This is the last post I will ever write here. I’m done with blogging. I’ve been done for a while, really, but it’s time to shut it down deliberately.

If you’re looking for something light or uplifting, this isn’t it.

Some readers may find the following distressing and may wish to stop here.

This is a story about my past – one that shaped my future in ways I still live with. But it’s also a story about everyday life: everyday assumptions, everyday thoughts, everyday reactions. And my everyday reflections on all of it.

Some will understand. Some will agree. Many won’t. That’s how humans are. We carry different viewpoints. I care deeply about people who aren’t like me at all. We disagree on many things. We may disagree on this too. I’ve learned that disagreement doesn’t cancel care.

When I was 19, I was working on the LSU campus. I got a bad headache and walked home to my tiny studio apartment just off campus. I was wearing a short, off-the-shoulder romper – cute, fashionable at the time, and yes, something some people would call provocative.

I lay down and went to sleep.

I woke up later – no idea how much later – with a knife to my throat. A group of young men were there. I won’t go into details. That isn’t the point.

What stays with me is what came afterward.

My mom asked what I wanted to wear to the hospital. I had another outfit just like the one I’d been wearing, and that’s what I chose. For a second, I wondered if I should cover myself more. If my clothes had played a role.

Then I realized they hadn’t – and they never would. And I realized I didn’t owe the world compliance.

This was before anyone talked about believing victims. Before phrases like believe her existed. Before public conversations about blame and responsibility. Before the language existed to explain what I already understood instinctively: that changing myself would not make the world safer.

I chose another romper. I kept my head high. I refused shame.

I didn’t know I was being brave. I didn’t know I was advocating for myself. I just knew I wasn’t going to shrink. I wasn’t going to disappear.

For any number of reasons – upbringing, belief systems, learned fears – humans often reflexively, almost instinctively, try to decide what the victim could have done differently. What they should have done instead. If only they had… as though understanding harm requires finding fault.

There’s no need to feel sorry for me. No need to hug me or tell me you’re sorry. It was a lifetime ago. It changed me, yes – and probably always will – but that isn’t why I’m sharing this.

This isn’t just about one crime. Or one gender. Or one type of harm.

This is about any crime against any victim.

So I’ll leave this space with one final reminder:

Don’t blame the victim.
Not for their clothes.
Not for their choices.
Not for assumptions.

Responsibility belongs to the person who caused the harm. Always.