(A fictional story based on research and Capyble’s work supporting universities to respond to gender-based violence)
This is a fictional story based on real themes, data, and experiences drawn from the 2021 National Student Safety Survey and Capyble’s work with universities across Australia. Names, details, and events have been fictionalised to protect privacy.
The day it happened
I still remember the smell of that hallway, stale air, photocopier toner, a faint trace of coffee.
I was halfway through my second year at university, juggling classes, casual work, and volunteering as a student mentor. I loved my course, loved being on campus.
Until that day.
It started with what felt like banter, compliments that lingered, jokes that didn’t land, a supervisor’s hand on my shoulder that stayed a beat too long. Then came the messages: “You’re so mature for your age.” “Let’s catch up off-campus, I can help you with your assignment.”
When I didn’t reply, the tone changed. Short, sharp comments in tutorials. Eye contact that said everything his words didn’t.
I didn’t have a word for it then, but now I know what it was. Gender-based violence.
The statistics behind the story
The 2021 National Student Safety Survey (NSSS) revealed that:
- 1 in 6 university students experienced sexual harassment since beginning study.
- 1 in 20 experienced sexual assault.
- Only 4.5% made a formal report to their university.
When I first saw those numbers, years later, they really got me thinking. Not because I was shocked, but because they confirmed what I’d felt in my bones. It’s not that survivors don’t want justice or change. It’s that the path to safety often feels harder than the harm itself.
The silence that follows
For months, I said nothing.
Partly because I wasn’t sure what had “really” happened.
Partly because I didn’t want to make trouble.
Mostly because I didn’t think anyone would believe me.
Every time I thought about reporting, I pictured my supervisor’s title: Dr, Senior Lecturer, published author. And me? Just a student, one of hundreds in his course.
I told myself, “Maybe I’m overreacting.”
Silence felt like control. But it wasn’t. It was isolation.
The first disclosure
It happened by accident.
A friend and I were talking about an assignment, and I mentioned how uncomfortable tutorials had become. She looked at me and said, “That’s not okay.”
She was the first person who believed me.
She sent me a link to the university’s online reporting form. I opened it six times before closing it again. The language felt cold, procedural. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I clicked “submit.”
Eventually, I emailed the Student Wellbeing Office instead.
Their reply came two days later: “Thank you for reaching out. Would you like to make an appointment to discuss next steps?”
Next steps.
The phrase felt heavy, like a door opening to somewhere I couldn’t see yet.
Entering the system
When I arrived at the Wellbeing Office, the staff member smiled, kind, but nervous. She read from a checklist: “I just need to advise you that if you disclose certain details, we may have to escalate this under policy.”
Her words blurred together.
I wanted to tell her everything, but I didn’t know what “escalate” meant. Would my name be recorded? Would my lecturer find out? Would it affect my grades?
So, I edited my story down to something smaller, safer.
“He makes comments that make me uncomfortable.”
She nodded and offered to log an informal report.
She also handed me a list of phone numbers: the counselling service, campus security, an external hotline.
She meant well. But what I needed most wasn’t information, it was understanding.
The systemic reality
This fictional story mirrors what the NSSS and Capyble’s organisational work reveal across Australian campuses:
- Survivors are more likely to tell a friend than use formal channels.
- Many staff who receive disclosures feel unprepared or anxious about saying the wrong thing.
- Institutional processes can feel legalistic rather than trauma-informed.
- The result? Underreporting, attrition, and disillusionment.
These are not failures of compassion, they’re failures of systems not designed for the emotional realities of trauma.
What happens in the mind of a survivor
When someone discloses gender-based violence, they are navigating fear, shame, confusion, and survival instincts.
Psychologists call it the “window of tolerance.” Survivors may oscillate between:
- Hyperarousal: anxiety, agitation, defensiveness.
- Hypoarousal: numbness, withdrawal, silence.
When staff or peers meet that disclosure with procedure instead of presence, survivors can feel retraumatised.
A simple response like,
“I believe you. What would you like to happen next?”
can be grounding and empowering.
The turning point
For me, the turning point came weeks later.
A senior staff member (someone I didn’t know) emailed to check in. She said she’d seen my wellbeing note (confidentially), and wanted me to know the university took these matters seriously.
She wrote:
“You don’t have to go through this alone. You have options, and we can go at your pace.”
That one sentence changed everything.
It told me I still had agency. That my voice mattered.
I met with her the next day. She explained the difference between informal and formal reports. She talked about trauma-informed processes and how evidence was handled. She didn’t rush me. She listened.
For the first time, I felt like I was part of the process, not trapped in it.
What institutions can learn
Capyble’s work with universities highlights that systems don’t fail because people don’t care, they fail when structures, training, and culture don’t align.
Here are key lessons from the field:
1. Clarity is compassion
Survivors often hesitate because they don’t know what will happen next. Clear, plain-language information about process builds trust.
2. Choice is healing
Offer options: informal vs formal reports, anonymous submissions, referrals to external support. Control restores agency.
3. Training is essential
Every staff member (from tutors to senior executives) should know how to respond to disclosures. “Listen, believe, connect” is the baseline.
4. Consistency prevents harm
Survivors shouldn’t receive different responses depending on who they talk to. Standardised protocols are critical.
5. Accountability builds credibility
Transparent reporting, regular reviews, and survivor-informed consultation signal seriousness, not risk management.
Survivor-informed practice: What it looks like
Survivor-informed practice isn’t just empathy, it’s structure, language, and leadership.
Language
- Replace victim with person affected (if preferred).
- Avoid blame-laden questions like “Why didn’t you report sooner?”
- Use plain, trauma-aware language, no acronyms, no legalese.
Structure
- Embed trauma-informed design into reporting systems: privacy options, pacing, feedback loops.
- Partner with external specialists for impartiality and support.
Leadership
- Senior leaders must publicly acknowledge the issue and commit to continuous improvement.
- Survivors should be consulted in program design, not tokenised but empowered.
Why reporting still feels risky
Even with better systems, reporting can still feel like walking a tightrope.
For students and staff alike, fear of retaliation or disbelief remains real. In the NSSS, over half of students who didn’t report cited fear of not being taken seriously.
Others worried about confidentiality or career impacts, especially in close-knit academic communities.
The paradox: people won’t report until they trust the system, and the system can’t improve without people reporting.
Breaking that cycle requires transparent leadership, survivor-centred design, and cultural change that prioritises safety over self-protection.
The role of HR, wellbeing, and leadership
Universities are more than places of learning, they are workplaces, communities, and cultures.
To respond effectively to GBV, institutions must bridge the gap between student experience, staff practice, and governance responsibility.
For HR and leadership teams:
- Embed GBV prevention and response within Work Health and Safety (WHS) frameworks.
- Allocate budget for specialist staff and continuous training.
- Include GBV indicators in culture and safety audits.
- Publicly report outcomes, not just incidents, but improvements.
For student wellbeing officers:
- Advocate for clear, survivor-led pathways.
- Build strong referral networks with external providers.
- Champion small, visible changes, posters in multiple languages, named contact officers, survivor resource pages.
For academic and professional staff:
- Know your role. You don’t have to investigate, just respond with care and connect to the right support.
- Model respectful, inclusive behaviour in every interaction.
A Story within a story
Months after I first reported, I ran into another student in the library. She looked anxious, like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.
Finally, she whispered,
“You reported, didn’t you? I heard you did. Thank you. It made me feel like maybe I could too.”
I didn’t expect to become a catalyst. I just wanted it to stop.
But that’s the quiet power of visibility, it shows others what’s possible.
What universities and higher education are doing right
Across Australia, universities are making tangible strides:
- Anonymous reporting portals that prioritise survivor control.
- Consent and respect training integrated into first-year orientation.
- Specialist GBV teams within HR and Student Services.
- Partnerships with external organisations for independent investigations.
- Public reporting of prevention progress and incident data.
These initiatives demonstrate a shift from reactive compliance to proactive culture-building — a hallmark of genuine leadership.
From compliance to culture
Responding to GBV isn’t just about ticking boxes under the forthcoming National Code. It’s about transforming culture.
Capyble’s approach with universities focuses on three interconnected pillars:
- Compliance – meeting WHS and legislative obligations.
- Capability – equipping staff and students with skills to respond and prevent.
- Culture – embedding respect, equity, and safety in everyday life.
When these pillars align, prevention stops being an aspiration — it becomes a lived reality.
The power of listening
In workshops, Capyble often uses a simple exercise:
Each person shares a time they felt heard — truly heard.
Without fail, the room softens. Because that’s what most people want — not perfection, not bureaucracy — just to be heard and believed.
When survivors disclose, they’re not only telling their story; they’re testing whether the system deserves their trust.
The Ending that isn’t an ending
For me, or rather, for the “me” who represents thousands of students, healing didn’t come from policy or punishment. It came from being met with humanity.
It came from the staff member who said,
“We’ll go at your pace.”
From the friend who said,
“That’s not okay.”
From the senior leader who emailed to say,
“We believe you.”
The system changed because people inside it chose to.
What every higher education institution can do tomorrow
To close the gap between silence and safety, universities can:
- Simplify reporting — one clear pathway, not six confusing options.
- Train all staff annually — disclosure response, trauma awareness, and referral skills.
- Include students in governance — survivor advisory groups with real influence.
- Communicate early and often — normalise conversations about respect and safety.
- Celebrate change — highlight positive stories, not just failures.
Culture shifts when prevention feels collective, not punitive.
Final reflection: safety as a shared story
Universities and higher education exist to change lives, to teach, challenge, and inspire. But learning can’t happen where fear lives.
Gender-based violence isn’t just about individuals; it’s about systems, power, and silence.
When institutions act with transparency and care, they send a message louder than any campaign:
“Your safety is not negotiable.”
And when survivors see that message reflected in practice (in the tone of an email, in the warmth of a response, in the structure of a system) they begin to believe that change is possible.
That’s where healing begins.
That’s where culture transforms.
That’s where prevention becomes who we are.
