On a Sunday afternoon in October 2018, in the midst of the #MeToo reckoning, a dozen women gathered in a friend’s living room. They’d come at my invitation. Incensed by ongoing revelations of sexual violence against women, I had to do something. A survivor of sexual assault, I couldn’t let my anger fester like an open wound.

Responses to my email invitation came almost immediately.

“Yes,” women wrote. “I will be there.”

Underlying our correspondence were injustices that had become apparent since the beginning of #MeToo. Men who had escaped consequences for years. Women who had suffered in silence.

“No justice, no peace.” An ambiguous refrain with multiple layers of meaning, this implies that perpetrators of violence — including violence against women — must be held accountable in court. Without legal justice, the saying suggests, inner peace isn’t possible. But for the one in five women who are sexually assaulted, most never experience justice through the courts. 

I am one of those women.

How do survivors find peace when there is no justice? When their perpetrator is not identified? When they choose not to report to the police, for any number of reasons? When the legal system fails them?

To heal, survivors must be heard.

The beginning of my secret

I opened our time together by telling my story.

“In my early 20s, a stranger raped me after a run in Paris,” I began.

A black eye and bloody nose prevented me from hiding what had happened. I had to tell the couple I nannied for. In the days that followed, I told two trusted friends in Paris. The woman I worked for encouraged me to report to the police. I repeated the details to a therapist and a doctor.

And then I went silent.

I didn’t tell family or friends back in the U.S. I didn’t want my parents to summon me home. I was ashamed. And I blamed myself because I’d been running alone in a park when it happened — in defiance of warnings my mother had doled out since childhood.

I stayed in Paris, determined not to let my attacker chase me away. I built a community of support and searched for healing. For peace.

And I hoped for justice.

Near the end of my one-year nannying commitment, a thick manila envelope arrived from the Paris police. My hands shook as I tore it open and pulled out a packet of papers. Skimming the letter on top, I read, “… no new leads … closing the investigation … unsolved file … .” Enclosed was a copy of the investigator’s report. Details I’d tried so hard to forget, in black and white.

My tears held a mixture of anger and relief.

No one would be held accountable for the damage to my body and soul. But I wouldn’t have to revisit those moments in a courtroom.

On my way to the airport and back to the U.S., I tossed into a Dumpster the clothes and shoes I’d been wearing when the stranger raped me.

Getting rid of the evidence and going home brought some peace, for a time. I moved on with my life and kept my secret. I didn’t want others to feel sorry for me or label me as a victim. I didn’t want sexual assault to define me.

But when my body wouldn’t let me forget, I had to start talking. To therapists. Trusted friends. Eventually, to my family.

I had to find my own peace.

Feeling supported, feeling seen

Some of the women gathered had heard pieces of my story before. But this was the first time I’d shared details with a group.

“What happened to you is horrible,” one woman said after I finished.

Tears streamed down my face.

“I’m so sorry,” said another, grabbing my hand and squeezing it.

Others shared similar comments. I felt held in the circle. Supported. Seen.

For the next two hours, women shared their stories of sexual harassment and sexual abuse and assault.

“It’s so hard to say this out loud.”

I’d known these women for more than a decade, but I’d never heard these stories.

“I needed a safe place to talk about this.”

We weren’t there to “fix” or counsel. We were there to witness one another’s grief, fury, shame, and sorrow. We shed tears. Expressed anger. Laughed together. We left the circle having shared sacred time. Stories around a fire of hope.

None of us was miraculously healed. But we had each taken another step on the ongoing and unending path toward peace.

We had been heard. Seen. Believed.

Telling our stories of sexual abuse, assault, and harassment has power, whether we choose to share with a therapist, a spiritual companion, or a trusted family member or friend. The shame and self-blame that often accompanies sexual violence diminishes when spoken aloud.

To heal, we must be heard.

The peace that came from being heard, seen, and believed by a circle of women gave me the courage to tell my story to a wider audience. And to say to others the words I most wanted to hear after being raped: I believe you. It’s not your fault. You are not alone.

The legal system is only one route to peace. And even then, closure or healing is not guaranteed. No, it is not the justice system where survivors will find peace. It is through the telling of our stories.

Every survivor’s story matters.

Collective change and internal peace happen one story at a time.

Deborah Svec-Carstens, J.D., MTS, is a writer, lawyer, and spiritual director from West Des Moines. She is writing a memoir about the beginning of healing after sexual assault. Contact: sveccarstens@gmail.com.

This article originally appeared on Des Moines Register: Opinion: One survivor’s story of finding peace without justice