Day 50: Choosing My Own Healing
Processing Trauma, Holding Space and Trusting My Intuition
I’m sitting on a plane to Abu Dhabi, continuing to process the last ten days. I’ve been open with many people about what happened because I know that talking about trauma helps prevent it from festering and resurfacing years later.
Some people have been better than others at holding space for me. That said, I am certainly surrounded by much stronger support now than I was at 18 and 24 when I experienced previous incidents with men. For that, I am grateful.
As I sit here reflecting, I find it interesting how, when you disclose that you’ve been a victim of physical or sexual violence, so many people immediately advise you to go to the police.
It happened when I was eighteen and assaulted on the street. The first person I told was my mom. I hadn’t planned to tell her, but I was traumatized and in tears when she came into my room. Her first suggestion was that I report it to the police, saying it would help keep other women safe. I understood her reasoning, so I did what she said, even though my intuition told me otherwise.
That night with investigators was one of the worst of my life. I had to explain why I waited 24 hours to report it, how much I’d had to drink, what I was wearing, why I had gone out alone. I was called to the station multiple times. I had only one drink that night, but I couldn’t recognize the man—probably because my brain went into freeze mode to protect me. A female officer reassured me during my final session: You’re not the only one of his victims who couldn’t recognize him. Even women who fought back couldn’t identify him.
The entire ordeal with the police was just as traumatic as the incident itself, dragging on for months. In the end, I believe the man received a two-month ban from using the subway, since he had been stalking women there—a laughable consequence for sexual assault.
The next time I was in danger was in Spain. I got into a car and immediately sensed that the driver was about to harm me. I jumped out before anything could happen. Even though police were nearby, I didn’t bother reporting it. What could they do? Arrest a man because I felt he was about to abduct me? I had been drinking again, so I wasn’t the “perfect victim.” I knew no one would believe me. Reporting it felt like a waste of energy, so I walked away.
This time, I was completely sober when it happened. I am traumatized. My body reacts to unexpected sounds. I haven’t slept solidly since Sunday. But I know that once again, I am not the perfect victim. I went alone to a man’s hotel room. I put myself in danger.
Some people have questioned my response: Why didn’t you say something on the Zoom call? Why didn’t you just cancel it? I took two Zoom calls for work directly after the incident, still in his hotel room…which is wild to me in hindsight. But my brain was in absolute shock. I hadn’t even processed what had happened. People talk about fight or flight, but scientists now recognize a third response: freeze. That was my response. I simply went about my evening, unable to comprehend what had taken place.
Then comes the inevitable question: Did you report this? In those first twelve hours, I was purely in survival mode. My priority was getting out of Uluwatu and back to the safety of my home in Ubud—not going to the police.
And when people find out I haven’t reported it, the advice shifts: You should report this!Women have been urging me to go to the police since day one. By Tuesday, I started to listen and got police contacts. But reporting meant traveling 2–3 hours back to the neighborhood where it happened, to the police in that banjar (local community organization). That gave me time to think: Do I really want to report this?
The truth is, I don’t. And that’s heartbreaking, but here’s why: I don’t believe in any legal system’s ability to protect women. It doesn’t matter if it’s Spain, Bali, or Canada—the system is not built for us. Without physical evidence, there will be no action taken. And because I am not the perfect victim, the blame will fall on me. What did you expect, going to a man’s hotel room alone? The man will likely leave Bali with no consequences, while I will have retraumatized myself for nothing.
I was also advised to contact a woman in Bali known for exposing perpetrators on social media. I know who she is—she’s huge on Instagram. And while I respect her work, that kind of public shaming is the last thing I need right now.
People say I should report it to protect other women. But realistically, I don’t see how my report would do that. If I had solid evidence, maybe. But in this case, I need to protect myself first.
At 18, I was vulnerable and did what my mom told me. At 32, I trust myself to make my own decisions. When someone suggested I go to the police, I responded, I will decide what is right for me. And I am proud of that.
I think people push victims to report because they’re uncomfortable sitting with the reality of what happened. It’s easier to say go to the police and give a legal solution to someone, then to give them an emotional solution and hold space for someone’s pain. Some people have been able to look me in the eye, absorb my story, and witness my emotions. Others jump straight to legal advice, maybe as a distraction from the suffering.
Before I left Bali, I went to a doctor in Ubud. They didn’t say, you should go to the police.They said, you should get counseling. Then while sitting on the plane to Abu Dhabi, I got a WhatsApp message to follow up: Did you get counseling? Their focus was on my wellbeing, not on whether I took legal action.
As if divinely orchestrated, I ran into a friend at a café in Ubud the night before I left Bali. He’s a mental health professional. When I told him my story, he didn’t urge me to go to the police. He simply said, Sadly, I don’t think they’ll be able to do anything. Like him, the other mental health professionals I’ve spoken to have focused on one thing: me. My healing.
That night, as my friend and I sat at dinner, we watched a bizarre scene unfold. A man had ordered five pizzas and then refused to pay, claiming he misunderstood the menu. He thought the sign saying “All Pizzas for 80K” meant that he could have every pizza in the restaurant for 80K (which is about $8 Canadian dollars. It turned into a ridiculous standoff. He had a friend with him to enjoy the pizzas, who was offering to pay, who we later learned was just a stranger he had invited for dinner with him, making the scene even more ridiculous. My friend and I stayed to make sure the restaurant staff weren’t taken advantage of. In the end, the man paid, but not before putting up a dramatic fight.
And as absurd as it was, my friend and I had the biggest belly laughs of our lives over it.
And laughing that hard—that was a good sign. A sign that I am moving forward. A sign that I am healing, in my own way, on my own terms.