Every single day I faced the man who sexually assaulted me

Looking over my left shoulder, all I could see was his smile. 

My pyjama bottoms were around my shins. I could feel him inside me. I knew I had to make it stop, but his grin – as if it was the most normal thing in the world to help yourself to someone’s body as they slept – locked me in place.

Somehow, my voice made its way out of my constricted throat and I heard myself say, ‘What are you doing?’. 

Then I woke up, covered in sweat.  

Though it was only a nightmare, it was a literal replay of one of the most traumatic nights of my life. And for days now, I’d been watching the same scene as I slept. There was no more hiding from this, no matter how much I wanted to.  

I was breaking and I’d have to do  the one thing I’d never been able to: ask for help.  

Ten years earlier, when the assault happened, I’d been living in a flat in London. I had so much hope for the future, certain I was exactly where I was meant to be and knew how my life would turn out.  

That all changed when I was violated, by someone I’d met at work. Someone I thought was my friend. Someone I was meant to be safe with – only I wasn’t.  

I hid it well. From the outside, you would never have noticed the difference in me: I was smiling big and making everything look perfect. On the inside, however, I was numb.  

From the moment the assault happened, I blamed myself; it must have been something that I said, or did, or didn’t do or say.  And that belief only solidified after I texted him the next day to ask why he assaulted me and he responded saying: ‘I’m sorry, I thought it was what you wanted?’.  

This Is Not Right

On November 25, 2024 Metro launched This Is Not Right, a campaign to address the relentless epidemic of violence against women.

With the help of our partners at Women’s Aid, This Is Not Right aims to shine a light on the sheer scale of this national emergency.

You can find more articles here, and if you want to share your story with us, you can send us an email at vaw@metro.co.uk.

Read more:

• Introducing This Is Not Right: Metro’s year-long violence against women campaign
• Remembering the women killed by men in 2024

His response became my shame. I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, too afraid they would blame me as much as I blamed myself.   

Even on the day my boyfriend met my assailant at a work function I said nothing, my stomach turning as they shook hands.

People assume that when something like that happens, you walk away and have nothing to do with them. If only it were that easy. I saw him every day at work; I did stop speaking to him for a while, but people noticed, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell them why. 

There was a big part of me that believed if we could be friends again, it would make it go away somehow.

But when someone you trusted violates and hurts you, you stop trusting yourself and your choices – it’s hard to believe you could be so wrong. You still see the person you thought they were, not the monster you met in a moment.  Going back to being friends with him was easier than admitting even to myself what he’d done.  

However, the weight of what happened was dragging me down, pulling me away from everyone who loved me. I began to believe that I wasn’t worthy of being loved; I didn’t think something like that could happen to someone worthy of such affection. 

I pushed the memory away and if it ever resurfaced, I’d tell myself I was fine. Sometimes I actually believed it.   

Then in 2013, I blew up my life. I left my boyfriend and gave up my home and job, hoping that a drastic change would make me feel something.

I spent nine weeks on an island learning to dive, then sofa surfed my way around London while I found a new career – one that demanded all my time, so I didn’t have to think. A few years later, I moved to the other side of the world to try and escape the overwhelming feeling of darkness beneath the smile on the surface.  

For a while, it worked. I kept myself busy with adventures, meeting new people and a job in an industry that demanded 12-14 hour workdays.  

Part of me was still scared to be alone, as that’s when the memories would try and escape their cage. 

But when Covid hit, I had no choice. The feelings I’d worked so hard to repress began to bubble to the surface and come bedtime, the nightmares were relentless. When I closed my eyes, he was there.

Eventually, I decided to reach out to a therapist. I could no longer stop the tears, and the depths of my pain became too much for me to handle alone.  For five months, we worked together on facing the reality of what happened and its impact – how it layered on top of other sexual assaults I’d experienced in the past and added together to create this sinking feeling that I was worthless.  

He always referred to my ability to disassociate as my superpower, an instinct that kept me safe. But with his help I learned to be more aware of when it happened. 

I’d love to say I’ve stopped doing so since then, but it is still the first thing my mind does to protect me. The only difference is, I now also try to take notice that I’m doing it and consciously choose to feel those emotions –  even if I know it will be painful. 

Ever since the day I chose to pretend the assault didn’t happen, I abandoned myself. I stopped thinking about my emotional needs. I stopped letting anyone in because if I could keep them at a safe distance, they wouldn’t be able to hurt me.  

Three years after the assault, I started a blog, ironically as a way to share the ups and downs of my life with friends and family. The sexual assaults I’d suffered, however, especially the last one, were moments I’d always planned to keep to myself.  

However therapy made me understand the importance of sharing and speaking up when it came to healing. My therapist had helped me see that the shame I’d been carrying wasn’t mine and I wanted others to be able to realise the same thing about themselves.

I read it once, crying the whole time, and for a moment, my finger trembled over the enter key, afraid of what people would think. But something inside me said it was time. I took a breath and hit publish before I could change my mind.  

My body shuddered with every notification, but thankfully, instead of judgment, I was met with love and understanding.  

Nothing will ever make what he did OK. He put his wants above my consent. I had to find a way to accept that it happened, that I trusted the wrong person, that I did nothing to be ashamed of.

Most importantly, I had to accept and believe that his actions do not define me or my worth. That’s why I will never refer to myself as a victim or a survivor, as to me that will keep me defined by his actions.    

The pain didn’t magically disappear after I spoke up. Even now, five years after writing that blog, it can still surprise me. Only, I now have the capacity and skills to sit with it and not let it overwhelm me. Life has definitely got a lot more colour to it these days.  

As hard as it was, I am glad that I faced the pain of my sexual assault and found my voice.

Originally published November 16, 2025

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