WHY I CRAWL
I crawl because of you—my unnamed attacker.
Unnamed, because after all this time, I am still afraid of you. Afraid that if I name you, you’ll sue me, because I was too scared to press charges a decade ago. Afraid that you’ll come after my character, that people won’t believe me. Afraid of what my boys might read about their mommy. I didn’t press charges because of fear—fear of you, fear of giving you the space to hurt me again.
I CRAWL because you thought it was okay to join a group of men who were my friends—to argue over who got to take the drugged, poisoned Summer to bed. I am so angry you won. I am so angry that y’all played a game over who got to destroy my life. Why was that even a conversation? Why couldn’t it have been about who was going to make sure I got home safe?
I wonder now—how did you win? Was it rock, paper, scissors? Who could shotgun a beer faster? WE were friends. I helped you get out of jail two nights before, for running from a bouncer. I don’t remember much, but I remember faceplanting on my way home, blood everywhere, and I was able to get up and smile—wasn’t that enough for you to know? But you did know. That’s why there was a game.
I crawl because you raped me, and I can’t remember the worst thing that ever happened to me.
I crawl because when I woke up confused the next morning, you laughed.
I crawl because you told me I kept saying no, kept trying to push you off—and I don’t even remember fighting.
I crawl because you went home and bragged to your friends about your ‘winnings.’ Because they wrote about it in the fraternity newspaper for all to see.
I crawl because even now, a decade later, a wife, a mother, someone who has fought so hard to heal—I still sob. I am still crawling.
And now, it’s not just me.
My husband has to see me cry for what you did.
Want to know a secret? On our second date, when most people are flirting, I told him he didn’t want to date me because I was broken. Because I was still crawling.
My children will one day hear people blame me for my own assault. “She shouldn’t have gone to that party.” “She shouldn’t have been on birth control.” “She shouldn’t have accepted that drink.”
Do you know what it’s like to hear your two-year-old ask his daddy, why is Mommy crying?
So today, for the first time, I am telling you the devastation you brought into my life.
To you, it was a moment.
To me, it has been a decade of crawling.
You might think I’m soft-hearted, that I should just “move on.” You might think, “this happens all the time in college.”
And maybe, once, I would have believed you—if it weren’t for all the survivors I’ve met along the way.
A woman raped as a toddler, still remembering, still sobbing.
A 50-year-old raped at 16, still choking up.
A woman whose mother was raped at six years old, on roller skates—how it shaped her, how it shaped their entire family.
A woman raped at 18—who spent 30 years figuring out how to “move on.”
Your actions of one night have lasting effects.
Effects that have made me crawl for far too long.
And I will never forget your laugh when you explained what you did.
You know what else is crawling?
The way things stand in Texas.
Did you know that because you didn’t hand me my drink, because I took the poison willingly, and then you took advantage of me—it’s not even considered rape in Texas?
You were inside me while I tried to push you off, saying no—and it isn’t rape?
Did you know that even though I finally feel ready to say your name, to call you out for what you did—I can’t?
Because I waited too long. Because I spent 10 years healing, recovering, crawling.
In 31 states, there is no statute of limitations.
In Texas, it’s 10 years.
I’ve been crawling for 10 years—and now, what happened to me has “expired,” like bad milk in the fridge.
Like what you did now means nothing.
It’s a crawl to send emails every day, emailing senators and representatives.
It’s a crawl to train for a marathon on my hands and knees, to be a nobody trying to make them listen.
It’s a crawl to make them care—not just about what happened to me, but about the new person who is assaulted every 68 seconds.
Why don’t they care?
Why don’t they care?
Why don’t they care?
So Thomas. Or Shawn. Or John.
I ask you again:
Why am I crawling a marathon?
Because this—this is what it has felt like to get to this moment right now.
The moment where, for the first time in 10 years, I have the courage to be okay with not being okay.
To be angry—at you.
At our system.
At all the stories I’ve heard along the way that are just like mine—with no change in sight.
But this marathon isn’t about a marathon.
It’s about what happens after those 26.2 miles—when I get up from my hands and knees.
I’m done crawling.
I will walk up the steps of the Capitol with our Texas leaders, and I will stand tall.
I will let every survivor know:
This is the LAST TIME WE CRAWL.
I will testify.
I will make calls.
And I will make sure that every survivor knows:
There is strength in crawling.
There is hope in standing tall.
And there will be change.
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