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*Author’s Note: I’ve held this reflection for years. I share it now from a place of perspective, not crisis, with time and understanding behind me. This is not an exposé. It’s a reflection on power, silence, and the systems we move through—often without the language to describe what’s happening. I offer it with care, for those who choose to read.
This article includes a personal account of sexualized power imbalance in a professional setting and reflections on systemic silence. Please read at your own pace, or step away if the topic feels tender today. Your well-being comes first.
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It could have been me.
In my early 20s, I was presenting research at a professional conference—work I had poured myself into. An older, influential man approached my poster. He spoke fluently of funding, opportunities, and doors that could open.
He suggested we continue the conversation over dinner. He said others would be there, discussing their own projects. I felt hopeful and excited for what this might mean for my project.
When I arrived, the table was full of men, including him. I was used to mostly male spaces as an engineer. But as I sat down, everyone else left. It was just him and me.
He commented on how “friendly” I was. “Very friendly.” He repeated it.
I can’t recall if my project came up at all. I remember talk of his private jet, of flying me to San Francisco for a weekend of “fun.”
Unease settled in me immediately. A fierce, visceral “No!” rose up—tangled with shock and disgust—but it remained completely stuck inside. Unspoken. My body froze, words trapped. At the time, I had no language for it. Now I understand it as a freeze response: a nervous system reaction, not a failure of courage.
He put his hand on mine. I froze further.
Nothing else happened. Gradually, I unfroze. We left toward the elevators. I left quickly, locked my door, and stayed in my room until morning, shaken and confused.
I questioned how the confident, outspoken woman I knew myself to be could not find words in that moment.
What just happened? Why did I stay mute? Why couldn’t I speak? How was I so naive? Was I? How will the fact that I did not follow through with this influential man’s invitation impact my project? My work? Myself?
When I reported this to my manager back at work, I was brushed off—my experience dismissed. The following year, I was invited back to the conference. I agreed only if a colleague attended with me. That was refused, and I did not go.
This whole experience got me to reflect on how easily abuse of power can start.
Not in shadows, but in plain sight.
Not with violence, but with entitlement.
Not with notorious misbehaving figures, but with respected men who are protected by systems and cultural norms that quietly allow these dynamics to persist.
This is why high-profile cases like Epstein’s matter—not as comparisons, but as context. They reveal the conditions that allow harm to persist. My story is not even comparable to survivors’ experiences. It is simply an observation of patterns.
Observations of a patriarchal culture where:
>> men in positions of power are protected
>> women are pressured into silence through money, reputation, or fear
>> silence is mistaken for consent
>> wealth insulates wrongdoing
>> institutions prioritize image over responsibility
This is not about a single person. It is about systems that fail repeatedly, then feign surprise when harm becomes impossible to ignore.
Too often, we ask women why they didn’t speak. Rarely do we ask why speaking felt unsafe.
We frame abuse as individual pathology instead of systemic permission.
As painful as it is to acknowledge, abuse exists—it always has. The reason it continues is the structures we’ve built to absorb it, rationalize it, and allow it to persist.
And this harms everyone.
Women are trained to accommodate, to be polite, to doubt their instincts. Men are often taught that power grants access, that success excuses behavior, and that restraint is optional.
If you see yourself in this story, know this: your responses made sense. They still do.
Real accountability is not just about punishment. It’s about transformation.
It requires men to reflect on how power lives in their choices and bodies—cultivating emotional literacy, relational responsibility, and the ability to regulate impulses rather than act them out. It calls for spaces where men can heal, not to excuse harm, but to develop empathy, self-respect, and care for others.
It requires women to be believed before harm becomes public, to be able to speak without fear of dismissal or retaliation, and to know they are valued. Truly valued. Needed. Powerful. And not for what they endure, but for who they are.
It requires collaboration—women and men working together to shift the culture that normalizes silence over truth.
It requires institutions to act early, decisively, and transparently.
And it requires all of us to stop confusing silence with peace.
Until then, there will be lists.
Not because women are naive. But because the structures enabling abuse remain intact.
Naming this—carefully, truthfully—is one way we can begin to interrupt these patterns.
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