boxes: straight-A student, co-captain of the cheerleading squad, senior class president, homecoming queen. Regular church attendee and leader in my youth group. I was awarded a full-ride scholarship to my dream university, and I was extremely eager and optimistic about the future.

None of those accomplishments made me any more deserving of safety or respect, but my lifelong identity as a “good girl” made it difficult for me to understand an unexpected experience that I wouldn’t be able to explain or control.

That summer, I attended an orientation camp for incoming freshmen on my new college campus. It was a week spent learning university traditions and forming friendships with other incoming freshmen. But it also brought a haunting experience and an important lesson that I had never anticipated.

The first time that the camp director - an adult male university employee - approached me and struck up a friendly conversation, I thought nothing of it. He seemed like a charismatic, funny guy and I appreciated him taking the chance to acknowledge me, among the thousands of other college students he was overseeing that week. I continued to see him in passing over the first couple of days, and he always made eye contact and smiled, acknowledging me. It seemed friendly enough, and admittedly I even began to feel a little special. I was previously a leader in my small high school class, but I was now only a face in a crowd among several thousand incoming freshmen.

But one night at a camp social function, he found me among the crowd. And by found me, I mean that he came up behind me on a crowded dance floor, groped me, and whispered a sexually explicit comment in my ear. I was caught off guard completely. This was very unexpected, and I didn’t know what to do.

“Was my outfit too revealing?”

“Was I dancing in a way that made him say/do that?”

I remember my mind racing with these thoughts, while simultaneously feeling paralyzed. I was so caught off guard and didn’t know how to immediately respond, so I just nervously laughed and then tried to distance myself from him.

That night laying awake in my dorm bed, I questioned my own experience and wondered if I had possibly imagined it. Surely not, the camp director? The employee entrusted with all of these college kids? I was in disbelief, so I brushed it off and told no one.

The next evening there was an outdoor movie on the lawn outside our dormitories. I was seated among new friends, laughing and enjoying the show, until someone ahead of me caught my eye. It was him. He was also seated on the lawn among a group of students but was clearly looking directly back at me. When I caught his gaze, he began to make sexual gestures towards me. Again, I was in disbelief. This was a man in a position of leadership, whose job was to make the incoming freshmen feel comfortable on campus. And he was doing anything but that.

Throughout the rest of the week, he continued to find me among the crowds, always saying or doing something that made me feel extremely uncomfortable. I felt like I couldn’t escape his gaze, no matter where I was on campus. I intentionally made sure I was never alone, especially around him. I still told no one.

On the last day of camp, my parents arrived to pick me up. I couldn’t have been more ready to leave the campus that I had previously been so excited to visit. As we loaded my suitcase into the back of our car, I breathed a sigh of relief that I was finally distancing myself from a man who had made me feel so uncomfortable.

But, as if to remind me that I couldn’t escape him, he drove by on the university golf cart and slowed as he approached our car. He smiled and waved, as if to innocently say goodbye. In that moment, I felt threatened knowing he had found me in the crowd yet again and was silently warning me not to say anything to my parents...but I knew I had to.

His predatorial behavior had repeatedly targeted me, and I was afraid it would escalate. I was dreading my return to campus when the semester started, because I was afraid of seeing him again. I feared he would have access to student records and dorm assignments, and I knew I would be constantly looking over my shoulder.

The series of conversations that happened next are now a blur in my mind. I can’t remember if it was on the drive home or if it took me a few days, but eventually I recounted the week’s events to my older sister, who also attended the university, and my parents. Though I knew deep down that this man was the problem, I also questioned what I had done to bring this on. (Why is this a common thread in so many women’s experiences?)

This is where my Jane Doe story fortunately takes a different route than so many others who were silenced or brushed aside after coming forward.

My sister and parents listened to my story, and they believed me. Here’s what they did NOT ask:

Are you sure?

What were you wearing?

How were you dancing/sitting/walking/talking?

They simply believed me. And then they took action. After documenting my statements, my family contacted the university and filed an official complaint. They prioritized protecting my dignity and never pressured me to continually retell my story. The university officials promised anonymity.

I was Jane Doe.

Through a series of meetings, emails, and phone calls, my family advocated on my behalf. I was grateful, but I was still terrified and even questioned my decision to come forward. What would this mean for my scholarship? Would this complaint against a university employee jeopardize my future or cause retaliation in some form?

Eventually, we received official notification that the camp director had been terminated. I felt tremendous relief, and I hoped that action would protect other young women, too.

Through this experience, I learned how quickly someone else’s harmful actions can become questions we turn against ourselves. Was it my fault? What had I done to cause this?

I also learned the difference that safe adults can make. My parents and older sister listened, believed me, and helped carry the burden of speaking up, in a situation where I was technically an adult (18) but also still practically a kid in many ways. I wish every person who experiences something like this had that same support.

(If you recognize yourself in this story, someone else’s decision to violate your boundaries is not your fault. You deserve safety, support, and someone who will listen. Whether or when you tell your story, your dignity and worth does not change.)

Now as a mother, I have the same kind of fierce love for my daughters that my parents do for me. I am teaching them from a young age to use their voice and to never make themselves smaller in an effort to protect someone else’s reputation. I’m teaching them about their God-given worth and value, and that their story matters. I’m teaching them that their body belongs to them and that no one has the right to exploit it. I’m teaching them to say something when they see something.

These lessons belong to sons as much as to daughters: respect another person’s boundaries, understand consent, and speak up when someone is being harmed.

I ended up staying at that university (on scholarship) and graduating six years later with my doctorate… alongside a classmate who would later become my husband. But it often strikes me how my story could have unfolded much differently. If I didn’t have safe adults in my life to advocate for me, or university officials who were willing to believe me and take corrective action, I’m not sure where I would have ended up.

This is what our world needs more of. This is what our children, our neighbors, and our friends need more of. We need a culture of safety that works to prevent harm, provides protection for people who disclose it, and holds those who are responsible accountable, regardless of title, position, or status. We need respect for the dignity of Jane Doe.

In a world where we can be anything, may we be courageous enough to speak up for our vulnerable neighbors and friends, humble enough to confront our own assumptions, and persistent in teaching our children about the dignity and value of every human being.