Realizing I had been assaulted didn’t come in a rush or a sharp pang, but instead, like a dull ache that eventually demanded my attention. For months, I had tucked the memory into the recesses of my mind, packaged it in layers of justifications and denials, hoping that if I left it there long enough, I might eventually find the headspace to deal with it. It didn’t. It lingered. It whispered.
The truth has a way of making itself known, no matter how hard you try to bury it. And one day, when it hit me, it came with a wave of anger I didn’t know how to contain.
When I finally let myself hold that memory for what it was, the grief poured out in unexpected ways—on the walk home from the grocery store, while rinsing dishes, in the middle of an unremarkable Tuesday, or lying awake in bed. In those moments, I also began to see how I’d built walls around myself in all the wrong places, becoming hard and overprotective in ways that didn’t shield me but instead kept me from the very care I needed. In trying to protect myself and my partner from harm—real or imagined—I had unknowingly let my fear dictate the space we shared, making it harder for either of us to truly breathe or heal.
Grief, as I’ve learned, is a shapeshifter. It doesn’t wait for you to be ready. It comes as it pleases, relentless and unyielding.
At first, my instinct was to want justice. Not the kind that comes from courts or bars or cages. What I really wanted, if I’m being honest, was violence. I wanted the sharp, visceral satisfaction of seeing him hurt the way he had hurt me. I wanted accountability that felt as harsh as the harm inflicted on me. I wanted to unfeel the weight of what had been done. I wanted someone else to carry that weight for me.
It’s easy to believe in abolition when it’s theoretical, when the hurt isn’t raw and personal. It’s much harder when the harm has landed squarely on you. Sitting with that tension—between my pain and my politics—was excruciating.
Photo by Daisy Isumi.
It happened a little over a year ago. He was someone I trusted—my partner at the time, someone I had worked alongside in our collective. He was part of my community. That night, he tried to rape me. He was drunk and high, but that doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t soften the reality of what he did. I fought back.
I don’t remember much of the sequence anymore. Trauma has a way of blurring the edges—but I remember the betrayal.
Even now, I find myself clenching at the memory, trying to make sense of the betrayal. I remember the disbelief in my own mind, I wonder if I’ve been sleepwalking too, trying to reconcile the person I thought I knew with what he was doing.
What followed was a kind of anger I had never felt before. Not just anger at him for what he did, but anger at myself for how I responded. Even after the assault, I let him stay in my home. Rent-free. I shared my meals with him. I made space for him when I barely had space for myself. I held him through his darkest moments, even when my own grief threatened to drown me.
Why? Because I believe in abolition–an end to systems of punishment and harm that don’t actually heal, that don’t make anyone safer–in community care, in humanity—even his. Unfortunately, I also confused myself into believing that the world I am fighting for, the one I dream of, requires me to extend care even to those who harmed me.
But the more I gave, the angrier I became. Not because I cared too much, but because he gave nothing in return. No apology. No accountability. No acknowledgment of what he had done.
I waited. I waited for him to take responsibility, to name what he had done, to make an effort to repair the harm he caused. I held out hope that he might come to terms with himself, with his actions, to show me that he was capable of growth, of change, of care. But he didn’t. He went on with his life as if nothing had happened, while I carried the weight of his actions alone.
And the anger grew. It grew until it filled every corner of my being, until it spilled out in ways I couldn’t control. I was angry at him for what he did. I was angry at myself for staying.
I was angry because I let him gaslight me into questioning myself, that maybe I hadn’t done enough. I was angry at a world that lets people like him off the hook, that demands the survivors of harm do all the work of healing while the perpetrators walk away unscathed.
I questioned myself relentlessly. Why did I stay? Why did I support him after what he did? Why couldn’t I just walk away?
And, perhaps the hardest question of all—how do I practice forgiveness when my body is still processing what forgiveness even means?
The truth is, I don’t have all the answers. But here’s what I do know: practicing abolition isn’t about pretending harm didn’t happen. It’s not about excusing or erasing. It’s about confronting the reality of harm and imagining something different—something better. It’s about leaning into the difficult, uncomfortable work of healing, even when every fiber of your being wants to lash out instead.
What I wanted—what I still want—is accountability. I want him to say the words: I hurt you. I am sorry. I was wrong. I want him to acknowledge the harm he caused—not just to me, but to our community, to the values he claimed to believe in. I want him to sit with the weight of what he did and to make it right.
I’ve started to understand that healing isn’t linear or clean. It’s not something that arrives on a timeline. Some days, I am furious. Some days, I am tender. Some days, I am both, and I am learning to let that be okay.
After close to two years of waiting, I decided to cut the cord. Not because I gave up on abolition, but because I realized that abolition doesn’t mean abandoning myself. I let go of the hope that he would take responsibility, not because accountability doesn’t matter, but because waiting for it was breaking me. Photo by Aishah Rahman.
It is not easy to reconcile believing in abolition with holding someone accountable when they refuse to meet you there. I haven't changed my mind about abolition, but I also believe in anger.
I believe in its power to demand change, to hold people accountable, to push us toward something better. And right now, I am angry. Angry at him. Angry at the silence. Angry at the fact that the work of healing has fallen entirely on me while he continues to live his life unbothered, untouched by the harm he caused.
But practicing abolition doesn’t mean I have to let go of my anger. It means I have to hold it carefully, intentionally, without letting it consume me.
It means I have to believe in the possibility of transformation—not just for the person who harmed me, but for myself as well. It means I have to trust that justice doesn’t have to look like punishment, that healing doesn’t depend on pushing the pain aside until I feel ready to confront it. There are days when this feels impossible. When the ache of what happened feels too big, too unbearable.
But on those days, I remind myself that abolition isn’t just a set of policies or a political stance—it’s a practice. It’s something I have to choose, over and over again, even when it’s hard.
Especially when it’s hard.
I am no longer waiting for him to say he’s sorry. I’ve let go of that hope because I know it may never come. But I will never stop demanding accountability—not just from him, but from the world we’re trying to build. A world where harm isn’t ignored, where accountability isn’t optional, and where justice isn’t just a theory but a practice we live every day.
This is the struggle. It is hard. It is exhausting. It is infuriating. But it is necessary.
And if you need a reminder of why this struggle matters, I hope you can find it in the small moments of connection and care—in those who hold you when it feels like the world has let you down, in the communities that dream alongside you, in the quiet resilience of your own heart.
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Note:
I have ended all ties with s.k and will not collaborate with him in any capacity moving forward. Not now, not ever. I owe it to myself to honor that boundary, and I owe it to others to make it clear where I stand.
