One of the most painful things people don’t talk about after sexual assault is this: sometimes the harm doesn’t stop with the assault itself. Sometimes it continues through the words, assumptions, and ignorance of the people around you—especially family.

After my rape, I was already dealing with fear, confusion, and the very real concern of whether I could be pregnant. Instead of being met with care or accurate information, I was met with misinformation and accusations.

A family member told me that pregnancy could happen if a man simply laid his penis on the outside of a woman’s vagina. Not only is that misleading, but the timing of it mattered. I was vulnerable. I was scared. And instead of helping me understand my body in a truthful way, that information only added fear.

Looking back, it didn’t feel like concern—it felt like manipulation.

There was also something deeper happening. Assumptions were made about me that had nothing to do with truth and everything to do with bias. Comments about me “giving up my virginity,” referring to it as “giving up my flower,” were thrown at me as if my story was already written in their minds. No one asked what actually happened. No one paused to consider that I might not have consented at all.

Another family member went even further, saying, “That’s why your stupid a** shouldn’t have been f***** raw,” placing blame on me for something they didn’t even understand.

That’s not just ignorance. That’s harm.

This is what secondary abuse looks like. It’s when someone survives something traumatic, only to be blamed, shamed, or misinformed afterward. It’s when people project their own issues, biases, or lack of education onto someone who is already hurting.

And in my experience, there was also a racial layer to it. There’s a stereotype that young Black girls and women are sexually reckless, fast, or irresponsible. Because of that, people feel more comfortable making assumptions instead of asking questions. They replace empathy with judgment. They assume consent where there was none.

That bias is dangerous. It silences truth and protects harm.

What makes it worse is that sometimes the people doing this are family. The same people who should protect you can become the ones who deepen the wound. Some of them may be projecting their own past. Some may lack education. Some may carry internalized beliefs they’ve never questioned. But none of that excuses the damage.

Let’s be clear about a few things:

I was not reckless.
I did not “give anything up.”
I was not responsible for what happened to me.

And no survivor deserves to be met with accusations instead of support.

We need to talk more about how dangerous misinformation is, especially around sexual health and assault. We need to talk about how victim blaming shows up in families, not just in society. And we need to acknowledge how racial bias affects who gets believed and who gets blamed.

Survivors deserve truth.
Survivors deserve compassion.
Survivors deserve to be heard without assumptions being placed on their lives.

Sometimes healing isn’t just about processing what happened—it’s also about unlearning the lies people placed on you afterward.

And one of the most powerful things you can do is tell your story and call those lies out for what they are.