Jane Doe Goes Home for the Holidays - The December my family thought I was fine

By Jane Doe, Survivor, and the Dallas Area Rape Crisis Center

If you are reading this and you are carrying something heavy, DARCC’s 24-hour sexual assault hotline (972-641-7273) is available. You do not have to survive alone, and support is here whenever you are ready. 

That fall of my freshman year, I was sexually assaulted. 

I reported through my school’s Title IX office. I told my story in statements and meetings, answered hard questions in front of people who barely knew my name, and prepared for a hearing that felt like putting my pain on trial. By the time winter break came, I was exhausted in a way I did not know how to explain. 

On my phone, my family was talking about plans. My aunt was figuring out food. My sister sent messages about outfits. Everyone was excited I was coming home. From the outside, it looked like a normal first year home from college. On the inside, I felt like I was walking back into a life that still expected the version of me from before. 

When some people know and some people do not 

By December I had the words for it. Sexual assault. Title IX. Hearing. Some people in my family knew. Not everyone. 

The ones who knew were trying to be strong for me. They carried their own worry and anger and checked in when they could. The ones who did not know were just happy I was home. They wanted stories about campus and new friends. They wanted to see pictures and hear what college was like. 

So I kept switching between two selves. 

With relatives who did not know, I said, “School is good. It is a lot, but I like it.” I talked about classes, roommates, the campus. I kept everything light. With the few who did know, I answered questions like, “Have you heard anything yet” and “How is the process going,” even when I wanted to say, “I am so tired of talking about this.” 

It was exhausting to remember who knew what and to manage different reactions. At the same table I was both “the girl who just finished her first semester” and “the survivor in the middle of a case.” Both were me, but neither felt like the whole truth. 

Holidays when your body remembers everything 

For other people, the case was paperwork, updates, and an eventual outcome. 

For me, it lived in my body. 

I jumped at sudden noises. I struggled to sleep. I needed more space than people were used to. Sometimes a touch on the shoulder made me flinch. Being in loud, crowded rooms with family took more energy than anyone could see. 

That break, it looked like: 

Leaving the room to get air when I felt like I might cry. 
Saying no to hugs and not having the words to explain why. 
Laughing at stories while my mind replayed hearing questions. 

Most people just saw a quiet, tired college student. The ones who knew saw more, but none of us had a script for how to handle it. One of the hardest parts was the emotional work of protecting other people. With those who knew, I worried about making them upset if I was honest. With those who did not, I kept hiding the truth so they would not ask more. It felt like my job was to make the story easier to hold for everyone but me. 

What helped me hold on 

Even in that season, there were things that helped. 

On campus, before I left, I had seen slides that said, “You are not alone” and “We believe survivors.” I had met advocates who explained the Title IX process and reminded me that what happened was not my fault. I knew there were people whose whole job was to sit with survivors and listen. I carried those conversations with me into winter break. 

There were also small moments from my family that helped, even when they did not know everything. My sister asking, “How are you really.” A family member not forcing a hug when I pulled back. Someone giving me a quiet room to sleep in and not making it a big deal. 

Those moments did not erase what happened, but they gave me a little more room to breathe. 

If this is you this December 

If you are going home this December and you have been assaulted, have reported, or have gone through a hearing, I am thinking of you. 

Maybe some of your family knows, or maybe none of them do. 
Maybe your story exists in files and emails, and you still feel like you are the only one carrying it. 

You are not ungrateful for finding the holidays hard. 
You are not dramatic for feeling tired all the time. 
You are not wrong for needing space and boundaries that other people do not understand. 

You do not owe your full story to everyone. 

It is okay to talk to only one trusted person. 
It is okay to not talk about it at all while you are home. 
It is okay to leave the room, to change the subject, to say, “I cannot talk about this right now.” 

You are trying to move through a season that was not built with your reality in mind. That does not make you difficult. It makes you human. You deserve support that is about you, not just your case. Advocates, counselors, campus or community programs, and crisis centers exist for you. You are more than a report number. You are more than what was done to you. 

When I think back to that version of myself at the holiday table, I wish I could sit beside her and say: 

You are allowed to be tired. 
You are allowed to feel whatever you feel. 
You are more than this. 

My hope this December is that every Jane Doe who goes home carrying something heavy finds at least one thing that makes the load lighter. A resource that leads to real support. A friend who really listens. A family member who quietly asks, “What do you need” and means it. Or even the decision, “Next year, I am going to reach out for help that is about me.” 

Wherever you are, whatever you are carrying, your pain is real. Your story matters. You are not alone, even if no one around you knows what you survived. 

Signed, 
Jane Doe