When Release Doesn't Mean Freedom
When Release Doesn't Mean Freedom
Hi All,
As some of you will know, in the coming weeks, the man I believe raped me will walk free.
For a long time, I thought that day would break me.
He is serving a sentence—but not for what he did to me. He was acquitted at my trial. Someone else's courage to speak out led to his current conviction, and yet… even knowing he is behind bars never truly gave me peace. Because when you've lived through rape or sexual violence, the sentence doesn't end when the door of the prison closes. It continues in our bodies, our minds, our everyday lives.
As his release date draws closer, I feel the storm inside me again—rage, fear, grief, even guilt. I find myself looking over my shoulder. I feel the tension in my chest. And I think of all those who don't just live with the memory, but with the person themselves—still walking the same streets, sharing the same spaces, being forced to breathe the same air as the person who caused them such harm.
That reality is brutal. And yet, I know many survivors live with it every single day.
If you are one of them: I see you. I feel you. I honour your strength.
Because survival is not just about the day of the trauma—it's about every day that follows. It's about finding a way to exist in a world that has been made unsafe by someone else's actions, and still choosing to keep going. Still choosing to hope. Still choosing to live.
I won't pretend I have it all figured out. There are days when the weight feels unbearable. But there are also days—like today—when I can write these words and trust that maybe someone else will feel less alone.
What I have learned is this: we cannot do it all alone. Getting help—whether through therapy, counselling, or support groups—has been vital for me. The right tools can make all the difference when the world feels overwhelming. Sometimes it's learning how to breathe through panic, sometimes it's having words for what was done to us, and sometimes it's simply having someone safe to say, "I believe you."
And just as important is the community we build around ourselves. Finding people with good intentions, people who lift us up and make space for our healing, is part of the survival too. They remind us that we are more than what was taken from us.
To my fellow survivors: we are not defined by their release dates, their sentences, their freedom. We are defined by our courage, our resilience, and the quiet, powerful ways we keep choosing ourselves.
If you are struggling right now, please remember—you don't have to carry this on your own. Support exists. Safe spaces exist. And you deserve to be heard, believed, and held in compassion.
I don't know what the coming weeks will bring. But I do know this: I am still here. And so are you.
Together, we are more than what was done to us.
Le grá,
Hazel xx