When I was a freshman in college, I was raped by a guy that I really liked. He begged me to go out with him for weeks, and I finally gave in. The first time we were together it was, well, it was okay. I could tell he was self-conscious – maybe even a little inexperienced.

I suppressed those memories, probably for too long, because I was ashamed; I couldn’t believe I was naive enough to actually feel that this boy had ever cared about me or had any intentions of taking care of me. When I finally confronted the events that occurred that night in that disgusting dorm room, I started feeling uncomfortable in a lot of spaces on my campus. Every stare in the dining hall, every innocent touch at a crowded event, every person that mentioned sexual assault in a classroom – it all felt strangely personal. Everything seemed related to this one horrible event and I couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow everyone knew. Quickly, this fear that someone would find out absolutely consumed my life. I was so terrified that they would never look at me the same way, or believe me, or even worse – that they would blame me. I walked around campus, suddenly feeling like I didn’t belong, like nobody would ever understand or want to understand. I was so completely vulnerable and so utterly alone; it was a feeling that seemed so impenetrable and so incomparable, until it wasn’t.

At first, I wasn’t sure if it was because I paid attention or merely out of coincidence, but slowly more and more people around me were experiencing similar things. As horrible as it was to relate to my friends, it was almost a relief; like I wasn’t so utterly alone after all. Yet, it wasn’t just because I paid attention and it sure wasn’t out of coincidence that I learned about my friends, peers, and co- workers’ experiences with assault – it was much simpler than that. It was because sexual assault happens more often than most people realize and nobody talks about it.

One night when I was attending a sorority event, nearly every person in the room opened up about a story just like mine. Although it was a hideous thing to hear, it helped me to open up more, to not feel so ashamed, to not feel so utterly alone. It finally felt like I had a place on my campus and in this world for that matter. Through spaces that were made for women, or survivors, or which simply harvested a safe environment, a community was born. Here, the care and understanding of others made me feel whole again. I was part of a family of survivors that made the bad days bearable and the good days better; and let me tell you, that makes the time and effort it takes to create spaces like this so incredibly worth it. Safe spaces aren’t excessive, useless, or dispensable – they are necessary.

The author of this article currently works at a think tank in the U.S.A. and wishes to remain anonymous.