For a while, I’ve held my tongue about your case. I needed time to think. I stand firmly by the words, the protections written into our bill of rights: “innocent until proven guilty.” So I stayed quiet, and I read. I read the court files. I read the support documents. I read Emily Doe’s heart-breaking letter. I read just about every article on every major news site, every factual report, every op-ed, as your life was splayed, groomed, and then ripped apart by journalists and by the community, for what you did, how it was handled, and how you were sentenced.

When the dust settled and when the bones were picked, you were found guilty, unanimously, by a jury of your peers.

When the dust settled, a judge sentenced you to much less than that of what you deserve.

Still, I’ve always been a person capable of incredible empathy, especially towards those who may not deserve it in the eyes of the public. Brock Turner, I feel bad for you.

I feel bad that the judge left you with such a light sentence. A sentence of six months, with the possibility of release in three, is not what society has deemed adequate penance for the invasion of another’s body, the violation of another’s personal security. If you had served that time, or if you had settled outside of court, if you had seemed to show any true remorse, the backlash that you are facing right now would certainly not be this intense. We would perhaps pat ourselves on the back as a society, telling ourselves, “Congrats, we didn’t let this one get off easy,” and that would be that. Instead, I see your face everywhere, as everyone calls you the scumbag of the century. I feel bad that the judge let you off, because if he hadn’t, you would not be tied to the stake in the middle of the public’s largest witch hunt.

I feel bad that you’ve been made into a symbol throughout this case. You didn’t just rape someone, no. You raped someone as an incredibly privileged white male in a time where the racial and socioeconomic climate of this country is as tense as a rubber band stretched tight. You were the snapping point. I feel bad that you grew into this privilege, that you were never taught about consent, that your ambition, no doubt encouraged by your parents, meant that you never heard the word ‘no,’ or that you never took it seriously. I feel bad that, because you acted at exactly the wrong time, the next time a white, male athlete decided to harm a girl at a party, your name will be the first one out of everyone’s lips.

I feel bad that, as so many paint it, that your life is over because you made a mistake. I feel bad for the way you’ve been tormented, that your life has been ruined not only by this mistake, but by the people who have tried to stand up for you, because your father and your friends have only made your situation worse. I feel bad that you’ve lost your ability to follow your passion for swimming. I feel bad because I remember that you’re a person too, a person with thoughts and feelings and a family that loves you. I can’t imagine the earth-shattering things you’re going through.

And then I remember Emily Doe.

I remember the way you forced yourself on her in a dark, dirty alley, behind a dumpster. The way you ripped off her clothes. The way you hurt her. The way that you tried to run as two brave men tried to stop you from hurting her. The way in court, how you and your lawyer tried to discredit her and humiliate her for what she was wearing and what she was drinking. I remember the fear that Emily Doe must now feel, the loss of control, the night terrors, how she couldn’t sleep at night for the first few months because only daylight felt safe. The detail that struck me the most was the way that Emily Doe now sleeps with two drawings of bicycles taped above her bed frame, to protect her and remind her of the good in the world. When I begin to feel bad for you, I think of the ways in which a twenty-three-year-old must resort to arsenal of a child to protect herself from the fear your caused by your “mistake.”

When I think of Emily Doe, I can’t excuse what you did. At the end of the day, I will always think of Emily Doe. I see myself in her, and it could have been my life that you--or someone like you, had destroyed just as easily. You committed a crime, and since the justice system couldn't punish you, the public will. When I think of the image that is painted of you, I almost feel bad for you. But I remember her. And for that, I will stand by, and watch your future go up in flames.