My assault journey

In early February, I was attacked while walking my dog before work. It was just after 5:30 a.m. A man I didn’t know came at me with a knife.

The physical wounds are healing. The emotional ones—fear, hypervigilance, guilt—are harder to treat. In the days after, I asked myself over and over: Why was I out after dark? Why didn’t I fight harder? Why can’t I remember more to help catch him?

It took me a while to understand what so many survivors already know: we don’t just survive violence—we inherit the burden of explaining why we were vulnerable to it in the first place. But here’s the truth: I did nothing wrong. The blame lies entirely with the man who attacked me.

What haunts me most is the not knowing. I don’t know what he wanted. To kill me? To rob me? Something worse? That uncertainty is its own kind of trauma. And with the attacker still at large, I live in it every day.

The Gardaí I spoke to in the aftermath were kind. I want to be clear about that. Individual officers treated me with compassion. But the institution itself—the way information is handled, the support offered, the follow-through—left me adrift. Key details I thought were vital were omitted from public statements. That fed online speculation and cruel comments that made me feel ashamed and exposed all over again.

Words matter. Whether they come from Gardaí or the media, they shape the narrative. Reading the term “alleged assault” while recovering from knife wounds, bruises to my head, and emotional collapse—it felt like erasure. Phrases like “all circumstances around the incident” opened the door to public doubt. I saw people wonder aloud what I might have done to provoke this.

After the attack, I went to A&E. I was checked over and given a tetanus shot. Then I was told to follow up with my GP. Within 48 hours, I got a €100 hospital bill. Another €50 for the GP visit—just to report what happened. Over the weeks that followed, I had four more calls with my doctor. Each one cost €40 or €50, depending on whether I needed my work certificate extended. I tried going back to work. I got overwhelmed. I passed out. I ended up in an ambulance—another €100 bill—all of this because of what was done to me.

At no point was I offered mental health support. Not at the hospital. Not by my GP. No follow-up, no check-in, no “how are you coping?” I was left to navigate it alone.

The Gardaí gave me two recommendations for help: the Crime Victim Helpline, and the Rape Crisis Centre. I want to be clear—I was not raped. But one officer gently told me he believed that might have been the attacker’s intention. Still, I didn’t reach out to the Rape Crisis Centre. They already do so much. I didn’t want to take up space.

Instead, I tried the Crime Victim Helpline. The phone line was so bad, I could barely hear the person on the other end. Three follow-up calls? Nothing but silence. Later, I was sent a list of counsellors—none had immediate availability. I was told if I urgently needed support, I should go private.

So I did. My fiancé helped me find a counsellor. Without him, I don’t know how I would’ve managed. But at €65 a session, it’s not an option everyone has. I was lucky. And that’s part of what makes me angry: surviving something like this shouldn’t come down to luck, or privilege, or whether your family can help you piece yourself back together.

My parents, my siblings, my cousins, in-laws, and especially my fiancé—they carried me when I couldn’t carry myself. They were my caseworkers, my crisis line, my medical advocates. But I needed them to do all that because the system didn’t.

And this is what I want people to understand: surviving the attack was the first fight. Getting help shouldn’t be the second.

This system isn’t built for survivors. It places the burden on us to self-diagnose, self-advocate, self-fund, and stay strong enough to keep asking for help that may never come. We are left screaming into a void. And if that void answers at all, it’s with silence—or judgment.

I don’t think I’ll ever be exactly the same again. And maybe that’s okay. Healing doesn’t always mean going back to who you were. Sometimes it means learning to live with what happened and letting that change be part of you.