It took courage to report my sexual assault. 608 days later, everything fell apart

I was at the YWCA Regina's coffee tree browse ready and waiting(p) for my latte when an email from the coronate prosecuting officer’s assistant popped up on my phone. 

It had been 608 days since I reported my sexual assault, which had happened roughly four years earlier.

Finally, the trial was one week away.

Everything I had been bracing for was suddenly here.

I opened the email.

I read it once.

I read it again.

I must’ve been reading it wrong.

But I wasn't. The Crown prosecutor had decided to stay the charge against the man after deeming there was insufficient evidence to proceed. There would be no trial for my case.

My mind raced with questions when it came to reporting a sexual assault

I had to wait for my coffee as if nothing had changed. But everything had.

The most important thing to me — the potential of a guilty verdict — had been stripped from my hands.

It felt like reporting my assault had all been for nothing. 

When I finally got my coffee, I walked to my car as fast as I could. The moment I closed the door, I completely fell apart.

I was a 20-year-old university student when the assault happened. I met him on a dating app. I thought I could protect myself, but I couldn't. 

I immediately knew what happened was sexual assault, but I still couldn’t bring myself to go to the hospital or report to the police.

I was too scared. I didn’t trust the legal system, and I felt like reporting would consume my entire life.

I didn’t want that. I just wanted to shower, sleep and try my best to move on.

The day after, I made a list of reasons why not to report, among them: 

Truthfully, I also blamed myself for what happened. 

I’m a feminist. I believe women. I support survivors. I know the assault wasn’t my fault. I would say that to any other woman without hesitation.

But when it came to me, the rules changed. I became the exception.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve been better.

I should’ve done more.

Why didn’t I do more?

I chose not to report and I felt immense guilt over that decision.

For two years, I kept living, but I was not the same person as before.

I told myself I had “moved on.” In reality, I had pushed everything down.

I couldn't face my shame — for meeting up with him, for letting my guard down, for not fighting, for being nice afterwards, for not reporting.

Yet, I still kept going. I didn’t let this define me.

I confided in my friends and therapist.

I graduated.

I started my master’s program.

I joined the YWCA Regina board of directors, which gave me a sense of purpose. I stayed silent about my own experience as a victim and survivor of gender-based violence, but I felt like I was making a difference — even if I wasn’t ready to share my own story.

I was back on track.

But two years after it happened, I was scrolling through Facebook when I found a warrant for sexual assault.

It was him. And there was another victim.

I knew then that I had to report what happened to me. It didn’t feel like a choice.

It wasn’t about my healing anymore. It was about making sure he wouldn't hurt someone else.

When I filed my report with the police, I couldn’t have imagined the impact it would have on my life.

It was 608 days of unrelenting pressure — waiting, trying to make sense of what was happening, analyzing, preparing.

I finally had to face the weight of what happened to me and how seriously it was being taken by the justice system.

It was more than I could handle, consuming hours of my life, every single day.

“How long until you’re done your master’s?” people would ask.

I couldn’t tell them I wasn’t the same person I used to be. I had almost dropped out. My thesis sat untouched for over a year.

I felt like a shell of myself.

Before reporting, I had the privilege of pushing everything down. After, that wasn’t possible anymore.

My mind couldn't stop reeling.

What if he was found not guilty? What if he was found guilty and it was my fault for ruining his life? What if I remembered it wrong? What if I’m to blame?

I went over things again. And again. And again.

When I reported, the legal system became intertwined with my healing. I began to see the outcome as more than just a verdict.

I needed a guilty verdict for it to matter.

But things fell apart.

When my case ended abruptly a week before the trial was scheduled, the Crown prosecutor didn't even tell me himself and the earliest he could meet with me to discuss the reason was in 13 days.

“This is not treating victims with respect and dignity,” I wrote back in reply to his assistant's email.

I was left to find a way to move forward on my own.

Over time, I’ve come to realize that telling my story is part of what matters.

That is true for who I am today, and the many versions of me. 

The 20-year-old girl whose world was shattered; the 22-year-old whose life was again turned upside down when she found out she wasn't the only one; and the 24-year-old who felt like the only thing that mattered had been stripped from her. 

Even though I didn’t get to tell my story in a courtroom, I’m doing it now.

I wish I could say the pain was worth it. That I don’t feel regret about reporting my sexual assault. But that would mean downplaying the 608 days I endured without making it to trial.

The justice system may have failed me. But there's still power in sharing my story.

To find assistance in your area, visit Sexual Assault Services of Saskatchewan for a list of support services throughout the province. 

In Saskatoon, SSAIC operates a 24/7 crisis line in partnership with Saskatoon Crisis Intervention Service at 306-244-2224. In Regina, the Regina Sexual Assault Centre operates a crisis and information line 306-352-0434 or toll free: 1-844-952-0434.

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Freelance contributor

Serra Al-Katib lives in Regina. She's a master’s student researching leadership, gender and workplace well-being and is a proud board member of YWCA Regina.

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