Writing teen fiction novels about life after sexual assault was a deeply personal mission for Marie, who’d survived her own trauma. So why did the mainstream media only want details of the dark times she endured, rather than share her inspiring message of hope?

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I am a walking contradiction, spending my days treading a fine line between authenticity and diplomacy. Mostly, I fail. I believe in speaking my truth about being a rape survivor in a society that has told me repeatedly that my version doesn’t fit the accepted narrative.

I’ve always strongly believed that there is hope of recovery after sexual violence, and that you can shape your life into anything you want. The past doesn’t – and shouldn’t – have to define you.

For me and many of the survivors I’ve had the honour of connecting with, this positive outlook on life after sexual assault is one that everyone needs to know about. And yet it’s rarely allowed to be heard in the mainstream media – or indeed, society.

This is what happened to me…

A few years ago, I wrote a fiction book about a teenage abuse survivor and how the relationship with her rescue dog helped her recover. The aim was to offer a message of hope and reassurance to other young survivors in a way they could relate to.

My novel explored in diary form how the main character found security and strength after the trauma she’d suffered. She also offered a new perspective on the labels given to people who have been raped, as well as charting how they might overcome their ordeal. Essentially, it reframed the usual narrative in a far more positive way.

After 21 rejections, one publisher took a chance on me and together, we reached the final of The People’s Book Prize. When the nomination was announced, I cried at how incredible my achievement felt.

I imagined this would be start of a new conversation in the media and society, in which my positive message of life after assault could be discussed. After all, I’d gained a master’s degree, worked for a governing body of sport and the Department of Education, and become a successful fiction writer. I’d also completed an Ironman challenge as a symbolic way of reclaiming my body and mind from the damage my perpetrator had inflicted on me.

As a person, I was so much more than the assault I’d experienced. And I felt passionately that my perspective could be the catalyst that sparked a hope-filled dialogue for other survivors.

So when my first book became available to journalists, I was thrilled when the offers flooded in for print interviews, TV and radio appearances. I was sure my positive message had struck a chord.

How naive I was.

Sure, there was great interest in the fact I was a survivor myself. But the moment the journalist or researcher realised I wouldn’t be sharing the specific details and circumstances of my assault, interview offers were quickly withdrawn.

The list of excuses highlighted what I see as the problem with our often salacious and click-bait driven media:

‘Sorry, you’re too enthusiastic for this segment,’ one TV producer said, hotfooting away from her original offer to feature me in her documentary.

‘Sorry, on reflection, you don’t fit the narrative,’ said the journalist looking for real-life features.

‘Sorry, we need someone who has obviously been more affected.’

‘Sorry, but things have changed since we last spoke.’

‘Sorry, we need the details of your story as that’s what our readers want.’

Wait… What?

Do you, as a reader, feel more inclined to believe me if you find out the graphic details of the assaults I endured? If tears trickle down my face as I’m asked to recall some of the most painful and traumatising moments of my life in vivid detail, live on TV, do I ‘prove’ myself to be more relatable?

If a survivor chooses to share their experience, that is a privilege for their audience, not a right.

Of course, there are incredible role models who speak about what happened to them in detail and help others feel less alone through doing so. I’ve been bolstered by their courage, and for that I am grateful.

But for every survivor who chooses to share the details of their abuse, there’s another who opts not to. And we all deserve to be represented.

Whose narrative of survival is society endorsing if it considers enthusiasm to be at odds with being a survivor? Why are readers demanding intimate details? What is the underlying message to survivors when content focuses mostly on the horror of their ordeals? Are we saying that only those who feel able to share the darkest details are worthy of air time or column inches?

These questions matter because survivors are absorbing these narratives every day. They are being defined by their ordeal, not the person they actually are.

What about those people who find it triggering to hear details of other people’s traumas, and want to avoid them? Where are the positive, uplifting stories where the validity of a person’s survivor status isn’t dependent on their desire to share? Why aren’t we seeing more role models representing the survivors who don’t find it helpful to repeat their story?

There’s often an idea that being a victim of sexual violence or rape automatically means your life is over. I believe that simply serves to hand the survivor’s power to the perpetrator. It pushes an assumption that a criminal’s violence has to not only define their victim’s past, but shape their future too.

I want to offer an alternative narrative – one that shows there is light and positivity on the horizon, that there is the hope of a new start. I’m not saying the journey back to peace and acceptance is an easy one, or that survivors ‘should’ think the way I do. I’m just saying it’s an option that deserves a platform
in the media.

For all survivors, being believed is ultimately at the heart of their narrative, and taking back control of how and when they share their story is an important part of that. But I can vouch for the fact it is soul-destroying to be told that finding happiness, purpose and peace ‘doesn’t fit’ with the narrative the media – or society – wants.

After my trilogy was published, I received endorsements from experts and professionals in the field of sexual violence. I was buoyed too by adult readers of my books who told me they wished they’d read something like it as a young teenager. I’d hoped I’d be able to talk openly about its themes in the settings where I’d reach the most teenagers – schools and colleges.

Yet, if I had a pound for every parent who told me they didn’t want their child to read my books, or the uproar that would ensue if I was a visiting author at their teenager’s school, I’d be writing this piece from my private island.

(Spoiler alert: I’m not.)

The statistics

• 20% of women and 4% of men have experienced some type of sexual assault since the age of 16

• 510,000 women and 138,000 men aged 16 to 59 have experienced a sexual assault in the last year

• Approximately 85,000 women and 12,000 men
(aged 16 to 59) experience rape, attempted rape or sexual assault in England and Wales alone a year

• Only around 15% of those who experience sexual violence report to the police

• Approximately 90% of those who are raped know the perpetrator prior to the offence

Source: rape crisis/
crime survey for england & wales

I believe this wariness about bringing authors like me into a school setting stems from the fact there is only one type of media narrative, that the detailed retelling of past violence is inevitable. As a result, many parents mistakenly think that what I have to say or offer will be unsuitable for teenagers.

But teenagers are reading articles filled with details of assault every week. They are watching TV dramas that don’t seem complete without a rape storyline. And without a doubt, a proportion of them will actually be experiencing sexual violence, then being frightened into silence by the negative and detail-driven narratives they are being exposed to.

Take it from me, it’s much less frightening to be able to talk about rape and sexual violence in a safe environment than to not talk about it at all.

To be told that sharing my story of recovery, resilience and hope could cause ‘uproar’ hurts just as much as being told I’m too enthusiastic to be believed. There is no shame in talking about this subject matter in an authentic, positive way.

My hope is that by adding my voice to the others we more typically hear, and sharing my experience of hope and resilience, it will bring relief to as many survivors as possible. Because if we can hear more about the achievements of survivors and place less emphasis on the intimate details of their abuse, we can start to dispel the myth that sexual violence will ruin your life. It will enable people to step up and claim their power back in whatever way works for them.

For every survivor out there who is living their best life, for those on their way to living their best life and for those whose journey is still unfolding, I see you. Your story is yours and yours alone. What you do or don’t do with it is your choice entirely.

But by being unapologetically who we are and being given media platforms to share our journeys, we represent the full spectrum of survivors. And with that comes the most authentic message of hope there is – we have all survived 100% of our most challenging days.

*Marie Yates is an author, speaker and social entrepreneur. The success of The Dani Moore Trilogy was the catalyst for her social enterprise, Canine Perspective, where she brings the lessons we learn from dogs to life.

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