Jane Doe: What It Cost Me to Report

From the DARCC Education Department

I did everything I was told I was supposed to do. I reported, responded to emails, showed up to meetings, and answered questions carefully and honestly. I followed timelines and procedures. I trusted the process, and it still cost me more than I expected. 

When people talk about reporting, they often frame it as a single decision. You either do it or you do not. What rarely gets named is that reporting is not one moment. It is a long series of moments that stretch across weeks, months, and sometimes years. Each step requires retelling. Each retelling requires emotional labor. Each meeting asks you to remember details your body would rather forget. The exhaustion is cumulative. 

I lost count of how many times I had to tell my story. Every retelling pulled me back into the experience and required me to be “clear.” I learned quickly that credibility can feel tied to consistency, tone, and emotional control. I worried about saying something wrong, forgetting something important, being too emotional, or not emotional enough. What I needed was space to heal. What the process required was performance. 

I was also in college, and my education did not pause just because I was going through a Title IX process. Meetings overlapped with class time. Concentration became a struggle. Assignments felt impossible on days when my nervous system was already overloaded. Extensions were not automatic, and understanding was not guaranteed. I wanted to be seen as a student who mattered, not a disruption to the schedule. 

Reporting also changed how I moved through relationships. People wanted to support me, and I pushed them away. I did not understand my own emotions, so I could not explain them to anyone else. One moment I wanted comfort, the next I wanted to be alone. I was overwhelmed, withdrawn, and exhausted, and I carried the weight of managing other people’s reactions while trying to survive my own. Holidays felt different. Family dynamics felt heavier. I had to decide who to tell, how much to share, and how to answer questions when I was already depleted. 

The first time I reported, the person who assaulted me was suspended. I was told this was accountability and that it was the outcome. It did not feel like enough. I had to push for more, ask hard questions, and advocate for myself in a system that already required so much from me. Eventually, he was expelled, but that outcome did not come automatically. Even when reporting leads to action, it often requires survivors to keep pushing while already exhausted. 

I was assaulted a second time, and this time I did not report. That decision carried its own weight. I knew what the process would ask of me. I knew the emotional cost of retelling, explaining, and waiting. Choosing not to report did not mean what happened mattered less. It meant I was making a decision based on what I could carry at that moment. Not reporting brought relief and grief at the same time, relief from the process and grief over the lack of accountability. Both can exist at once. 

There is no right or wrong choice. Reporting is not a measure of strength, and not reporting is not a failure. Some survivors report and feel empowered. Some report and feel worn down. Some choose not to report and feel peace. Some feel unresolved. There is only what each survivor needs to survive. 

Institutions can do better. Trauma-informed responses cannot stop at policy language or training slides. They must show up in flexibility, compassion, and a recognition that survivors are whole people, not just cases to be managed. Reporting should not require survivors to sacrifice their education, relationships, or well-being in the name of accountability. 

I am sharing this because I wish someone had told me what reporting might cost, not to scare me, but to prepare me. If you reported and you are tired, you are not weak. If you did not report and you still carry the impact, you are not wrong. You deserve care, dignity, and support, regardless of the choices you make, and you deserve systems that treat you like a human being first. 

-Jane Doe