Quick note: I’ll share real moments from my life on campus. No graphic detail. If this is hard to read, take a breath. You matter.
Here’s the thing. I wish I didn’t have to write this “review.” But I do reviews for a living, and this was part of my life. So I’m treating the campus response like a product—because, in a way, it is. It’s a service students use in crisis. And it should work. I’m sharing my honest review of how my campus handled sexual assault because the whole story deserves daylight.
My rating: 2.5 out of 5. Some people showed up. The system often didn’t.
Day-to-day safety: better lights, same old shadows
Most nights, I felt okay walking from the library. The school added brighter lights near the science quad after we filed a map of “dark spots” with campus safety. That was a win. I used SafeRide a lot. The wait ranged from 15 to 35 minutes. Not great when you’re shivering at 1 a.m., clutching a backpack, watching cars roll by.
When I later looked up the numbers, I found that reported incidents spike in poorly lit corridors—a trend backed by data; I read campus sexual assault stats so you don't have to, and the pattern is painfully clear. National statistics from the Office on Women’s Health show that roughly one in five women experience sexual assault while in college (source), underscoring just how common these “dark spots” can become danger zones.
One night, my RA did a lap with me after a late lab. We joked about vending machines and midterms. It helped. But the path by the old gym stayed quiet and creepy, even after fall rush. You know what? A light and a camera would’ve done more than the posters ever did.
Reporting felt like a maze with bright lights and cold chairs
When I reported, I sat under buzzing fluorescent lights. The chairs were plastic and cold. I told my story to three different people in one week: the Title IX office, campus police, then a coordinator. Each time, I repeated dates, times, and tiny facts my brain didn’t want to hold. I got facts right. I also forgot things. That’s normal, but I still felt judged by my own memory.
A real example: the meeting invite came at 10:41 p.m. for a 9:00 a.m. session the next day. I had a midterm. I asked to reschedule. The reply: “Attendance is important.” I went. I cried in a bathroom after. The paper towels were out.
Money doesn’t fix trauma, but it can cover therapy bills; here’s what actually got paid for in my case, and what never saw a dime.
Another real thing: getting a no-contact order took five emails. It arrived four days after a sighting in the dining hall. Four days doesn’t sound long. It felt like forever.
People who helped (and who didn’t)
- Counseling was the bright spot. My counselor didn’t rush me. She let me sit in silence. She even told me I could bring tea. I did.
- The nurse at the health center knew what a SANE exam was. She explained it in plain words, no pressure. I said no that day. She said, “That’s okay. I’m still here.” That tone matters.
- One professor gave me flexible deadlines and said, “Send one line if you can’t focus today.” I sent a smiley once. He got it.
- Another professor asked for a “doctor’s note” to excuse an absence after a hearing. A hearing that the school scheduled during finals week. I wish I were making that up.
Zooming out, my honest take on sexual assault on college campuses is that personal kindness often masks systemic delay—and that gap can swallow you whole.
Title IX: fair on paper, slow in practice
The Title IX folks used careful language. They said “preponderance of evidence,” “supportive measures,” and “confidential resources.” I learned that means: you may get help, but proof still matters, and the path is slow.
A real example: the investigator was kind but overworked. She handled multiple cases. She emailed me a long list of questions. It took me two hours to answer. Then there was a three-week pause. Silence can feel like a no. Research summarized by the American Psychological Association highlights how institutional responses—and delays—directly affect survivors’ mental-health trajectories (source).
Some students turn to lawyers when the internal process stalls; reading a San Diego campus sexual assault attorney's perspective showed me what legal backup can—and can’t—do. I even looked at one student's story of hiring a campus sexual assault attorney in Washington, D.C., and the parallels were eerie.
The outcome? A no-contact order and a conduct warning for him. I didn’t get details. He switched lab sections. I switched my walk home.
Small fixes that made big differences
- Safety escorts who come in pairs after 10 p.m.—that helped.
- Free rides off campus after midnight during finals week—smart.
- Trauma-informed training for RAs—needed, and they actually did it. Mine knew what to say and what not to say.
- Clear maps of blue-light phones—useful, but one near the stadium didn’t work. We tested it. Maintenance fixed it a week later, after three calls.
What broke my heart
Hearing a friend say, “I didn’t report because I saw what it did to you.” That’s the line I still carry. She wasn’t wrong. The process took time, sleep, and joy. It gave me a folder of emails and a thin sense of safety.
After that conversation, I went looking for campus sexual assault stats, hoping hard numbers would nudge the school—data is tough to argue with.
Also, someone wrote “Stop lying” on a bathroom stall under a flyer for survivors. I stared at it for a long time. Then someone else wrote “We believe you” in blue ink. Tiny war on a wall, right there.
What I’d change tomorrow
- Send meeting invites during daytime with at least 48 hours’ notice.
- One storyteller, one note-taker—don’t make students retell the worst parts to three staff.
- Faster no-contact orders—same day if possible. Even a temporary one helps.
- Fix known dark areas first. Students already mapped them. Use the map.
- Let students bring a support person to every meeting, no questions asked.
Who this “system” fits—and who it fails
- If you want to tell someone and have counseling right away, the system helped. I felt seen there.
- If you want a quick, clear outcome, it’s rough. It’s slow, and you may get a “maybe” answer. Some survivors seek outside legal help; one student in Los Angeles reviewed her lawyer's role and it sounded both empowering and exhausting.
- If you need school to guard your daily life—classes, labs, the dining hall—it can help, but you’ll do a lot of the guarding yourself.
My take, as a reviewer and a person
I’ve tested phones that respond faster. I’ve tested vacuums that come with better instructions. The campus response should beat both. People deserve more than a manual and a long wait.
Still, credit where it’s due: a few staff were gold. My RA, my counselor, and one professor carried me with small, steady care. That’s why this isn’t a zero. It’s a 2.5. The people tried. The system lagged.
If you need help right now
You’re not alone. Talking is your choice. You can take your time.
- RAINN: National Sexual Assault Hotline – 800-656-HOPE (4673)
- Your campus Title IX office – ask for “supportive measures” and a “no-contact order”
- Campus counseling center – ask for a trauma-informed counselor
- Local crisis center – search “sexual assault crisis center” with your city
For students looking to understand their rights and push for change on their own campuses, End Campus Sexual Assault offers clear, step-by-step resources and stories.
To zoom out even further and see how conversations about dating culture, boundaries, and