The night of the National Championship, January 2013, was supposed to be a moment of celebration. I was 20, a sophomore in college, and my dad had raised me to be a lifelong Notre Dame fan. It was a big deal—Notre Dame had finally made it to the championship after years of waiting, and I couldn’t wait to watch the game. But that night would be remembered for something else entirely.

After watching the game with friends at Sig Ep, I was drunk—Notre Dame was getting blown out by Alabama, and the alcohol blurred everything. But as the night wore on, something started to feel off. Steve, a friend from the house, tried to keep me there, forcing me to stay when I was clearly ready to leave. It was uncomfortable, unsettling, and I started to realize that there were moments I had dismissed as just “weird,” but in hindsight felt far darker.

I managed to get away and ran across the street to the Delt house, thinking I’d find refuge there. Scotty G, a senior, a “friend,” helped me into one of the couches, gave me a blanket to cover up. But this wasn’t the safe place I thought it would be. Not even close.

The Moment of Silence: When Rape Happens, and You Don’t Even Know It

I remember the Notre Dame jersey, the tan mini skirt, and the combat boots I was wearing. A strange outfit, a stranger feeling. I didn’t expect anything to happen that night, let alone the violation that would be forever imprinted on my memory. But then, Scotty G was there. His finger went up into me. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t move.

I didn’t even have the vocabulary for what was happening. I didn’t know how to recognize it. I didn’t understand it. It took me years to understand. And that’s the thing no one tells you. It’s the shock, the confusion, the way your brain doesn’t allow you to process it until much, much later. It’s not like you’re lying there knowing it’s wrong, it’s like being in some kind of mental freeze, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to make sense of anything.

I stayed there, pretending to be asleep, pretending that maybe if I just stayed still long enough, it would stop. But it didn’t. He came back. And it happened again. And still, I said nothing. Not because I didn’t want to—because I was too terrified to know what to do. I didn’t know how to say, “this is rape,” because no one had ever told me what rape even looked like.

The Unspoken Truth: Power, Privilege, and the Men Who Get Away With It

What makes this all the more frustrating—and painful—is knowing that in the world we live in, Scotty G would’ve gotten away with it, regardless. He was a senior frat boy, popular, well-liked, with status in our social scene. No one would have believed me. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have the words to explain it—it was that I had no chance of being believed.

That’s the sick truth. The powerful men, the ones with the privilege, always seem to escape. They are protected by the very structures that are supposed to hold them accountable. Back then, I knew that if I had told someone, it wouldn’t have mattered. If I had said anything, he would have denied it, and I would’ve been branded the girl who “didn’t know how to handle her liquor.” I would’ve been the one blamed. He, the powerful, untouchable frat boy, would be the one to remain safe from any real consequences.

And maybe that’s what made me so numb to the entire thing for so long. It wasn’t just the immediate aftermath—it was the deeper realization that even if I had known better, there would have been no justice. The system wasn’t set up for me to win. The people who were supposed to protect me would have turned their backs, either because of my lack of status or the man’s undeniable privilege.

The Aftermath: Holding onto Shame for Years

For 10 years, I carried the shame of that night. I didn’t tell anyone, not even my closest friends, because I couldn’t bear the idea of being called weak or stupid for letting something like that happen. I convinced myself that it was my fault—maybe I’d flirted too much, maybe I’d done something to invite him in. I buried it, buried it so deep that even after I got married, I couldn’t confront it until it hit me like a wave, 10 years later, in a conversation with my husband. I broke down, not knowing where the tears were coming from. Was it shame? Was it sadness? Was it the fact that I had kept this all locked away for so long?

And when I did finally talk about it, I was struck by a horrifying realization. I started asking the women in my life—friends, sisters, coworkers—if they had ever been raped. And the answers were always the same. They would either say yes, or hesitate, only to later admit they, too, had been assaulted and never recognized it for what it was. This has become the reality for so many women.

The Ugly Truth: Why is Rape Treated Like a Fact of Life?

Why do we live in a world where rape is treated as inevitable? Where we assume that every woman, at some point, will be sexually assaulted, and that it’s something that just happens to you—like a bad meal at a restaurant, or an inconvenient experience? Why is it that we, as women, have to carry this knowledge, this horrible expectation, that our safety is never guaranteed?

The fact that Scotty G has two little girls now, daughters of his own, only makes this truth even more painful. It’s terrifying to think about how many men like him are raising children in this world. Men who could potentially raise daughters who will live in fear, just like I did. The irony is unbearable. It’s terrifying to imagine what kind of world those girls will grow up in, knowing that people like their father exist.

The Fight for Change: I Will Not Be Silent

Here’s the thing—I’m not okay with this. I’m not okay with the fact that rape happens to so many women, that we live in a world that allows it, that no one is truly held accountable for the trauma they inflict. I’m not okay with the way we treat this issue like it’s a natural part of life.

I’m not okay with the fact that I was violated, and that too many women are violated, with no one batting an eye. But I will not remain silent. I will speak. I will write. And I will do whatever I can to change this world.

We deserve better. We deserve to live in a world where our bodies are ours, where men like Scotty G don’t get away with this—where no one gets away with this. And maybe, just maybe, if enough of us speak up, we can start to shift the narrative. We can start to create a world where the next generation of girls doesn’t have to live in fear, and where men like Scotty G are held accountable, not just with shame, but with justice.

Conclusion: A Call for Justice, a Call for Change

This isn’t just my story—this is the story of every woman who’s ever been assaulted, who’s ever had her body taken from her without consent. We need to stop pretending this is okay. We need to demand a world where this no longer happens.

I won’t be silent anymore. And I hope you won’t be either.