In 2019, a man raped me while I was volunteering in rural Tanzania. I had fundraised for months – cake sales, raffles, working two jobs – because this placement meant everything to me. It was my path to a career in international development; my dream.
On my third night in a remote Tanzanian village, conducting a site visit, a man came into the room where I was staying. What happened next would follow me for the rest of my life – not just in my memory, but in my body, my bank account, and every aspect of my health.
The Aftermath
I messaged head office to collect me. Back at headquarters, I couldn’t speak – just full-body trembling. I eventually wrote down in three words what had happened: he raped me.
What followed was a blur: multiple police stations, repeated invasive hospital tests, medications including a month-long course of PrEP to prevent HIV. Through it all, I experienced my first extreme head twitches – violent, jolting movements that would later become a regular symptom of my nervous system stuck in crisis.
I decided not to tell anyone at home. There was nothing for me in England – no house, no job, no money. This project was everything. So I stayed, joined another village team, and continued managing the WASH programme while in a constant state of hypervigilance, obsessively checking my phone for updates on the court proceedings.
Two months after returning to the UK, I was called back to Tanzania for court – in two days. It was only then I told my parents.
I stood in court for hours, recounting what happened while he sat two metres to my left, shouting over me. I left traumatised but hopeful – I had witnesses, DNA evidence, and a confession.
Nine months later, the verdict came: Not Guilty.
It broke me.
When My Body Shut Down
After thirteen months of functioning on high alert with barely any sleep, my system crashed. I couldn’t move or speak for days, then weeks. My father drove me to Scotland, where I stayed for seven months.
Insomnia. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Chronic fatigue. Chronic pain. My body was storing what my mind couldn’t process – the rage, the injustice, the unprocessed trauma.
GP visits led to diagnoses: PTSD, ME/CFS, Fibromyalgia, and POTS. I was told there was no cure, no treatment plan. I would need to manage symptoms myself for the rest of my life.
Fighting for Justice While Fighting to Survive
A year after the verdict, I was told the court had “lost the paperwork” and an appeal was “no longer possible”.
My lawyer shared the court judgment – a document so full of lies and victim-blaming it filled me with even more anger. I was told the magistrate had likely been bribed. All too common in the Tanzanian legal system.
I channelled my rage into action. I was put in touch with Legal Action Worldwide about filing a complaint against the Tanzanian government for breach of International Law: CEDAW. I met with the charity I’d been volunteering with to improve safeguarding. I exchanged emails with the British High Commission and Department for International Development, both of whom could have done more.
All while spending most of my time bedbound, managing hospital appointments, and navigating an ongoing health crisis.
Pushing Through and Paying the Price
After a few years, I tried to return to “normal” life – studying, then working, and then socialising again. I thought I was being determined. I didn’t realise I was harming myself.
My health declined further. My digestive system went into crisis: histamine intolerance, fat and protein malabsorption, MCAS, severely restricted eating, worsening dizziness, fainting, intensified pain and fatigue, and waking every hour through the night. Eventually, I had to move back in with my parents for support.
I now understand that what looked like resilience was, for my body, danger. Each time I pushed through pain and fatigue, my nervous system interpreted it as threat. Pushing only made me sicker.
Choosing Myself
In 2021, with my grandparents’ support, I signed up for a chronic illness recovery programme and enrolled in a Master’s in Gender, Violence, and Conflict. I had been battling suicidal ideation, and deciding to fight sexual violence gave me a reason to keep going.
I studied while extremely unwell, achieving distinctions across the board. I later secured a role at Plan International and pushed for promotion with everything I had.
Eighteen months later, I was made redundant due to sector-wide funding cuts.
By then, it was clear I had no fight left. Working in a triggering space while managing complex health conditions was no longer sustainable. I chose myself, my health, and a life not defined by my trauma.
Taking My Health Into My Own Hands
When the medical system tells you there is very little they can do, you take your health into your own hands. That path isn’t free.
Over seven years, I have spent more than £15,700 trying to make daily life bearable – at times living on just £800 a month in Universal Credit.
I paid for recovery programmes, nervous system courses, therapy, apps, books, tests, and guides that offered what the medical system could not: understanding, hope, direction. I bought tools to manage pain, sleep disruption, and sensory overwhelm. I spent thousands on supplements hoping to ease fatigue, pain, dizziness, gut issues, and relentless insomnia.
This doesn’t include taxis to appointments, higher energy bills, cancelled plans, lost friendships, or missed career opportunities.
I live slowly, gently, and with intention. My focus is no longer on pushing, but on teaching my body it is safe again through rest, consistency, and regulation.
I am not sharing this for sympathy. I am sharing it for awareness.
Because surviving sexual violence did not end with the court case. It followed me into my nervous system, my body, and my bank account.
When trauma and injustice have nowhere to go, the body stores it. That unprocessed pain literally became chronic illness.
That part of the story is rarely told – how the cost of survival compounds over years, how justice denied becomes illness, and how the NHS’s gaps become a financial burden survivors must carry alone.
Choosing myself isn’t giving up on making a difference. It’s recognising that caring for myself is the foundation from which any meaningful contribution must grow.
