From Silence to Voice: On Moral Responsibility

It’s been a couple of years now that stories of lawsuits involving the real estate company I work for have been surfacing. These lawsuits were filed by multiple women alleging a culture of drugging and sexual assault at national conferences—claims that leadership allegedly tried to cover up. The company functions somewhat like a pyramid scheme, and the higher-ups—especially the founder and CEO—seem focused on keeping top performers (i.e. the best recruiters) happy. According to these women’s testimonies, some of the worst behavior came from those top performers. Their reports were brushed aside—until the lawsuits started.

What’s brought it back into sharp focus for me is that one of the women recently came forward publicly—and she lives in my area. We’re connected on social media. That small connection jolted something in me, and I’ve been thinking a lot about moral responsibility.

I know I’m not the only woman who finds stories like this deeply triggering. I have my own history of conflict between “letting things go” and “setting things right”—and I’ve always leaned toward letting things go. It’s easier. Quieter. Less risky. It doesn’t make my heart race or my palms sweat. It doesn’t invite retaliation. “Everything is fine. I’m fine. It’s all fine” is a mantra I know too well.

But the truth is, in my early 20s, I was drugged and assaulted. And for a long time, I struggled to even recognize it for what it was. But twenty years later, particularly after hearing stories from other women, I see it clearly.

I was at a local musician friend’s gig. I ordered a bottle of wine and left it unattended for a while. Afterward, I joined a group of people—guys and girls—at a nearby house where some of the musicians lived.

The next thing I remember is kneeling outside in the grass, tears streaming down my face in joy…and ectasy. I was gazing at a beautiful stained glass image that no one else could see. In my mind, I was communing with something Divine and other-worldly. I was hallucinating. 

Then I remember running up to hug one of the people at the party. I was crying. At the bar, he had told me that his father had recently passed and suddenly I felt so sad, imagining the pain of his loss.

Then I remember feeling very excited and happy, swirling around in a dance on the front porch, while a couple of the house guests eyed me strangely. 

I didn’t realize I was acting differently than normal until the musician whose gig I had gone to took me aside and told me I was acting like I had been drugged. 

The next thing I remember is that friend who had pulled me aside massaging my lower hips in the dining room and it feeling unusually good. 

Then bits and pieces. In the bathroom, body trying to rid itself of the drug. In someone’s bedroom. In someone’s bed. 

I woke up the next morning alone. My driver's license was gone. I was supposed to drive to Georgia that day for a 10-day Vipassana meditation retreat.

My dad kindly drove me, even stopping at the DMV so I could get a new license.

During the silent meditation, the emotions came in waves: rage, sadness, betrayal. But mostly sadness.

I couldn’t articulate it back then, but I understand now: I was taken advantage of. I was treated carelessly. And that is wrong. That is sad.

What could I have done? What should I have done?

At the very least, I could’ve had direct, assertive conversations. At the most, I could’ve gone to the police. What would I want my daughters to do? Definitely not the least. I’d want them to do the most.

Not all assaults are violent. Not all rapes are “date rapes.” But drugging someone is always wrong. And taking advantage of someone in that state? That’s criminal.

So how do we protect each other? At the bare minimum, we speak up when something happens.

Twenty years ago, social media wasn’t what it is today. Now, there are Facebook groups specifically created to warn women about men who raise red flags. One of them is called Are We Dating the Same Guy? I tell all my single female friends about it.

I think the point of this piece is twofold:
(1) To finally speak, when my first response was to flee into silence—literally, through a 10-day silent retreat. I see you. I admire your courage. I’m ready to be seen too.
(2) To ask real questions about moral obligation. Do we have an ethical duty to speak up? Do I have a responsibility to not participate in the success of a company that enabled this kind of culture to go on in an extended manner? 

I’m not sure of all the answers, but I’m open—and I’d really like to hear your thoughts.