<![CDATA[Lauren Ratcliffe | Telling Stories That Sell - The Write Thing]]>Mon, 24 Nov 2025 17:34:48 -0800Weebly<![CDATA[I Believe]]>Wed, 10 Oct 2018 12:20:54 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/i-believeIf you've read my blog before, you know that to date, I've largely used this space as a cathartic avenue toward healing. I've blogged at length about my rape and the journey I've taken to get to today. This is not one of those posts, though if you'll stay with me, its every bit the same exercise in vulnerability. And if I'm honest, I hope my vulnerability here will help me shed the demons that lurk in the dark depths of my spirit so I can make more room for the light.

I believe that the Devil is real and uses the things we want most to haunt and tease us. He uses them to create doubt within us. Doubt that we are enough today, that we will ever be enough. I believe that the tools the devil uses are different for each of us and we have many cracks and crevices that he exploits. Some bigger than others.

For me, I believe my issues with body image and weight have always been an easily exploited avenue the devil uses against me. I have never been thin. As a child, I was always chubbier than my peers. I believe subconsciously, I took in the images around me and began to doubt my own beauty and self worth even from a young age. The clothes that were trendy never fit my body, and the body positive movement had not begun, so there were no real role models for me to turn to to learn to dress the body I'd been given. 

In high school I also was curvier than my counterparts.  Introverted, but not shy, I struggled to make the deep friendships that I craved. High school can be a time of tremendous superficiality and I never quite fit in. Internally, I digested the lies that my weight was tied to my ability to make friends and that because I was heavier, I was unworthy and unable to be appreciated and loved by my peers. The extra pounds I carried, turned into a burden of shame. I felt that I was not attractive enough to secure a group of girl friends, let alone any romantic relationships. 

I believe the Devil is crafty in his deceit. Those lies he whispered in my ear, that my weight somehow equaled into my worth were falsehoods that have found strongholds in the recesses of my soul. Even today, I often struggle with my appearance and try to disavow the thoughts that my singleness is tied to the three digits on the scale. When I try on a pair of jeans, I have to remind myself that the number on the tag does not indicate the beauty of my spirit or the gifts I bring to the world.

They say wisdom comes with age, and I suppose that's true to an extent. For me, age has provided the opportunity to shift (at times) my focus away from merely shedding pounds to a greater appreciation for what my body can accomplish.  I've hiked to 12,000 feet in the peaks of Colorado and hauled scuba gear up ladders and across beaches. I've completed 5k and 10k races and recently finished a 1,000 rep workout challenge. I've learned to embrace exercise and diet, not because they make me skinny (they haven't and likely never will), but because they make me strong and healthy.

Some days, however, I still believe the lies whispered to me in the darkness. I believe the lie that I won't be good enough to find a spouse until I'm "beautiful." On those days, I lean into the promise of the Lord that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. 

I believe that beauty is so much more than skin deep, but believing that is a continual choice I must make. I choose to believe that I am enough because I'm endowed by my creator and He is sufficient for me. Lord, help my unbelief.

What do you believe about yourself?


]]><![CDATA[The Impact of Assault]]>Tue, 03 Apr 2018 19:29:04 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/the-impact-of-assaultFour years ago, I never would have imagined I'd champion the issue of Sexual Assault. Four years ago, I was whole.  A piece of me hadn't been ripped apart - gone forever. 

But today... today I've emerged from the fog of assault and the criminal justice system. I've rebuilt, and am rebuilding, myself piece by piece. With the help of an incredible community of friends, acquaintances and family I've been able to create a new normal and take up this cause.

In 10 days I'll speak about Sexual Assault publicly. I've been asked to speak at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department's Third Annual Sexual Assault Awareness 5k/Zumba event. I'm both nervous and honored to do so. If you're free on April 14, 2018 at 10 am, I do hope you'll join me in supporting survivors and those who work with us.
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As I've started to think about what I want to say, I feel compelled to share the statement I read before a judge and the man who raped me almost two years ago.

As a warning, the statement is lengthy, so click below if you're interested in reading it. If you'd rather talk to me about my experience, or your experience, or anything for that matter, I'd love to meet you and chat over coffee or drinks. 
This was a statement I never dreamed I’d have to make. But here we are. I’m here because the choices made by a man I had never met changed my life forever. I did nothing to warrant what happened to me, and like so many other women who’ve been the victim of rape, I’m left picking up the pieces of my life. I’m left creating a new normal and re-arranging dreams all because of the actions of the defendant, Derek Smith.
 
 I’d never met the defendant before he tackled me in my bedroom that night. In fact, I learned his name when I read it in a press release sent to my email at work. His name will unfortunately forever be imprinted on my mind. I read the official release – black and white text on a page that summed up the torment I endured for hours. It was surreal. It is only one of many out of body experiences I’ve had during this journey – times in which I stood in disbelief that this was indeed my life. Experiences that include dodging reporters outside my apartment the day after the attack, seeing video of my home on the television, trying to breathe as I was poked and prodded during my sexual assault kit and listening to my voice as my 9-1-1 call and interview with detectives were played in this courtroom.
 
The night of September 10, 2014 should have been the perfect ending to a wonderful day. I should have walked into my apartment, locked the door behind me and went about my evening in safety and peace. The defendant’s world and mine should never have collided – but they did the second he tackled me and pressed that knife to my throat. Our worlds collided when I was preyed upon. When the defendant broke into my apartment and waited for me. He waited in the darkness of my closet when I locked the apartment door behind me that night.
 
The details of that night will never be erased from my memory. As this trial neared, my stomach turned in knots. My nights became sleepless and out of nowhere waves of memories of what he did, washed over me. It made my life with friends and family harder to focus on, and my job in the news – a job I love – significantly more difficult.
 
Rape is not only a crime about sex. It’s about power and stripping a person of their agency – their ability to fight back. I’m fighting back now, and although he did not know it, I was fighting that night too. I have fought against him every day since then as I’ve rebuilt my life, regained some of my confidence and prayed for the ability to forgive him.
 
The defendant took so much more than just sex from me the night he raped me. I had been saving my virginity for marriage. I was and I am proud of that. Now, this attack will be part of my story that I'll have to share with the man I marry. It devastates me to know that the actions of a stranger will hurt the man I will spend my life with.
 
My life has changed forever because of him.  I'll never get the hours of that night back. I’ll never get the countless hours since where I’ve been anxious, nervous, irritable, exhausted and depleted because of his actions. I’ll never get my sense of security back.
 
I used to love the darkness. Now I become uneasy and nervous when the spaces around me aren’t lit.  I now am unable to relax or sleep in my home without nightlights scattered throughout the house. I used to feel safe and secure in my home. It used to be my sanctuary. Now, even with extra latches and locks on my doors, I do not feel completely safe. I locked the door behind me the night I was raped, and because of that fact, I now search my home regularly before feeling settled.
 
The defendant came from behind my open closet door. Because of that, I no longer can leave that door open and certainly can’t lay down to sleep unless it is closed. I cautiously check inside my closet when I enter my room – even if I’ve been home alone for hours. I'm never 100% secure. It saddens me that that sense of security and safety was stripped away from me. 
 
When I’m out in public, I constantly scan and search my surroundings with a watchful eye. I never used to have to question the intent of every person I interact with. Before my rape, I was free to chat, wave, smile and enjoy the people around me without worrying if they were preying on me, too. I used to run alone on the greenways in town regularly. Now, I think twice and rarely run outdoors without a friend with me. When I do, hypervigilant in watching those around me. To this day, I’m working in therapy to reduce those anxieties and I’m learning to create a measured level of trust in those around me.
 
 As much as I’d like to believe that his actions that night only hurt me, that is just not the case. My friends and family have been changed by what happened to me. We all live differently because of him. We’re all shaken and less secure. I'll never forget the look on my brother's face when he and my dad arrived at my apartment that night. The look in my parents eyes after they'd had another conversation about their guilt over their inability to protect me from him that night. While it will never be their fault, or mine, we all changed forever that night.
 
What’s more, the defendants’ refusal to accept responsibility at all has forced me to relive the terror he caused and the crimes he committed in excruciating detail. He has had multiple opportunities to admit his guilt and accept the consequences that come with his actions. Instead, because of him, I not only was re-victimized as I took the stand to tell my story, I had to endure questioning by the very man who raped me. A room full of strangers, my family, friends and colleagues in the news media have now all heard in detail what the defendant did to me and have seen photos of my naked body splayed on screens in this courtroom. It was humiliating and embarrassing. And I NEVER should have had to endure it.
 
But there is strength in all of this, too. Strength in seeing my community of friends, neighbors church members and colleagues rally around me. There is even more power in choosing to look him in the eye and speak my truth – the truth of what he did and how I fought back by outthinking him every step of the way. Make no mistake, the power I’ve gained by fighting back against him during every step of this journey doesn’t change the fact that I was raped. It also, unfortunately, doesn’t erase the emotional scars that will forever outlast the physical injuries I sustained.
 
Derek Smith deliberately chose to rape me. HE made a terrible choice. His actions were calculated and callous. He has been convicted and he is a violent felon, sex offender and rapist whose actions have earned him the sentences he will receive. I hope those sentences he is given will be served consecutively, so that he can never have the opportunity to hurt another woman, another family, the way he has irreparably harmed me and mine.
 
I’d like to briefly address the defendant now. Derek, that night you stripped me of my clothes, but you did not strip me of my dignity. You may have robbed me of my virginity, but you also robbed yourself of a future. You stole my car and my belongings, but you did not steal my life. You made me a victim. But that is just one small fraction of who I am. Because in the early hours of September 11, I also became a victor. I was victorious when they pulled you from my vehicle and arrested you. I was a victor when the DNA proved you were indeed the man who raped me and I will enjoy a small victory every morning that you wake up in prison for the crimes you’ve committed against me.
 
To conclude, I want to thank you, your Honor, for hearing this case. I want to thank the jury for their time. Thank you to the dispatchers who took my call that night and assured me that help was already on the way. And to the officers who responded and heard my statements, who did not discredit my story and who took me seriously. Thank you to the officers who apprehended him quickly and were with me as I identified him. Lastly I want to thank the District Attorney’s office and the prosecutors who took this case and worked diligently to bring about justice for me.
]]><![CDATA[Waiting Game]]>Wed, 14 Jun 2017 21:48:33 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/june-14th-2017Worried. Scared. Weak. Crumbling. Barely holding it together.


Those who knew me best could see the deep chinks in the armor of a facade I'd put up. As deep and wide as the Grand Canyon - that's how they felt to me. From what I've been told, the perception must not have been that bad.


-----


The State calls Lauren Ratcliffe to the stand.


At least, I think it went something like that. I, of course, wasn't in the courtroom prior to that moment. It took every ounce of willpower I had to let go of my type-a control-freak nature and stay out of the courtroom until I was called to the stand.


Nothing about my trial was "ordinary." Of course, lawyers will tell you that no two trials are ever truly alike, but my case was a circus freak show of sorts. Between the nearly 18 month back and forth between my attacker and the judge and his court-appointed attorney (whom he "fired" nearly a year prior) that ended in his decision to represent himself and the litany of judicial interns and law students popping in to see what was going on - there was nothing about this that felt normal.


Between my type-A, control freak nature and my (limited) understanding of courts by virtue of my work, I, too, wasn't the normal victim. In the same way a toddler peppers his mother with countless questions, I likewise, asked away. Trying with all my might to understand the process, to feel as though by obtaining knowledge I might gain a semblance of control.


I'd wanted to be in the courtroom to hear everything in jury selection and what my district attorney said in her opening statement. I wanted to hear what type of argument the man who raped me would try to spin.

I thought that if I knew what was coming, I'd be able to steel myself for the impact. Brace for the emotional blows I'd be receiving. My prosecutors told me they wanted me to stay away. Stay in the witness ready room until it was time for me to make a grand entrance. Apparently it can be more effective for the prosecutors if the first time the jury meets the victim is when they're called to the stand. I suppose because I naturally try to feel into a sense of strength - and portray that - it makes sense for the jury to get a feel for my resolve when we made our introductions. But relinquishing that control was difficult.


Thank God for friends. The kind of friends who will sit with you, bringing binge-worthy shows to distract you. They are the kind of friends who see the ugly, scarred version of yourself that you desperately try to hide and love you all the more fiercely. I was immensely blessed with two women who came into my muck and plopped down beside me. They met me where I was in the moment and loved me without judgement. They were all the things I didn't know how to ask for.


That first day of trial was jury selection. Seconds ticked by slowly as my type-A over-analyzing inner being wondered who was being chosen to decide his fate, and mine. I'd have given anything to be a fly on the wall in that courtroom. To get a glimpse and try to size up those who would judge me. I honestly don't remember if we had the full jury selected by the end of the day. I think there was still one or two slots to fill when we left for a restless night of sleep. Knowing I'd be second on deck once things got underway all but ensured there'd be little rest.


Day two: From what I'm told, the day started with lots of back and forth with attorneys and opening statements. Those friends who came to wait with me that first day took more time off work to distract and support me again. And day two was the start of the worst of it.


In that witness prep room we sat. While my attorney laid out her case and introduced the idea of me to the jury, we sat and watched Netflix. While he told a crazy tale of how he was homeless, and I was friends with him. He spun a web of lies including how I invited him to my place where we drank beers and he did laundry and other nonsense while I paced the hallway in the courthouse and tried to kill the swarm of nervous butterflies swirling in my stomach.


I still hadn't seen the inside of the courtroom when we took a lunch break. Normally, give me a box of cheese-itz when I'm stressed and I can go to town. Not that day. I couldn't stomach anything. Sitting at the table with my family, I choked on the tears and lumps forming in the back of my throat. I'd never felt so nervous, so judged, so ... unsteady and unsure.


My mom was first to the stand. It killed me to not be able to support her in the courtroom and waiting while she testified was nearly unbearably difficult. As the second on the clock pulsed through me my anticipation grew. Would the jury believe me? Would they like me? Would they have pity on him?


When my court advocate came to retrieve me, she came with gentleness. "Are you ready?"


How do you answer such a question? I was certainly ready to receive justice, but that was not guaranteed. I was ready for it to be over. To close this dark chapter in my life and try to piece together joy and happiness again


As my well-worn high heels clanked on the marble floor the embarrassing click-clack provided relief from the echoing pulse I could hear ringing in my ears as my heart started to race. The walls of the small waiting room outside the courtroom entrance closed in around me as I forced the tears back into my eyes. Now was the time for strength, and honesty and vulnerability like I had ever experienced.


"The state calls Lauren Ratcliffe..."


And then the door opened.
​



]]><![CDATA[A Blink and an Eternity]]>Sun, 11 Jun 2017 11:59:10 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/a-blink-and-an-eternityTime is a funny thing. The way it ebbs and flows as ocean tides along the shore. Some moments rush past and swirl around us in dizzying fashion, and we struggle to remember the details. Others creep along, like sludge, and we're caught in it. We struggle against the slow sinking into the quicksand of the moment. It's amazing to me how we can also  experience both at the same time.

A year ago I found myself in the eye of a hurricane where time seemed to stand still and feverishly swirl around me. In that eye, the stillness was stifling. Unable to breathe, I'd met with my district attorney for final trial preparation, and was left to anxiously await the moments when that stillness of the final two days before trial would pass over me and I'd be caught amid the torrential storm of stress and emotion. The anticipation of the trial, my testimony and utter lack of control ate away at me bit by bit. 

But that's the thing about time. As I sit here one year later, it feels like those 365 days have passed in a blink, but that the whole ordeal has been a part of my story for an eternity. The span of a year has given me a bit of breathing room to notice the beauty of how the Lord is already starting to weave this test into my testimony.  God is a true poet. Coming up this week, one year to the day (almost to the minute) of when I took to the witness stand with butterflies threatening to erupt from my stomach, I'll be meeting with a group of advocates from non-profits and our police force for the formation of a new group looking to change our collective response to sexual assault. A group looking to emphasize victim-centered approaches to this horrific crime, as the backlog of sexual assault kits are tested and new victims emerge every day. For me, it's beauty from ashes. What was meant for my destruction is being reworked for good - and that is a miracle.

I've written a bit about my experience, the aftermath and how I've moved forward but as this anniversary of my trial week is here, I feel ready to write about that process. I'd thought that I knew what the experience would be like from my extensive watching of Law and Order and work in news, but I could not have truly known what I would encounter.  Sharing this story isn't one I'm doing for sympathy, but for catharsis and to help people understand. I plan to write more to come out of the shadows that so often enshroud survivors leaving them with a tremendous sense of loneliness and into the light. While I've come to learn that light doesn't remove the loneliness entirely, it does create space for community, interaction and grace. I don't plan to reveal the gritty details of my assault itself. Because for the time being, I don't believe such a post would be fruitful. But trial, and the process to the present is another ballgame. I didn't know what to expect, maybe someone reading this will get a sense of what they can expect and they'll find the strength to stand in the light, too. Maybe someone who knows or loves a survivor will understand in some small way how they can stand in support.

By standing firmly in the light and revealing more about my story, it's my sincere hope that others will feel empowered to share their own stories, because I don't want this to be about just me. It's about all of us, about giving others courage to face their attackers and to know that while no two experiences are the same, there is a great cloud of witnesses in this community of survivors. If you've got questions about anything I've written in the past, or will write in the days ahead, please reach out. If you've got my number, text me or call me. If you want to talk through my story, or yours, let's grab coffee.  Leave a comment, or email me. I'd love to hear from you.

​- Lauren

]]><![CDATA[Surreal]]>Sun, 02 Apr 2017 20:28:20 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/surrealSeptember 10, 2014

​"What are you training for?" he asked?

"Huh?" I responded, dazed and confused by the question.

Detective Clark asked again, referencing the calendar that hung in my bathroom. Scribbled on it had been a series of numbers. Some of the days had even been completed successfully. 

I've NEVER been a runner. Like not ever. As a kid, I can remember my parents "rewarding" my efforts in gym class with little treats if I could somehow run a sub 10-minute mile. I still consider the 10 minute mile pace to be a run, not a jog. So the mere fact that I'd somehow tricked myself into training for a half-marathon, complete with running schedules etched in sharpie on my calendar, was a feat in itself. That I'd managed to run 6 miles in an hour without feeling like terribly out of shape, was a downright miracle.

So as we waited in the hospital on the single worst night/morning of my life.  As I sat stripped of a piece of my humanity, there was Detective Clark extending me a lifeline. His simple question offered me a piece of myself back - a chance to connect, oddly enough with a part of myself I'd never really accepted to begin with.

April 1, 2017

A beautiful blue sky and cool spring breeze greeted my mother and I as we exited the car in a neighborhood just north of the city. I'd rearranged my schedule to have the morning off when I learned about the 5k race, and neither she nor I knew fully what we were getting ourselves into. As we walked up to the community center where the  Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department's Second Annual Sexual Assault Awareness 5k and Zumba event was to take place we chatted about who all might be there. 

As we got a little closer, there stood Detective Clark. Over the course of my trial last summer, I grew to appreciate his sense of humor. He always looked to bring a little levity to the darkest of situations and was incredibly compassionate. 

"Eating any honey buns lately?" I asked him.

A huge smile spread across his face as he outstretched his arms to me. In the hug that followed, I was welcomed in to the community of survivors, fighters and protectors all working together to end sexual assault.

"It is so great to see you here," he said.

As the morning unfolded, I met Lieutenants and detectives in the unit. Some of them worked on my case - almost all had heard of it. A couple of detectives came up to me to hug me after learning I was there. It's surreal to have folks know who you are, and your story, and reach out with such compassion. Compassion like that causes a tangible swelling inside my soul. To be connected to such incredible people is an honor.

The morning became something of a family reunion for me. The two prosecutors who vigorously fought on my behalf were there, as was the Captain who alerted the media to my case nearly three years ago. Newer folks to the team who are working to test sexual assault kits were there, and for the first time since my attack I may have found a way to give back and get involves that feels like "me." It's exciting. Another well-known survivor in the community spoke and summed up the sentiment of the event best.

"I never thought I'd be happy to get up before a group of people and say I'm a rape survivor. But here I am."

Here I am, too.  
]]><![CDATA[Our Experience, Her Legacy, My Future]]>Sun, 01 Jan 2017 18:32:47 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/one-step-away
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Today in a Catawba County, NC courtroom a family received justice. Although this justice likely brings little peace or comfort, it does bring a sense of closure for what I can imagine has been an unbearably difficult two and a half years.

Maggie Daniels was raped and killed in her apartment by Sharman Odom in June 2014. She was discovered in her apartment days after she was strangled. A pretty young woman and a popular school counselor, her death shocked and rattled her community to its core. 

As the news broke today about the plea made by her killer, I started to say to a colleague "I can't imagine how her family must feel."  Only I can. I do.

Less than three months after Daniels' body was found, my family came all too close to experiencing the same tragedy and senseless violence. We experienced our own, when on that September night I thought to myself "I will not be the next Maggie Daniels."

Working in the news, I knew that there would be another Maggie Daniels. Unfortunately, there's always another victim of violence, of senseless crime. There's always another grieving family, another rape victim, another murder victim. 

I am fortunate to have survived my own ordeal. Fortunate to have walked away with my life and the emotional scars that are already fading by the grace of God. My parents never had to look into the eyes of my killer as he admitted to what he did. Instead, they stood beside me as we listened to a jury convict, and a judge sentence my attacker to what will be a life sentence. That was my justice. 

Maggie's legacy has already been felt in the community in which she lived. There is a park in her honor. But her death fuels me as I let our shared experience propel me forward. It would dishonor her, and all others who were not as fortunate as I to have survived, to not live every day trying to make the world better.

This violence is too common. Already in 2017 there have been 4 homicides. Make no mistake, all are tragic and unecessary. 

We're less than one week into the new year. As I think about the goals I'd like to accomplish and the resolutions there's one that feels more urgent than the rest.

I resolve to be kind. To smile, to give grace. To be a light. 

The world is full of too much darkness already.
]]><![CDATA[Can't shake that sick feeling]]>Fri, 18 Nov 2016 15:38:35 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/cant-shake-that-sick-feelingWe were just getting into a groove.  It's November, which means the newsroom is going full-steam ahead, running on all cylinders to cover all the breaking news stories and deliver hard-hitting investigative stories. It's thrilling.

Add into the normal November craziness the devastating wildfires burning in Western NC and SC. It's busy. We're watching as the blazes exhaust the fire crews from across the state and country who have come in to help. We're talking with fearful neighbors who are anxiously watching the fire line creep closer to their homes. As we send crews to those areas, we tentatively make our plans for coverage.

Then comes the release.

"Winthrop Police Chief Frank Zebedis will be available today at 11 a.m. at the Campus Police station on the Winthrop campus to talk about a reported sexual assault. 

Here a few details -
On 11-17-2016, Winthrop University Police Department was notified of a sexual assault that occurred on campus October 29th at 9:30 pm.  A student female victim , while in the area behind Bancroft by Margaret Nance and Owens Hall, was looking for a lost item in the grass when she stumbled.  At that time an Unknown subject approached the victim and pinned her on the ground sexually assaulted her and then fled the scene on foot.

At this time there is no further information on the assailant."

I feel sick. I'm instantly rendered numb.

It's been a few months since that pit in my stomach resurfaced. Perhaps that in itself  a stroke of good luck. Its part of why I've not written a post in 2 months.  It's not necessarily that I haven't had things to say, it's that I don't really consider this blog to be about me. Sure, through this blog I've shared very personal and intimate thoughts and fears about what happened to me and the path I'm now walking. And while working in words, and putting them here - in digital black and white - has certainly been cathartic in many ways, I've always believed it wasn't really about me. It was about a larger conversation that is happening. It's about a larger conversation that needs to continue happening - now more than ever.

A young woman at Winthrop is alleging that she was sexually assaulted, forced to perform oral sex, after she stumbled after trying to walk away from a stranger while looking for an item in the grass. 

Let that sink in for just one minute. I can't even last a minute without feeling tears well up and my stomach twist into knots.

How many times have I, have you, dropped something in the grass.  Perhaps your hands were overflowing with stuff and something slipped.  Have you ever tripped? I sure have. More times than I care to admit publicly. 

I am so proud of this young woman. She has stepped out of the darkness and has come forward. I pray for her healing, and for justice. She should NEVER receive condemnation for the choices she made to process her attack before coming forward. None of us are standing in her shoes.

Instead, let's shift our focus.  

What can we do to prevent these crimes from ever happening. What do we need to do to teach men not to sexually assault or rape. How do we combat this sense of entitlement that pervades some men to the point where they think they can force themselves on a woman and either use her body for their pleasure without her consent. How do we teach young men and boys to value themselves? How do we teach them to value the women in their communities? 

I'm thankful for the men in my life, my friends and colleagues, who represent goodness. They are men of character, and they do not stand for this type of behavior. It is because of them, in part, that I'm encouraged that with time and effort we can work to solve the problem of rape culture in our society. That we can empower men to respect women, and women to stand up with and for each other.

Hopefully one day, there will be less reasons to go numb, and fewer survivors joining our ranks. 


]]><![CDATA[Brock Turner, September and Me]]>Fri, 02 Sep 2016 16:43:37 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/brock-turner-september-and-meFriday Brock Turner walked out of a California jail.  You'll remember, he's the poster boy for lenient punishments and his sentence of six months for the violent rape of an unconscious woman sparked outrage across the nation - rightfully so. Turner served less than three months of the joke of a sentence he was given.

When he was sentenced, prosecutors argued that he deserved six years in jail given the violent nature of the attack and his lack of remorse. A judge however, thought that because he was drunk and young, prison would alter the course of his life. He said, " I think you have to take the whole picture in terms of what impact imprisonment has on a specific individual's life."

The judge's thinking was correct in understanding that time behind bars is life-altering. It SHOULD change the perpetrators life.

Much has been said and written about the sentence Turner received and has now "completed," and I doubt my words will add to that conversation. Instead, I was reminded of a post written in the aftermath of the sentencing. It brings up what has emerged as my greatest fear as a survivor of my own traumatic rape.

Kyle Suhan penned a post as a husband to a college rape survivor. I encourage you to read his words - they are powerful and poignant. That post can be found here. In his post, he discusses how his wife's body has not let her forget the trauma she endured and how that trauma rears it's ugly head from time to time. They never know when it's coming - but it does come.

That's the fear I have.

As we've entered September, the month that ushers in a new football season, the return of all things pumpkin and little foretastes of sweater weather, I'm also reminded now of just how much has changed for me. Not that "forgetting" is really an option. You see on September 1, I start my subconscious countdown to September 10 - the day everything changed. I try to remember that it wasn't so much the day, but rather the night that changed me, but that doesn't help. Invitations to events are met in my mind with - will this be fun, or will I be distracted. And, if I'm distracted, will my friends care. Will I forever be that distracted friends who is a bit of a downer - especially in the early part of September?

It never really goes away - the memory. Sure, it's suppressed. Most days, my normal doesn't include memories of that night, things that trigger thoughts of what happened or the way my life has changed.  I still To be fair, I reached into my purse and my hand grabbed the taser I purchased in the months after my rape. I was reminded that the batteries in it were dead and needed to be recharged - progress, I think.  When I first purchased it, I had to have it in my hand ready to go every time I walked from the car to my apartment or from the restaurant with friends to the car alone. If I was alone solo, I had to be ready. Today, I'm still very much aware of my surroundings, but the nearly paralyzing fear has subsided - except in September. As the 10th of September approaches, my stomach twists into knots more often and I'm faced with the dichotomy of wanting to be social with friends and meet new people and enjoy new experiences with wanting to be inside a safe space where I can feel secure.

But that trepidation surrounding my security, my uneasiness in early September isn't enduring. It hasn't' burrowed deep in my soul like another side effect of my survivorship has. Suhan's piece touches on that deeply held worry that has taken root in the innermost part of my soul. He mentions that even 13 years after his wife was raped, her body remembers the violation even when her mind doesn't.

Will that be my fate? 

I'd been saving myself for marriage before I was raped. Now, my only experience with sex is tangled up with memories of a knife at my neck, my inability to escape and my dominion over my own body rejected. My consent didn't matter a bit.

There's a part of a person that breaks having endured what I have. I worry that no amount of time or healing will ever put the humpty dumpty pieces of my soul back together. I worry that when the time comes for my eventual husband and I to reach that level of intimacy that something will snap inside me and all the fear and anger and sadness will explode from deep within - places I'm actively working to bury. 

Friends tell me that there's a man who'll love me - the real, honest, broken, in-repair versions of me. And deep down, I want to believe them.  I was single when my rape occurred. Most days, I'm OK with my singleness. I've got great friends, a great job and I'm leading a life that I'm enjoying. But there's that seed of doubt - that seed the Devil planted that tells me that because of what happened, there's a brokenness that no man will want to enter into with me. That when those conversations happen - and they will - with the man who I'll want to give myself to, he'll run away. I fear that the wounds will re-open in ways I can't predict and might last the rest of my life. To be alone, forever, is the deepest insecurity that remains for me. I fear that my baggage is too great, that I'm too broken. That I'll never fully heal, and that no man willing to walk alongside me in this journey and be patient with me.

I realize that I'm not quite two years past my rape and the dust has barely settled from my trial. In the grand scheme of things, I'm barely a step into this journey as a survivor. Patience is a virtue I've never really attained. I'd rather be done with the whole business of moving on and consider myself "moved on." Life doesn't exactly work according to my plans, however. Each day many more women enter the survivors club. I see their accounts in the black and white ink of police reports and my heart breaks all over again. For them. For me.

To come back to Brock Turner. His sentence amounts to not much more than an "oh what did you do with your summer?" type story. For his victim, for all victims - we don't get to simply resume our lives as if nothing happened. There are those who argue that because he'll have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life, that somehow his life is changed. And perhaps, to some tiny extent, that will haunt him for the rest of his life. But that haunting pit in the stomach of his victim isn't likely to ever completely dull. With the news of his release from jail, my mind drifts to that of the woman who so captivated the country with her words. I hope that she continues to feel into her strength, and that it heals her wounds - as much as the wounds of rape can ever truly be healed. 

Turner's victim is an inspiration, and Suhan's story gives me hope. And as the 10th nears closer, I'm fighting like hell to focus on the positive and not dwell in that pit developing in my stomach.



]]><![CDATA[It's Happened Again]]>Mon, 08 Aug 2016 17:30:58 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/its-happened-againHere we go again.

Another young woman's life will never be the same. She will never fully recover. 

On Monday, I received an email from one of our reporters who covers crime. He asked if we'd seen a police report about a rape - one that the authorities believed was both serious and legitimate. My stomach sunk immediately. It's taken me the better part of the week to figure out how to articulate my thoughts and feelings of that day. Initial anger, frustration, sadness and sickness are neither helpful, constructive or worthwhile toward advancing the conversations we have about rape, and rape victims. So here we are today.

From the police report we obtained Monday, the limited details were chilling:

​3 a.m.

A 24 year old woman was in her apartment.

He broke in.

He raped her and forced her to move around her apartment.

He got away.

She did not know who he was.

Let that sink in for a minute.  A young woman whose adult life is just beginning was met by a strange man who had broken into her home after 3 a.m. Beyond that terror, she was forcibly raped and to make matters worse - he got away. He still has not been apprehended.

As I typed those details into our news system, I couldn't shake the sickness in my stomach. It radiated through every inch of my body. My skin tingled with an anxious, nervous energy. A feeling that isn't readily translated into words. Electric. A current pulsed through my veins and nerves and try as I might, I couldn't dissolve it into the background.

We don't know if she was sleeping when he broke in. We don't know how he got into her apartment. Those details don't really matter. What does matter is that a piece of that young woman is forever gone. She has been changed.

Having emerged from the other side of the judicial side of rape - my rapist will spend at least the next 82 years of his life in prison without the chance of parole, I empathize with this young woman whose journey is just beginning. Unlike her, I can only begin to imagine the horror she must be feeling not knowing where her assailant is. Not knowing if he will ever be caught.

The facts surrounding rape are alarming. Thanks in part to a groundswell of activists on college campuses and their counterparts radiating throughout communities across the nation, some of the statistics have become more readily known:
  • 1 in 5 women women will be the victim of rape or sexual violence in her lifetime.
  • 1 in 10 women will be raped, or the victim of attempted rape by an intimate partner. This includes incidents where alcohol and/or drugs are involved.
  • In 8 out of 10 cases of rape, the victim knew his or her attacker.
  • Rape is the most under-reported crime; 63% of sexual assaults are not reported to police.
  • Every 109 seconds, another person experiences sexual assault.
  • 6 out of 1,000 rapist never see prison time for their crimes. 
Statistics from the National Sexual Violence Resource Center and RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network).

While the man who allegedly attacked this young woman in Charlotte is still at large, I have to applaud her bravery in coming forward to police. Even though statistics show that the percentage of false reports of rape is very small, many people harbor doubts when victims emerge from the shadows and tell their stories. It makes it incredibly difficult to come forward, it fills that action with nervousness, self-doubt and fear.

There are a number of reasons rape is a crime that often goes unreported. I can only imagine that in cases where they knew their attackers, victims might feel a need to protect their assailants. It is not anyone's place to judge those feelings, or the thoughts and feelings of ANY victim, but rather it is our duty to hear them. To listen and empathize and support them. 

Yes, it's happened again. It keeps happening. Each time it happens to another person, we should all feel that electricity coursing through our veins. Each instance of this violence should devastate us. Until it does, it will keep happening. The next victim could be your daughter, or sister, or friend. It could be you.]]><![CDATA[It could have been me]]>Sat, 30 Jul 2016 14:21:30 GMThttps://www.laurenratcliffe.com/the-write-thing/it-could-have-been-mePicture(Left) Maggie Daniels, killed June 28, 2014. (Right) Amanda Strous, killed June 18, 2016.
Today is July 30, 2016.

Today, happy couples are celebrating their wedding day. Others are celebrating anniversaries or looking down at the chubby cheeks and tiny fingers and toes of new babies into their lives. Life is moving forward, futures are being realized and some dreams are coming true.

Today should have been the happiest day for Amanda Strous and Cory McCleaf's. It should have been their wedding day. They should have been giddy and nervous with excitement and anticipation of sharing vows and celebrating with friends and families. They should have had a future together.

Instead, a CrossFit gym in Pineville where Strous' fiance works as a coach is hosting a benefit in her memory. She was killed in her apartment on June 18 by a man who police say lived in the same apartment complex as her. The man who killed her has been charged with murder and arson as Strous' apartment was set on fire to cover up the homicide. 

She could have been me. I nearly was her.

As I've worked with my colleagues on stories like Strous' the pit in my stomach expands and I feel a tightness in my chest. That woman could have been me. We see it all the time, and it is easy to be desensitized to the violence, the death. It is all to common to become flippant in our discussions of the carnage. People become numbers on a page, statistics that relay how violent the year has been. 

Once you live through trauma, though, something inside you changes.

In June 2014 another local woman was in the headlines. I was working at a different news station, but the crime committed against her was so egregious and shocking it sent waves through the town she lived in and also the greater Charlotte community. Maggie Daniels was a high school counselor. She was young, full of promise and beloved by the students she served. She was kidnapped, sexually assaulted and strangled to death. Her body was found by her boyfriend's mother the next day.

It was less than 90 days after Daniels' murder that I found myself lying on my back with a knife at my neck. Staring into the eyes of a man I'd never seen, it was her face that flashed through my mind.

"I will not be another Maggie Daniels," I thought. "My family will not find my body."

When I new that I was going to be raped, I remembered Daniels. I did not want my colleagues or family to find me in my apartment dead after I'd failed to touch base or come in to work. That was a very real possibility.. As that knife threatened me before and during my rape, I knew that my death was a very real possibility. 

Today, the family of Amanda Strous is mourning their beloved daughter, fiance and friend. On a day that should have been full of laughter, happy tears, vows, music and dancing I imagine her family has a deep sadness as they remember her life and what SHOULD have been. The family of Maggie Daniels, too, has not received justice. They continue to wait for trial and today I think of them.

This morning I tossed and turned in the sheets as my alarm rang out to wake me for work. As the sun warmed the dew on the grass to create a thick, humid air - I breathed it in. On this Saturday morning, I prepared to head to a job I couldn't possibly love more than I do. I look forward to evenings spent with friends and events with colleagues this weekend. 

But that pit in my stomach. That one that is there every time I cover a rape or an assault or a murder is still there. That tightness in my chest I feel when I recall the fear and sadness I felt when I believed I wouldn't live to hug my family, or high five my friends or tell another story as a journalist is still there. It's real, and it hurts. 

That pit and that tightness remind me of one truth. I am alive. I don't have the answers as to why they died and I lived, or why we were victimized at all. The only answer I do have, is that there is a purpose behind what happened to me that I've yet to realize. It motivates me to see the positive and embrace the moments of joy and bliss that I experience simply because I have that opportunity. 

And as I continue to work in news and cover tragedies and horrific crimes, I'm reminded time and time again to honor those whose lives have been cut short. Those whose shoes I was nearly in. Those who weren't as lucky as I to have survived. 

I'm reminded of what could have been.
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