I’m not really sure how to write about this but here goes.
On Thursday, July 24, 2025, in London, Ontario, Canada, a much anticipated verdict on the alleged gang rape of a young woman by 5 hockey players, was delivered by a female judge. It was a national and international story.
I happened to be at home that day, doing some work on my laptop while listening to the coverage. Later, I had to go out and run some errands, and every woman I encountered had been watching/listening/commented on the verdict.
All five were acquitted. Rubbing salt in the wound, the judge used the words “I do not find the evidence of E.M. (a media ban on the victim’s identity) either credible or reliable.”
Meanwhile twelve women’s groups had come together outside the courtroom to support the victim (E.M.) and let her know they believed her.
All were outraged.
I was outraged.
Most women were outraged.
Hockey is Canada’s unofficial sport. Youngsters are put into hockey at a young age. Every small town may not have a grocery store, but most have an arena that is typically packed with kids and parents each winter.
The pinnacle is the NHL but even junior (league) players are treated like royalty, at least they were at the small town high school I attended. There were ‘puck bunnies’, girls who hung around the players and dated them. In rural Canada, that was like dating a celebrity. Dating a hockey player certainly raised your popularity status.
I wasn’t one of those girls.
I wasn’t popular with boys and I certainly didn’t consider myself attractive enough to date a hockey player. I know now how ridiculous that thinking was, but at the time, it was very real.
I found the arrogance around the heralded players’ status both disgusting and miraculous. Even then, I found myself asking why these ‘boys’ were lifted up like gods and given such bulletproof protection?
That culture has not changed in 40 years.
I watched the reaction to the verdict on social media. I chatted with my husband, my brother, friends about it.
Many felt rage.
The rage I felt though, was not only about this situation, this verdict, this story. It felt deeper and darker.
I wanted men to take more responsibility for not speaking up, for not stopping things from happening, for not teaching boys (by example) that this behaviour is not excusable nor acceptable. I wanted them to take back each and every sexist-laced joke. in any hockey locker room or any after-sports bar.
Just. Fucking. Stop.
How is this culture allowed to continue?
In this landmark case, why did some of the players participate in the events described by E.M. and others did not?
How did we get to a place where it was the words of five lawyered up (now) professional hockey players against one woman saying she was victimized?
Think about if that young woman was your daughter, your niece, your sister, your granddaughter or your wife? Does any woman deserve that?
Five men (and more were in the vicinity) who were in top physical condition, taking turns having sexual encounters with the same young woman.
We know that Hockey Canada maintained a ‘fund’ for these types of allegations and that in a civil suit, Hockey Canada paid the victim 3.3 million dollars to keep the details quiet, to silence her.
I hear so many old men complaining about what the government spends money on that they consider wasteful but I don’t hear a single one of them complain about the wasted money the government has given Hockey Canada to settle lawsuits to silence victims.
My rage is palpable, however I challenged myself to go deeper.
What I found was surprising, even to me.
It brought up pain and shame from my own sexual experiences as a young woman.
I consented.
But many times, I wished I hadn’t. I was promiscuous and passed it off as exploratory sexual independence.
I grew up in a home that told me I was too fat, not pretty enough, not needy enough (my mom asked me why I couldn’t just be more needy) but that I had a great personality.
Society validated all of those things for me.
I was your classic insecure, sensitive (fragile) girl with ‘Daddy issues’.
But I had an acerbic wit that could cut glass, level someone (mostly males) with words, protecting myself from the anticipated rejection I was sure to receive. But I was also kind, empathetic and supportive to those who braved getting close to me. And whip smart, with an edge.
As a young woman, boozed up was mostly the way I could have sex. Later I would discover the anxiety and insecurity the booze masked. I let that numbed sex pass for intimacy because I had no idea what or how intimacy worked. All I knew is that I desperately wanted to be loved and to belong.
No one spoke of feelings in my home, it was discouraged.
And I had a lot of feelings about everything.
No one taught me I could have boundaries, that I could set those myself.
I carried my self loathing into every intimate interaction.
Many times I regretted the sex I had, and with whom. Sometimes I liked the physical act but in my case, I was longing for a real relationship, for love and it was the only way, the only shortcut I knew, to real intimacy.
Of course, casual sex didn’t do that for me.
I didn’t feel loved by my family, how could anyone else love me?
Because I didn’t respect myself, the folks I slept with didn’t respect me either. And sometimes I felt scared. Sometimes I’d be in a situation that seemed too dangerous to say no and that I couldn’t think clear enough or fast enough to get away, even if I did say no.
I remember a guy saying to my face in a bar, in my early 20s, that I was ‘like a moped, fun to ride but I wouldn’t want my friends to see me.’ And I didn’t know what to say.
I believed him.
Take that in.
What kind of a person says that to someone? What kind of a culture did patriarchy create where a man thinks he could say that to a woman’s face in a public place?
Now, similar sentiments are regularly posted online without incident.
The message I got was that I wasn’t good enough, that I was embarrassing and worthless.
I’d attempt to mold myself into whatever I needed to be. A Shapeshifter. As much as inside, I felt like an outsider and that I was a fraud, I’d try to project a sense of confidence and that I didn’t care what anyone thought.
But of course, I did. Or I wouldn’t have masked my insecurity and the shame that dogged me because of my own sense of lack.
I’m 58 years old as I write this, some of those sexual encounters still haunt me.
The gossiping about me behind my back stung for many years.
But I now have compassion for that young woman who wanted to say no but said yes.
Does any of my past mean I am flawed in some way? ‘Crazy’? Undeserving of love, affection, respect or empathy?
No.
I own every version of me. I love each one of her.
The only way is through, shining light on shame and loving myself through all of my versions.
This layer of the onion has been a hard pill to swallow, many years, much pain.
But I have called back each little piece of dignity I left behind and am whole again.
I share this story openly and vulnerably so others don’t feel so lonely in their own shame, in their own story.
No one benefits from patriarchy.
For the men, the boys, the folks who identify (or identified) as males, society conditioned you to seek conquests, you’ve been sold/told that that is ‘manly’.
You were taught to hide your feelings, to channel them all into rage, each feeling pushed down and into anger and violence. You were less of a man if you showed emotion. Maybe you were called (gasp) a girl.
You have been allowed and encouraged to be enraged.
Maybe your mom was the one who told you to stop crying and ‘be a man’. Maybe it was your dad, a teacher, your grandparents.
Those identifying as women have been told to smile sweetly and be obedient, hiding our rage.
We are so much more alike than we want to admit, than we’ve been allowed to explore.
We are all humans, designed to feel, emote, love, express anger, sadness, grief, loss, failure and forgiveness.
But none of us have been allowed, or allowed ourselves, to be authentically ‘us’.
We’ve all played our parts.
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players…”
As Jacques in Shakespeare’s As You Like It, so aptly speaks, however even this speech/passage is from the male perspective.
When will we see that the way we currently show up in the world, is not good for us? When will we see ourselves as human, never to escape pain, love, loss, joy, failure, exuberance, enthusiasm and sorrow?
When will we stop hiding from our true selves?
When will we turn away from the constant stimulation, the constant noise of distraction and examine what’s inside?
What’s inside all of us?
The rage was never about consent, it’s about our collective loss of self.
We are longing to love, on a deep, connected level.
Do you/we have the courage to explore that?