I’ve retold the story of what happened to me on Sept. 23, 2021 to the point where it doesn’t feel like my story anymore. I initially thought this was a coping mechanism. Detachment is a feeling I came to know well after the release of my op-ed detailing my experience with Evanston Hospital. 

In the following weeks, I was overwhelmed by a barrage of interview requests from journalists and calls from Northwestern administration and investigators. People (re)entered my life to offer support, condolences, or, in rare but upsetting cases, attempts to insert themselves into the narrative. This was on top of managing my typical academic and extracurricular workload (and sanity). So, I had no choice but to take myself out of the equation. 

It’s become clear to me over the past few months that my self-imposed separation from my story stems from something less easily identifiable than trauma. Mirroring the circumstances that led me to write my op-ed in the first place, I was hurt by institutions I trusted to treat me with respect.

To say all I received were “interview requests” would be facetious. My inbox was flooded, though I intentionally did not provide readers with any contact information. I received inquiries from journalists on Facebook and LinkedIn. A producer from a nationally-televised morning show got ahold of my personal phone number and called me multiple times per day requesting an interview, even offering to fly me to New York so I could share my story in the show’s studio. A Chicago-based radio station emailed my academic advisor urgently requesting my contact information, just because my name is listed on the department’s website. My family, too, received requests in a similar vein. Apparently, when I signed my name to my story, I and those closest to me gave up our right to privacy. 

I’m lucky my mother has years of experience with handling media inquiries, or else I would have buckled under the sheer number of requests I received. I was able to deflect or ignore most requests without feeling guilty. However, the inquiries I did accept did a number on my mental health. I was misquoted in one prominent publication; when I called to request for that mistake to be removed from the article, all they did was delete my last name. I broke down on the phone with an education reporter from a different national paper when she pressed too far down a line of inquiry that brought back memories I was not ready to reckon with personally, let alone in front of a national audience. After both calls, I felt hollow, helpless and as exposed as I’d been on that hospital cot weeks before. 

Was I a person or a story to these reporters? I ask this with genuine curiosity, because I do not believe any of the reporters acted with malice. Whenever I doubt this conclusion, I think about how the morning-show producer, whose actions were the most invasive, profusely apologized to my mother after she confronted him about his behavior. I haven’t heard from him since. And, I’m not deluding myself by thinking these reporters were supposed to be my friends; they had a job to do.

Yet, I refuse to believe that apologies after the fact are enough. My story was sensitive, and it should have been obvious that I was too. I hope this producer, as well as the other journalists whom I interacted with, understand where I’m coming from. I doubly hope they prove this by acting with genuine compassion (and I mean genuine, not just as a means to an end) toward future interviewees. This starts and ends with not invading their privacy in the manner that mine was breached. 

If you’re reading this looking for an outpouring of trauma, that is not — and never was — what I want to provide. I’m definitely not asking for pity. I’m glad that, for the most part, I’ve been able to distract myself and move on as news coverage has. I did have a disappointing engagement with the Office of Equity. Its final report was littered with language affirming my credibility, but it refused to hold anyone accountable for what happened. I was, for better or for worse, expecting that. 

Yet, there is a part of me that still feels exploited by how little say I had over my body and my words, and another less rational part of me that’s upset I couldn’t fulfill the expectations some of those journalists had for me. All I had to share were the words I’d already written, yet people came to me expecting more, like some scathing takedown of Greek life. That’s not the story I wished to tell, nor the one that fit my experience that night and the nights after. So why do I feel like, in some way, I failed? How could I have not already said enough?

The truth is, I wrote my op-ed so I wouldn’t have to say anything else to anyone else. There, in writing, was my experience in its purest form, wielded as a weapon. In calls with administration, I could tell I was being brushed off, and I was fed up. I didn’t want to go public with my ordeal, but I knew I wouldn’t be listened to otherwise. Unfortunately, my assumption was proven right. I’m confident my article caused positive change to the operations of Evanston Hospital, so I have no regrets about what I did. But I have to live with a retelling of the worst night of my life being the first thing people see when they look up my name. I also gave up the right to anonymity in the resulting investigations of my allegations. The bottom line is that I shouldn’t have to put anything else out there, not unless I explicitly declare that I want to. 

A few days ago, the editor of this section asked me what The Daily could’ve done better in the aftermath of my experience. Honestly, I was taken aback by this question. Through all the stress I underwent in the wake of my op-ed’s publication and its resulting virality, The Daily and the student-journalism community as a whole was an integral part of my support system. Without the help of students far more engaged in the world of journalism than I’ll ever be, I can’t imagine I would’ve even written about my experience. So, I had, and have, nothing negative to say. I just hope all of the future journalists at this school maintain this empathy, because if they do, I’m optimistic about the future of the press. It’s possible that, sometime in the next few decades, people like me will not be forced to retell their story until it ceases to feel like theirs. 

If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to [email protected]. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.