Me too. And now what?

The following is a guest post from UMBC alumna Juliette Seymour, MCS and GWST ’14, who was both inspired and incensed by the recent “Me Too” campaign. Although this widespread social media initiative has shed light on the pervasiveness of sexual violence and assault in our communities, Juliette writes about follow-through and next steps. 

Content note: Sexual abuse, rape, trauma

Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too. Me too.

Me too.

It’s endless. I cannot count the number of the “Me too” Facebook status I have seen since Sunday night. If you are not on Facebook, to provide some backstory, actress Alyssa Milano tweeted (a co-opted message from activist, Tarana Burke):

Screen shot from Alyssa Milano’s twitter: “If you’ve been sexually harassed or assaulted write ‘me too’ as a reply to this tweet.” Inset text reads: “Me too. Suggested by a friend: ‘If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me too.’ as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.”

Since then, my Facebook feed (and everyone else’s) has been nothing but “Me too’s.”

I posted one, deleted it. Then sat with a rock in my stomach. I’m used to this rock. It’s been with me since I was a child. This rock varies in size and weight, sometimes it’s small and manageable. Other times it’s large, growing past my stomach into my chest and throat making it nearly impossible for me to take deep breaths or speak. It’s grown as I have; the seemingly constant sexual abuse and rape that has happened throughout my life adding weight to this rock. You know this rock if you’ve experienced any sort of abuse/trauma. It sucks.

Quilt square from The Monument Quilt.

I sat with this rock in my stomach for a while. My overactive mind weighing the pros and cons of this campaign (I don’t know if that is the proper term, but honestly, I’m not here to overanalyze that aspect). Should I repost? Why did I delete it? Why did I hesitate to post in the first place? Why did it feel wrong?

Then it clicked.

We’ve already stood up. We’ve already put a mark on our backs. We’ve already gone to the police to be dismissed. We’ve already sat through questioning from everyone, and I mean, everyone – how long was your skirt, did you drink, have you had sex before, why were you out at night, why did you let them, why didn’t you say no, have you had sex with them before, aren’t you married, why didn’t you fight back, didn’t you want it at first, why didn’t you say something sooner – to be told it was our fault. Even though it is never EVER our fault.

We’ve been through this motion before.

Think of all the people who have stood up and said “Hey, Bill Cosby/Woody Allen/Donald Trump/Harvey Weinstein/Sean Penn/Dr. Luke/My friend/My family/Your friend/Your family/etc., has raped/sexually abused me.”

What happened to the survivor? Now, what happened to the abuser in these situations? If you don’t already know the answer, take a moment, think about it. What happened to Trump? Cosby?

The answer is nothing. Nothing happened to them. Hell, one of them is sitting in the oval office.

Where are the Facebook statuses of abusers/rapist saying “I did it” so we can understand the severity of this? Where are my supposed ‘allied’ cis men standing up to their friends when they make rape jokes, or catcall? Or rape. When are we going to start holding abusers accountable? When are we going to refer to our brothers and fathers as rapists, instead of our sisters and mothers as victims? When are we going to ask why did you rape instead of why were you raped? When are we going to teach how not to rape instead of how not to get raped?

Quilt square from The Monument Quilt.

When are we going to actually listen to survivors? And then when are we going to do more than just…listen?

I don’t have all the answers. I wish I did.

But what I do have is this:

First, and most importantly –  If you posted a Me Too status, if you didn’t, if you don’t believe that your story is “real” enough, if you are not safe or comfortable enough to post; I see you. I hear you. I believe you. You are not alone. And I love you.

Second, and almost as important – Now what?

I’m not going to post a Facebook status, sit back, and pretend it did something. I’m not going to do that, and I’m asking you to do the same. And I know it hurts, it’s painful, uncomfortable, and seems impossible. Trust me. I know what it feels like to not be able to speak the things that happened to you (and very slowly getting to a point where you can kind of talk about it in therapy). I know what it feels like to be retraumatized with panic attacks and sleepless nights following. I know what it feels like to have to live with your abuser. I know what it feels like to question, “Was it rape? Was it my fault?” (and accepting that yes, it was rape, and no, it’s not my fault).

I know.

But, we have to be uncomfortable, we have to work through the pain, we have to support each other in our respective journeys to healing.

Quilt square from The Monument Quilt.

So here is my action plan. To hold myself accountable, and to provide a possible road map for you. I do not know what your story is, how your healing will come, or what will happen. Hell, I don’t even know if my plan will work. But for right now, it’s all that I got:

  1. Go to therapy
  2. Delete Facebook off my phone (at least for a few days)
  3. Check-in with myself (you have to put the oxygen mask on yourself first) and then friends
  4. Start volunteering with the Monument Quilt again (the studio is close to my house, and I made myself email them before finishing this post to ensure I followed through)
  5. Look into support groups for survivors


I cannot stress this enough to my fellow survivors: This is in no way to shame or put down those who have found comfort/strength/healing through this hashtag Facebook thing (I still don’t know what to call it). I hope with all of my heart that this creates a sense of community, love, healing, and will do the thing it’s supposed to do. This is not directed towards those who find healing through these means, I’m happy you have that. I am SO happy you have that.

This is me wanting more from society. Not you.


And, an important note on race: I am white. This is my white perspective. Race obviously plays a role in this. I do not feel adept to write about that. I do not want to assume/overpower or write for POC because their voices should be raised.

Quilt square from The Monument Quilt.


  • For more information and resources related to sexual assault and gender-based violence, visit our website or contact the Women’s Center at 410.455.2714.
  • For more information about reporting at UMBC, the sexual misconduct policy, or Title IX, visit UMBC’s Human Relations website
  • The photos above are from the Monument Quilt. For more information, visit their website.



Healing My Community

Daniel Willey A reflection by Women’s Center staff member Daniel

Trigger warning for suicide mention; resources at the bottom of the post

My community experienced a tragedy early this October, and the ripples from the impact are still cascading across campus and beyond. I woke up that morning to several messages from friends and coworkers telling me what I already knew: a dear friend had passed from suicide.

This friend was a very private person whose spouse has also asked for privacy. In order to respect their wishes, this blog post isn’t about her. That said, I’m incredibly sad about her passing and I miss her every day and I certainly don’t want anybody to forget her. Ever. She was insatiably curious and incredibly smart. She cared deeply for her community and the students she encountered. And now she’s gone.

My friend was a trans woman and she was active in the community of queer and trans students on campus. Her death had an enormous impact on that community, and we continue to be impacted by it for many reasons. Many, and in fact most, of us in the queer and trans community live with mental illness, neurodiversity, or both, and to see it overtake someone who tried so hard for so long is discouraging at best. Mostly, it’s frightening. According to the National Transgender Discrimination Survey Report on health and health care, 41% of trans people attempt suicide in their lifetime. In the face of all of this, it’s been so hard for my community to see the light.

But also in the face of all of this, I’ve seen some incredible coming together. We are a community who has had to learn how to take care of each other. It can be difficult because sometimes we can’t even take care of ourselves, but when shit really hits the fan I know I have people I can be with. There are people with whom I can cry and talk frankly about how fucking bad it feels. And then we hold each other and support one another and even though we’re all having a hard time, we’re doing it together.  Continue reading