When I Reported My Sexual Abuse, No One Told Me I Wouldn’t Get a Lawyer

Content warning: This article discusses sexual assault in a way that may be distressing to some readers.

The first thing you notice at the police station is the fluorescent lights. They hum. They buzz. They make everything look harsher than it already feels. You sit and you wait on cold plastic chairs, rigid as anything, until someone asks you to "come this way" into a private room. And you do, because this is how justice begins. I thought so too. After 24 hours of answering questions over three weeks, I signed my statement. I remember believing I'd just crossed some invisible threshold — that this was serious, that I was now protected, that someone would walk beside me through whatever came next. I thought it meant I'd have a lawyer. Spoiler: I didn't. 

That’s the first big myth about reporting sexual assault — that when you report a crime, you’ll automatically have a lawyer in your corner. It makes sense that people assume that. Victims in TV shows always have someone sitting next to them, whispering advice, objecting to unfair questions. But in reality? That person doesn’t exist for victims here in Australia. The accused gets a lawyer. The prosecution represents the state. And the victim? She gets a pamphlet.

By the time the case reached court, I’d learned just how unprotected I really was. For two years, he had a team of senior barristers strategising his every move. Meanwhile, I was taking phone calls from unknown numbers in the stationery cupboard at work, straining to hear updates about a case that carried my name but never my voice. Every unanswered email, every bounced contact, every new name I had to chase down as the case changed hands again and again… and again — it all amplified the terror I felt about the trial itself. Who would look out for me? 

When the day finally came, the man who raped me sat flanked by his two barristers. They had taught him how to woo the judge with a floor-scraping bow, directed him when to glance his eyes toward the jury, to shift from looking hard done by to apologetic. I met the Crown Prosecutor one business day before the trial. It was the perfect embodiment of all I’d endured: a system that saw me not as a participant, but as a prop. No one was there to explain what was happening, to tell me what decisions were being made about me, or to push back when rules were broken. And they were, constantly. Evidence was withheld. My medical records were subpoenaed unlawfully. My sexual history was paraded in front of the jury. Every response I had to, you know, just the worst thing to ever happen to me was dissected, disputed, discredited, and no one intervened. No one could, because technically, legally, I didn't have any rights in that courtroom. 

Most people don’t realise that victims aren’t a legal party to the prosecution of their own perpetrator; they’re witnesses. Most victims don’t realise it themselves. The law sees the crime as harm against the state, not against the body that endured it. And that distinction changes everything. Because the logic of the courtroom mirrors the violence — a woman's body stops being hers. She becomes an object, evidence, not someone deserving of protection or advocacy. It's the institutional echo to the crime itself - the misogyny just changes venue.

And when you’re left to navigate that kind of system alone, the power imbalance is staggering. It’s no wonder most victims never report. And of the few who do, less than one in ten reports end in a conviction. Not because victims are unreliable, but because the system is. Because when victims are unrepresented, they’re unprotected. And without a shield, offenders aren’t just unchecked — they’re enabled.

There’s a simple, affordable fix to this injustice: give victims their own lawyer. An independent lawyer would mean that victims have someone in their corner — to explain the process, protect their privacy, and advocate for them throughout the legal process. One person they can trust, instead of a rotating cast of services calling from unknown numbers on their own schedule. One person who can coordinate the fragmented, dragged out goings on so victims aren’t juggling the legal system like a circus act they never had the skills for.  It’s clarity instead of chaos, continuity instead of crisis.

This isn’t a radical idea. Countries like Ireland, Sweden, and Germany already provide legal representation to victims in sexual assault trials. It doesn’t interfere with the accused’s right to a fair trial — it simply gives the state, and the victim it relies on as its chief witness to the crime, a fair process too. And the good news: after some relentless advocacy, Australia is trialling independent legal representation across every state and territory starting from 2026. It’s early days, and the details will matter — especially how it’s funded, staffed, and integrated into existing systems — but it’s a start.

If I’d had an independent lawyer, my experience would have been completely different. I would have been protected, prepared, had my rights upheld. Most of all, I would have emerged with my dignity intact. Imagine if every victim had that — a lawyer, a voice, a plan. Reporting might not feel so terrifying. More victims might stay engaged with their cases, without having to sacrifice their mental health. More perpetrators might actually face accountability. Because when victims are informed and supported, and can be confident that reporting violence won’t cause them more harm, justice isn’t just possible — it’s more likely.

Strangely enough, despite my experiences, I’d do it all over again just to be where I am now — in a position to help change the law so that no one else has to go through what I did, and what so many before me have gone through, too. My mother says the same thing too; her only regret is not getting herself put in contempt of court by revealing the plea deal when the trial started collapsing. It’s funny, I’ve asked many victims whose perpetrators were found not guilty whether they’d report in hindsight — the answer is always yes. 

There are prosecutors who do step outside of their roles and take the time to make complainants feel comfortable. There are police officers who go above and beyond to make complainants feel supported — some of mine certainly did. But it seems no matter the circumstances, victims carry that duty they feel to help stop the violence happening to someone else with their heads held high. They don’t do it easily — they do it to the shrill sound of people claiming they’ve lied, they do it as loved ones turn their backs, as the weight of disbelief and shame and misplaced blame is wrongly thrust upon them. It is incredible and it deserves to be seen. 

Maybe justice doesn’t begin under fluorescent lights after all. Maybe it begins when we decide that victims deserve more than the lot they’re being given — when we build a system that remembers who it’s meant to protect. Change is coming, but it needs public pressure to hold. Read about the ILR pilots. Talk about them. Demand a system that earns the trust it expects. Then ask your leaders: what’s taking so long? 

Sarah Rosenberg is the Executive Director of With You We Can, an online resource demystifying the police and legal processes for victims of sexual violence while working to improve them.