The Epidemic We Still Don’t Take Seriously: A Study on Sexual Abuse in America

Sexual Abuse Study
Written By Trinity Barnette

By Trinity Barnette

After writing about the trial of Sean “Diddy” Combs—a case involving sex trafficking, violence, and decades of silenced victims—I realized something: these stories aren’t rare. What makes them stand out is who is on trial, not what they’ve done.

Because here’s the truth:

The United States has a sexual abuse epidemic.

One that is rarely televised, often ignored, and systematically protected.

This post isn’t just an emotional reaction to a headline—it’s a deep dive. A breakdown of the statistics, the silence, the survivors, and the systems that fail them. We’ll look at the scope of the problem, the cultural rot that normalizes it, and what the numbers actually tell us.

Because until we stop treating sexual abuse like a side issue—until we stop minimizing, dismissing, or glamorizing violence against women—we are part of the problem.

This isn’t just a study. It’s a wake-up call.

The Scope of the Problem

We live in a country where sexual abuse is constant—and yet rarely taken seriously. The statistics are staggering, but they don’t always get the headlines. Why? Because they don’t involve a famous face. They don’t trend on social media. But that doesn’t make them less true.

Here’s the truth:

These aren’t just numbers—they’re people. Friends. Family. Survivors who often suffer in silence, not because they want to, but because they’re afraid of what will happen if they speak. Or worse—because they already tried and were dismissed, ignored, or retraumatized.

Sexual violence doesn’t live in the shadows because it’s rare. It lives there because we let it. Because our systems are broken. Because our culture minimizes it. And because too many people still ask, “What was she wearing?” instead of, “Why did he think he had the right?”

Types of Sexual Abuse & What Consent Actually Means

When people hear the word “rape,” they often picture a violent attack by a stranger in a dark alley. But that’s not the most common scenario. In 80% of cases, the perpetrator is known to the victim, such as a friend, acquaintance, partner, or family member. 

Sexual violence comes in many forms, including:

And here’s where the conversation really breaks down: consent.

Consent is not just “she didn’t say no.”

It’s not “she was into it last time.”

It’s not “she didn’t fight back.”

Consent is an enthusiastic, informed, and sober yes.

It must be freely given, reversible, specific, and clear .

If someone is drunk, high, scared, silent, or unsure—it’s not consent.

If someone feels like they’ll be punished, hurt, or manipulated if they say no—it’s not consent.

If someone says yes to one thing but not another—that doesn’t mean everything is fair game.

Too often, abusers twist the narrative to protect themselves. They say, “She was into it.” They say, “She didn’t say no.” But the reality is, real consent never relies on power imbalances, fear, or silence.

And if someone has to wonder whether it was assault? That should tell you everything.

The Aftermath — The Psychological Toll on Survivors

Surviving sexual violence isn’t just about living through the moment—it’s about surviving what comes next. The confusion. The silence. The shame. The trauma that doesn’t just fade—it embeds itself in the body, the mind, the memory.

For many survivors, the abuse itself is only the beginning of the damage. What follows is often years—sometimes decades—of psychological aftermath that’s rarely visible but deeply real.

According to RAINN and the National Sexual Violence Resource Center, survivors of sexual abuse commonly experience:

Survivors often struggle with trust, intimacy, and self-worth. Many find it hard to maintain relationships, succeed at work or school, or even feel safe in their own bodies. Some blame themselves. Others try to minimize what happened just to function. And too often, they’re told to “move on” or “stop dwelling.”

But healing doesn’t follow a timeline. And the effects of sexual trauma aren’t just “emotional”—they’re neurological, physiological, and deeply embedded.

The world tells survivors to be quiet.

The justice system tells them to prove their pain.

Society tells them to get over it.

And all of that only compounds the harm.

Why So Many Survivors Stay Silent

One of the most harmful questions people ask is:

“Why didn’t they speak up?”

As if silence equals consent. As if coming forward is easy. As if the system was ever built to protect the people it routinely fails.

The truth? Most survivors don’t speak up because they already know what happens when they do.

According to NSVRC and RAINN, the majority of sexual assaults are never reported. In fact:

And when survivors do report?

  • They’re doubted.

  • They’re blamed.

  • They’re asked invasive questions about what they wore, drank, or said.

  • They’re retraumatized by courtrooms, cross-examinations, and public judgment.

  • And in 975 out of 1,000 cases? The perpetrator walks free.

Silence isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s often a survival strategy.

Survivors stay silent because they’ve seen what happens to the ones who speak.

They watched what happened to Cassie when she came forward. They’ve seen the way powerful men are protected. They’ve learned that sometimes, your story isn’t enough to matter—unless the world is finally ready to hear it.

And yet…

Every single survivor who does speak out? That’s bravery. That’s resistance. That’s a revolution.

Rape Culture, Media, and the Normalization of Abuse

We don’t just live in a world where sexual abuse happens—we live in a world that excuses, normalizes, and even glorifies it.

That’s what rape culture is: a system of beliefs, media, and behavior that minimize sexual violence, blame victims, and protect abusers.

We see it when people say:

We see it when:

We see it in media headlines that say “Sex Scandal” instead of “Sexual Abuse Case.”

In memes that joke about consent.

In interviews that humanize the abuser but never name the survivor.

And we see it in music, in film, in sports, in comedy—in the everyday ways we let abuse slide because “he’s talented” or “it’s complicated.”

Rape culture teaches us that:

  • A man’s reputation matters more than a woman’s trauma.

  • If you were drunk, you deserved it.

  • If you didn’t fight back hard enough, it wasn’t really rape.

  • If you enjoy sex, you can’t be violated.

  • If you speak up, you’re ruining his life.

But survivors don’t ruin lives—abusers do.

And until we dismantle the culture that protects them, we’ll keep raising boys who think domination is desire and girls who think silence is safety.

When “Promising Futures” Outweigh Justice

In April 2025, a Belgian court found 24-year-old gynecology student Ruben Vanstiphout guilty of raping a fellow student. The victim was heavily intoxicated after a Halloween party and unable to consent. Despite the severity of the crime, the judge suspended Vanstiphout’s sentence, citing his “promising future” and clean criminal record. He was ordered to pay €3,800 in damages but faced no jail time or criminal record.

This decision sparked widespread outrage, drawing comparisons to the 2016 Brock Turner case in the U.S., where a Stanford student received a lenient sentence for sexual assault.  Critics argue that such rulings prioritize the perpetrator’s potential over justice for the victim, perpetuating a culture where sexual violence is minimized.

The case highlights a troubling pattern: when the accused is young, educated, or has a “bright future,” the consequences of their actions are often downplayed. This sends a dangerous message that certain individuals are above the law, further discouraging survivors from coming forward.

The public outcry led to the Leuven Public Prosecutor’s Office appealing the verdict, emphasizing the need for accountability regardless of the perpetrator’s background.

What Justice Actually Looks Like for Survivors

When people think of “justice,” they usually think of prison. Headlines. A conviction. A sentencing. A man in handcuffs, finally held accountable.

But for survivors? Justice isn’t always so clear-cut. And it’s definitely not that simple.

Justice is not just a verdict.

It’s validation. It’s safety. It’s being believed. It’s knowing that what happened mattered, and that you matter too.

Here’s what real justice might look like:

  • Being taken seriously the first time a survivor tells their story

  • Protection from retaliation, stalking, or harassment after reporting

  • Access to therapy, medical care, and safe housing—especially for survivors of intimate partner violence or trafficking

  • An end to victim-blaming narratives in courtrooms and media

  • Accountability for the institutions that protected abusers (schools, labels, corporations, fraternities, churches)

  • Cultural shifts that teach consent, empathy, and accountability—not just punishment

Because the truth is:

Many survivors don’t even want revenge.

They want safety.

They want to be heard.

They want it to not happen again—to them or to anyone else.

And yet, the current system doesn’t make space for that. Instead, it often retraumatizes survivors, protects predators with privilege, and calls it a “fair trial.”

That’s why we keep writing.

That’s why this blog post exists.

Because justice needs to be redefined—and survivors deserve so much more than silence, shame, and statistical erasure.

To the Men Who Stay Silent—You Are the Problem

Let’s get one thing straight:

You’re not a good man just because you’re not the worst one in the room.

If you sit in silence while your homeboys degrade women, joke about assault, or excuse rapists because they make good music—you’re not neutral. You’re complicit.

I’m tired of the “I respect women” parade from men who go dead silent the second a woman in their life needs defending. I’m tired of performative allyship, empty tweets, and fake outrage that evaporates the moment it requires actual integrity.

You’re not a man if you can’t call out misogyny.

You’re a coward in a man’s body.

A follower looking for male approval.

A “nice guy” until it costs you popularity.

And to be honest? That makes you dangerous.

And to the women who uphold this shit for male validation? I see you, too.

I used to be you. I know what it’s like to seek approval from men who don’t even see you as fully human. But let me be clear: you’re not empowered when you mock survivors or side with abusers.

You’re not subverting the system—you’re reinforcing it.

And that internalized misogyny won’t heal you. It’ll hollow you out.

The strongest thing I ever did was stop needing validation from people who thrive on disrespect.

The freest I’ve ever felt is using my voice loudly and legally—because the First Amendment is mine too, and I plan to use it every damn day.

So if you’re not calling this out?

If you’re still playing Switzerland in the war against women?

Stay the hell away from me.

Because silence is betrayal.

And you’re just as bad as they are.

Resources for Survivors & Allies

If you’re ready to learn, heal, and fight back—and if you believe that our silence is the enemy—then these resources are your toolkit for change. Seriously, go kiss Rainn’s ass. Without them, I’d still be posting sexy pictures on my Instagram story for male attention and validation. Thank you, RAINN, for helping me find my voice!

These organizations work on the front lines to support survivors and dismantle a culture that too often protects perpetrators. If you’re a survivor, an ally, or just someone who believes in real accountability, take the time to explore these resources and share them widely.

Final Reflection & Call to Action

This isn’t just another blog post. It’s a call to arms. It’s a demand for change in a system that too often favors the privileged over the punished, the famous over the forgotten. If you’re tired of silence, injustice, and empty “nice guy” acts, join me in holding our leaders—and ourselves—to a higher standard.

Use these resources. Educate yourself. Support survivors. And if you see misogyny anywhere, call it out—loudly. Our voices, actions, and choices are the only ways to dismantle this broken system.

Stay fierce, stay informed, and most importantly, stay unapologetically you.

This piece is dedicated to two women who have deeply shaped my voice and my purpose:

To my aunt Michelle, who was assaulted at just 12 years old. You carried that pain with a strength no child should ever be forced to learn. You are no longer here physically, but I know you’re watching—and I hope you’re proud that I’m loud, unfiltered, and fighting like hell for girls who never got justice.

And to Ashley, a friend who survived sexual violence in college. Your story is one of resilience, rage, and truth. You are everything the world tries to silence—and everything this world needs to hear more from.

This article, this platform, this voice—it’s for you.

And for every survivor still trying to find their own.

Trinity Barnette
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