Justice remains an elusive ideal, and there are few clearer examples of this frustrating reality than when individuals who commit acts of sexual violence are assigned rote tasks as a means of atonement. True accountability requires deep behavioral and societal shifts, yet institutions frequently default to superficial administrative remedies that fail to address the profound harms inflicted by sexual misconduct.

Recently, the high-profile “Cornell 7” case has inspired renewed and urgent conversations across the country about what accountability and atonement truly involve in higher education. When college administrators investigated a report of sexual violence involving students, some of the alleged perpetrators were reportedly assigned to write “reflection papers,” alongside other institutional punishments. These writing assignments drew such widespread public ire and criticism that Cornell University ultimately issued a formal statement clarifying that “none of the individuals charged were offered the opportunity to write essays as a sole consequence of their involvement.”

Nevertheless, the mere inclusion of written assignments in disciplinary proceedings for sexual misconduct has ignited a fierce national debate regarding the adequacy of university responses to interpersonal violence. To understand why these administrative measures feel so inadequate to many, it is necessary to examine how language, discipline, and power intersect—both in institutional settings and in the deeply personal experiences of survivors.

As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, which began when I was just 11 years old, I learned early on that the weaponization of language often goes hand-in-hand with systemic punishment. The abuse inflicted upon me by my step-father was inextricably linked to rigid household discipline. He was acutely aware of how much I loved words, reading, and writing, and he began to cynically use those very passions as tools to control and punish me.

Our household was governed by an elaborate, unforgiving set of rules designed to maintain absolute obedience. We were strictly prohibited from speaking during dinner without explicit permission. We were required to stand while playing board games in the living room. Our bedrooms were subjected to rigorous inspections every single evening, and our beds had to be made with precise, immaculate hospital corners.

Any minor infraction could instantly trigger a punitive response. One of his preferred methods of discipline was to require me to write an essay outlining what I had done wrong and detailing how I planned to correct my misdeeds. If I failed to wash the dinner dishes carefully enough, I would be forced to write an essay about why I needed to take better care when cleaning up after a meal.

Other times, the punishment was even more tedious and mechanical: I was ordered to write the exact same sentence hundreds of times in succession. If I complained about the food served at dinner, I had to write 100 times, “I will appreciate my mother’s cooking.” If I made a careless remark or made fun of one of my siblings, I had to write 250 times, “I will not make fun of my brother.” And most chillingly, if I resisted his physical attempts to assault me, the punishment could be a thousand repetitive iterations of the phrase, “I will listen.”

In those moments, I was being heavily punished simply for trying to protect my own body from the person who was abusing me. Through that cruel process, I learned a vital, cynical lesson: writing the correct words was entirely different from believing them. I could easily produce an essay explaining what I might have done wrong and promising to be better, but it didn’t mean that I actually believed I had misbehaved. It merely meant that I understood what was required of me to survive the moment. The punishment was considered complete when the writing was complete, but whether I had genuinely learned anything or changed my perspective was entirely beside the point.

More than 50 years later, I find myself looking at contemporary headlines and wondering what we possibly believe an essay can accomplish when it is assigned in response to allegations of sexual violence. Cornell’s disciplinary proceedings have reportedly resulted in a range of different sanctions for different students, including expulsions and suspensions, but “reflection papers” were among the educational requirements imposed on some of the individuals involved.

This raises a fundamental question that legal scholars, administrators, and advocates are grappling with: What, exactly, can an assigned essay demonstrate?

An essay can undoubtedly be thoughtful, articulate, and persuasive; it can express formal regret, recognize abstract harm, and promise future behavioral change. But how can any institution truly know whether the person who wrote those words actually believes any of what is written on the page? What happens when completing an administrative assignment simply becomes a convenient substitute for demonstrating genuine understanding, remorse, or changed behavior?

I have spent my entire adult life writing, teaching, and interviewing people about the complexities of their lives. I deeply believe in the immense power of language to help us understand ourselves and one another, yet I also know intimately how easily language can be manipulated to conceal the truth, deflect blame, and project a false image of reform.

My abuser thoroughly understood the immense power of words, and he used them masterfully to dictate the terms of my absolute obedience. He strictly controlled what I was allowed to say to the outside world. He explicitly warned me that no one would ever believe me if I told them the truth, and he threatened severe violence against those I loved most if I ever dared to speak out. Terrified, I believed him, and so I remained trapped in silence and corrosive shame.

I was routinely required to write about my smallest, everyday infractions while being forbidden, through paralyzing fear, to speak about the most terrible thing happening in my daily life. The bitter irony was that the person who demanded that I explain my supposed wrongdoing was the very person committing the most serious and devastating wrongdoing of all.

This is precisely why the complex relationship between language and power matters so profoundly to me. In institutional and interpersonal dynamics alike, the person with authority almost always gets to decide what constitutes an acceptable explanation, a credible account, or a sufficient expression of remorse.

Jane Doe, the young woman at the center of the unfolding Cornell case, first reported the harrowing incident to university campus police in 2024. In the time since, both the timing and the content of her disclosures have become subjects of intense public scrutiny, media attention, and debate. Public discussions have focused in part on the perceived differences between her initial statements to authorities and her subsequent allegations.

While I cannot speak for her personally, and recognize that our individual experiences are vastly different, I deeply understand how fear can completely dictate and distort what someone is willing to reveal, even when they are in crisis and desperately need help.

There is something deeply troubling about how much weight and proof we expect words to carry in cases of sexual violence. We routinely scrutinize the accounts and memories of those who report abuse, aggressively searching for minor inconsistencies or flaws in their delivery. Yet, conversely, we are now asking individuals who have been found responsible for serious misconduct to demonstrate self-awareness and understanding simply through a written reflection paper.

I firmly believe that writing can be a powerful catalyst for personal reflection and meaningful change. However, an administrative essay is, at its core, merely evidence that someone has successfully completed an assigned task. It cannot establish whether that person truly understands the gravity of the harm they have caused, nor can it guarantee that their future behavior will change.

As these institutional debates continue to unfold, we are left to confront a difficult question: Why are we placing so much institutional faith in the words that perpetrators are required to write, while simultaneously questioning and doubting the words that survivors struggle so hard to say?