As a sex therapist and educator, I find myself returning to a singular, haunting question in the wake of the "Cornell 7" case: How do we move beyond the limitations of our current conversations about sexual violence? The case, which involves a woman identified as Jane Doe suing Cornell University and seven male students over allegations of drugging and sexual assault in October 2024, has reignited a painful, necessary national dialogue. While the specifics of the allegations are currently winding their way through the legal system and I cannot speak to the events of that night, the incident serves as a sobering prism through which we can view the broader failures of our current approach to sexual violence.
For years, our cultural response to sexual assault has been anchored in the concept of consent. It is a standard we emphasize in seminars, policy manuals, and, increasingly, in the law. If someone says "no," it is a definitive refusal. We have made progress in teaching the importance of identifying consent at the point of physical contact. However, as this latest case suggests, we cannot meaningfully address sexual violence if our efforts begin and end at the moment of physical engagement. We are failing to address what people learn—and what they are encouraged to believe—long before they ever find themselves in a bedroom.
The fundamental issue is that our current framework often conflates the absence of a "no" with the presence of true, autonomous desire. Sexual assault is not simply a failure of communication; it is a violation of autonomy. To address it, we must shift our focus toward the underlying beliefs held by those who commit these acts. We must ask: What are these individuals taught regarding their entitlement to others? What happens when sexual behavior is transformed into a social currency, a tool used to establish status and dominance within peer groups?
The "Cornell 7" case has provided a chilling glimpse into this dynamic. Reports have highlighted internal communications, specifically a Snapchat group chat where the victim was discussed in dehumanizing terms. In these exchanges, messages suggested the woman was "available" for sex and inquired if the "shop" was still open, with a respondent confirming as much. This language reduces a human being to an object—a commodity to be claimed and shared. While such rhetoric is undeniably vile, it is rarely surprising to those who have studied the culture of toxic masculinity on college campuses. For many women and members of marginalized communities, this is not a shocking anomaly; it is a familiar, wearying pattern of behavior that has persisted for generations.
The problem, therefore, is not merely individual accountability, though that is a necessary component of justice. If we stop at the individual—if we view every instance of sexual violence as an isolated incident involving a "bad actor"—we fail to address the cultural and systemic conditions that allow this behavior to fester. We must confront the reality that there is a long, documented history of cisgender men finding protection within systems built by and for their own demographic.
This protection is often not the result of a conscious, malicious decision to aid a perpetrator. Instead, it is the result of systems that prioritize institutional reputation or comfort over the safety of survivors. A 2024 review article published in Trauma, Violence, & Abuse highlights the "insidiousness of institutional betrayal," documenting how universities frequently cause further harm to survivors through policies and procedures that, while appearing neutral, consistently favor the perpetrator. When a university prioritizes the protection of its brand or the social standing of its fraternity members, it effectively reinforces a culture where violence is overlooked or minimized.
My own experience with this dynamic dates back to my time as an undergraduate, where I co-founded a group called Sexual Assault and Violence Ends (S.A.V.E). The necessity of such a group on campus was born out of a stark reality: institutions often prefer to brush sexual violence under the rug to maintain the status quo. We were creating a space for students to seek support precisely because the institutional mechanisms designed to protect them were failing.
This phenomenon of "dispersed responsibility" is a hallmark of these environments. When everyone—from friends who witness predatory behavior to administrators who fear bad press—decides that a situation is "not their business" or that it is someone else’s problem to solve, the responsibility for prevention vanishes. This collective inaction allows sexual violence to persist as a cultural constant rather than an infrequent, isolated crime.
Consider the case of Jeffrey Epstein as a macro-level example of this systemic failure. The details of the abuse are no longer a mystery, nor is the fact that Epstein operated within circles of extreme wealth and power for decades. The most difficult aspect to comprehend is not the actions of one man, but the complicity of the infrastructure that surrounded him. How did such flagrant exploitation continue for so long? The story is less about the singular predator and more about the environment that granted him access and immunity.
We see this same pattern on a smaller scale in universities, corporate boardrooms, and social circles. Systems do not protect people equally. Survivors of sexual violence, women, Black individuals, and members of the LGBTQ+ community have long understood that institutional "justice" is not a universal guarantee. We are not dealing with a lack of information; we are dealing with a lack of will to dismantle the structures that perpetuate this inequality.
Teaching consent is an essential baseline, but it is insufficient. As long as we treat sexual violence as an individual problem to be solved through workshops and sensitivity training, we will continue to see these cycles repeat. We must turn our attention to the systems—the peer hierarchies, the institutional protections, and the cultural narratives—that foster a sense of entitlement and facilitate the abuse of others.
Until we are willing to interrogate the systems that protect the perpetrator and silence the survivor, we will remain trapped in the same loop, waiting for the next "Jane Doe" to bring these issues to light. The "Cornell 7" case is a reminder that we are not just dealing with the actions of a few individuals; we are dealing with the legacy of a system that has, for far too long, prioritized the comfort of the few over the fundamental safety and autonomy of the many. True progress will only come when we demand that our institutions, our social groups, and our culture at large stop shielding the behavior that leads to such devastating outcomes.
