I've been thinking about the Cornell story.
If you've managed to avoid it, I'm slightly jealous.
Although, to be fair, if you've managed to avoid it, you're probably living a much healthier life than I am because I've now read approximately seventeen versions of what happened, watched people arguing about it on social media, read the arguments about the arguments and then found myself wondering why I'm sitting there, when I should be sleeping, trying to understand American university law.
Which is possibly the first warning sign that the internet has too much information.
The story, in very broad terms, concerns a former Cornell student, known publicly as Jane Doe, who alleges that she was sexually assaulted by several fraternity members at a party in 2024.
The allegations were investigated by Cornell. The university disciplined students and shut down the fraternity chapter, but no criminal charges were initially brought.
The case has now been reopened, with New York Attorney General Letitia James overseeing the criminal investigation. Cornell has also appointed former US Deputy Attorney General Sally Yates to conduct an independent review of how the university handled the allegations.
There have been protests.
There have been demands for greater accountability.
There have been women posting “I am Jane Doe” in solidarity with the woman at the centre of the case.
And there have also been reports of threats against her.
It's a horrific story.
But it's also made me think about something slightly bigger.
Believe women. But what does that actually mean?
I've spent most of my later adult life hearing some version of the same message:
Believe women.
And I understand why.
Women have historically been dismissed when they report sexual assault.
We've been asked what we were wearing, how much we'd had to drink or which drugs we'd taken.
Why we went there. Why we didn't leave. Why we didn't report it immediately.
Why we didn't scream. Why we didn't fight.
Why we didn't behave like the perfect victim in somebody else's imagination.
So yes.
Women should be listened to.
Women should be taken seriously.
Sexual assault allegations should be properly investigated.
All of that seems fairly straightforward to me.
But there's another debate that often follows online.
What does “believe women” actually mean?
I understand the sentiment behind it. Women have historically been dismissed when they report sexual assault, and there are very good reasons why the starting point should be to listen rather than immediately assume a woman is lying.
But listening to someone, taking an allegation seriously and making sure it is properly investigated aren't quite the same thing as deciding, from the outside, that we know exactly what happened.
There's a difference between saying:
I believe you should be listened to.
and:
I personally know exactly what happened and have reached a verdict.
One is about taking someone seriously. The other is about deciding a legal case from your phone.
And I'm not sure Instagram is quite ready to replace the courts.
And perhaps I'm not entirely neutral on this
Like an absurdly high number of women I know, I know what it’s like to be young and have life throw something at you that you weren't remotely prepared for.
I'm not saying that because I want this to become a story about me. It isn't. And I'm certainly not looking for sympathy (I am not good with sympathy).
It's relevant because when I read stories like the one coming out of Cornell, I'm not looking at them entirely from the outside.
I know why the words “believe women” matter.
I also know that there is a huge difference between wanting women to be believed and pretending that we, as people watching from the outside, know every detail of someone else's experience.
And perhaps that's why I feel so conflicted about the way these stories play out online.
I don't want women to have to produce a perfect account, with perfect evidence, in order to deserve to be taken seriously.
But I also don't think justice is served by turning a social-media feed into a courtroom.
Both things can be true.
And I think that's what makes this so difficult.
But then there's the really difficult question
What happens when you do report something?
What happens when you tell the people whose job it is to investigate?
What happens when you go through the process and you don't feel that you've been properly heard?
That's the bit that really bothers me about this story.
Because regardless of what ultimately happens in the criminal investigation, there are already serious questions being asked about how the original case was handled.
Those questions are now being examined again.
The New York Attorney General has taken over the criminal investigation, while Cornell has commissioned its own independent review.
And that, to me, is much more important than whatever somebody on TikTok thinks happened.
Because institutions matter.
Police matter.
Universities matter.
Courts matter.
Investigations matter.
They're supposed to be the places where complicated, horrible, disputed things are properly examined.
Not Twitter. Not TikTok. Not the comments underneath an Instagram post.
And then the internet arrived
Of course it did. Because this is 2026.
Within what felt like five minutes, people were discussing the case all over social media.
Some women began posting “I am Jane Doe” as an act of solidarity and, in part, to make it harder for people trying to identify the woman at the centre of the case.
And I have to admit, I find that incredibly moving.
There's something powerful about thousands of people saying:
You're not on your own.
We're listening.
We're not going to let you disappear.
But there's another side to it too.
Because once something becomes an internet story, it can become almost impossible to control.
People start investigating.
Screenshots appear.
People try to identify people.
People publish names.
People decide who's lying.
People decide who's guilty.
And then, inevitably, people start attacking each other.
The woman at the centre of this case has reportedly received threats.
And suddenly I'm wondering:
What exactly are we doing here?
Are we trying to help?
Are we trying to get justice?
Are we trying to make ourselves feel as though we're doing something?
Or are we simply very, very angry?
I'm not suggesting we all shut up
Because I don't think that's the answer either.
Social media has given people a voice who might previously have had none.
The #MeToo movement showed what can happen when women realise they're not the only person something has happened to.
Sometimes speaking publicly matters.
Sometimes sharing a story matters.
Sometimes collective outrage forces institutions to look again at something they'd rather leave alone.
That's important.
But perhaps there's a difference between raising your voice and taking over the investigation.
And perhaps we need to remember that.
I don't know what happened
This feels like an uncomfortable thing to say.
But I don't know exactly what happened at Cornell.
I wasn't there.
I haven't seen every piece of evidence or interviewed the people involved. I haven't read every police report or sat through the university's investigation.
I certainly haven't conducted a criminal investigation from my sofa.
And yet I've been tempted to have an opinion. What am I saying? I do have an opinion.
Because that's what the internet encourages us to do.
It gives us a story and asks:
What do you think?
Immediately.
Not:
What do you think after you've considered the evidence?
Not:
What do you think might still be unknown?
Just:
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
And God help you if your answer is:
I'm not entirely sure yet.
Maybe that's allowed
I think I'm becoming increasingly comfortable with saying:
I don't know.
It doesn't mean I don't care.
It doesn't mean I don't believe women should be heard.
It doesn't mean I'm indifferent to sexual violence.
It doesn't mean I don't want justice.
It means I recognise the difference between caring deeply about something and knowing every fact about it.
And perhaps that's a distinction we need to make more often.
Because if we turn every serious allegation into an online courtroom, we risk creating another problem.
The loudest and angriest person isn't necessarily the person with the most information.
And the person who shares the most isn't necessarily the person doing the most.
So where does that leave us?
I don't have a neat answer.
I don't think women should be silenced.
I don't think allegations of sexual assault should be brushed aside.
I don't think institutions should be allowed to shrug their shoulders and hope everyone gets bored.
And I don't think social media is a substitute for a proper investigation.
Maybe what I'm really asking for is something terribly unfashionable.
Nuance.
The ability to say:
This is horrific.
This needs to be investigated properly.
I hope she is heard.
I want institutions to be accountable.
And I also don't personally know every fact of this case.
Apparently you can hold all of those thoughts in your head at the same time.
Who knew?
Because justice shouldn't depend on who has the biggest following.
It shouldn't depend on who can make the most compelling TikTok.
And it shouldn't depend on whether something gets enough likes.
Justice isn't supposed to come from Instagram.
But if people have lost faith that they'll get justice anywhere else, perhaps we shouldn't be entirely surprised when they start looking for it there.
And maybe that's the part of this story we should really be talking about.
Because I've been on the other side of this.
And I know that when something like this happens, the last thing you need is for your experience to become somebody else's social-media argument.
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