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Why Does It Feel Easier to Doubt Women Than to Stop Defending Powerful Men Like Russell Brand?
How shame, misplaced loyalty and the protection of reputation can silence women long after sexual violence has occurred.
Content note: This article discusses sexual violence, victim-blaming and childhood experiences of shame. Update: 9 November 2026 — Russell Brand Sentenced to 10 Years and Six Months
Russell Brand has today been sentenced to ten years and six months in prison at Southwark Crown Court, following his conviction for one count of rape and three counts of sexual assault.
During sentencing, Mr Justice Bennathan condemned Brand's disregard for women's right to refuse sexual contact, making clear that a woman's clothing, whereabouts or alcohol consumption never removes her right to say no.
The judge also addressed the consequences for Brand's children, stating that their father's imprisonment was the result of his own serious offending.
These observations go to the heart of this article.
For days, people have questioned the women's motives, their behaviour and why they waited to report what happened. Some have expressed greater concern for Brand's reputation and family than for the women he assaulted.
Today, the court reaffirmed a principle that should never have been in doubt.
A woman's decision to enter a man's home is not consent to sexual violence. And the consequences a convicted man faces are the result of his actions, not the women who reported them.
The Russell Brand conviction has exposed something deeply troubling about the way society responds to women who report sexual violence.
Despite being convicted of rape and three sexual assaults, Russell Brand continues to attract public declarations of loyalty and support.
Across social media, women who have spoken out are being labelled angry, vindictive and dishonest. Their motives are questioned. Some are accused of seeking money, attention or revenge. Others are asked why they waited so long to report the sexual assaults, why they didn't go to the police at the time, or whether they knew what they were getting into.
Meanwhile, concern turns towards Brand's wife and children, his reputation and the consequences of his conviction.
And there are those who simply announce that they stand with him.
What troubles me is how readily the conversation shifts from the behaviour of a man convicted of sexual violence to the character, credibility and supposed motives of the women who reported it.
Why does it feel easier to doubt a woman than to question our loyalty to a powerful man?
And what message does that send to the countless women who have spent years, sometimes decades, carrying the shame of sexual violence in silence?
When the Person Who Hurt You Is Too Important to Challenge
When I was sixteen, I was sexually assaulted by my boyfriend.
I told him to stop. He didn't.
When I returned home, my mother told me I had no business being at his house when his parents weren't there.
What did I expect, she asked, getting into his bed?
Later, when she acknowledged that he had done something wrong, she made something else very clear.
There was nothing we could do about it because he came from a prominent local family.
I have thought about those words many times over the years.
The first response placed responsibility on me.
The second placed his family's reputation above what had happened to me.
At sixteen, I was being taught that even when someone had done something wrong, their social standing could determine whether they were held accountable.
And I wonder how many other women received a similar message.
Perhaps nobody explicitly told them to remain silent.
Perhaps they simply learned that speaking out would cause trouble, embarrass the family, damage someone's career or threaten a relationship.
Perhaps they were made to feel that the consequences of telling the truth would be their responsibility.
When a girl learns that another person's reputation matters more than her right to protection, silence can begin to feel like an obligation.
Why Do We Question the Woman Before We Question the Man?
Consider the questions so often directed at women who disclose sexual violence.
Why did she go to his house?
Why did she drink?
Why did she stay?
Why didn't she fight back?
Why didn't she go straight to the police?
Why has she waited twenty years?
And perhaps most cruelly, why is she bringing it up now?
These questions often contain an assumption that there must have been something the woman could have done differently.
They shift attention away from the behaviour of the person who harmed her and towards the decisions she made before, during or after the experience.
Yet consent is not determined by someone's clothing, previous sexual history, willingness to enter a bedroom, or decision to accept a drink.
And there is no universal response to sexual violence.
Some people fight. Some freeze. Some comply because they are frightened. Some dissociate. Some continue interacting with the person who harmed them.
Some disclose immediately.
Others remain silent for decades.
A delayed disclosure does not, by itself, establish whether an allegation is true or false.
But for a woman who has spent years questioning herself, seeing other women publicly interrogated can reinforce the belief that speaking out will expose her to further shame.
Why Do Women Delay Reporting Sexual Assault?
During the sentencing hearing, one woman described carrying shame for twenty years following Brand's assault. Another explained that she had needed time before she felt mentally strong enough to report what happened. Their experiences illustrate something too often overlooked in public discussions of sexual violence: the emotional consequences can continue for decades, while the courage required to speak about them may take years to find.
One of the most persistent questions directed at women who disclose sexual violence is, “Why didn't she go to the police at the time?”
It is often asked as though reporting an assault should be a straightforward decision.
But sexual violence can leave someone frightened, confused, ashamed or struggling to make sense of what happened.
Some women fear they won't be believed. Others worry about retaliation, public humiliation, losing their relationships or being blamed for the circumstances in which the assault occurred.
Some are assaulted by people they love, depend upon or trust. Acknowledging what happened may threaten their sense of safety, their family life or their understanding of someone who has also shown them affection.
Others experience freezing, dissociation or fragmented memories, making it difficult to describe what happened in a clear, chronological account.
And for women who learned in childhood that speaking out could bring punishment, rejection or shame, the prospect of reporting sexual violence may feel particularly frightening.
Sometimes a woman has spent years telling herself that what happened wasn't serious enough to report.
Sometimes she has convinced herself that she was somehow responsible.
And sometimes she has never told another living soul.
The absence of an immediate report tells us when someone disclosed an experience. It does not, by itself, tell us whether that experience occurred.
A woman may need years to find the language to describe what happened, to recognise it as sexual violence, or to feel sufficiently safe to speak about it.
And when she finally does, she may encounter the very accusations she feared all along.
Why now? Why didn't you say something sooner? What are you hoping to gain?
Perhaps we should be asking a different question.
What have we created, as a society, that makes so many women afraid of what will happen when they tell the truth?
The Shame That Begins Long Before the Assault
Shame does not always begin with sexual violence.
For some women, it begins in childhood.
Perhaps they were humiliated for expressing anger.
Perhaps they were blamed for upsetting a parent.
Perhaps they were expected to keep family secrets.
Perhaps they learned that being good meant being obedient, agreeable and grateful.
Or perhaps love and approval depended upon protecting the feelings of adults, even when those adults were behaving badly.
Over time, a child can begin to take responsibility for circumstances she has little power to control.
She may become exceptionally skilled at anticipating other people's reactions.
She may learn to apologise before she has done anything wrong.
She may feel guilty whenever she disappoints someone.
And she may become so accustomed to questioning herself that, when something genuinely harmful happens, her first instinct is to examine her own behaviour.
What did I do?
What should I have noticed?
Why didn't I stop it?
Why did I trust him?
Shame can turn the experience of being harmed into the belief that there is something shameful about the person who was harmed.
That distinction is fundamental.
Guilt concerns something we believe we have done.
Shame can become a judgement about who we believe ourselves to be.
And once shame becomes entangled with identity, reassurance alone may struggle to reach it.
A woman can understand intellectually that she was not responsible for being assaulted and still feel overwhelmed by humiliation when she tries to speak about it.
These patterns can be connected to childhood trauma, particularly when a child repeatedly experiences humiliation, emotional neglect, fear or an absence of protection. Understanding how early experiences shape our emotional responses can help explain why shame continues to influence us long into adulthood.
Why Do People Continue Defending Powerful Men Like Russell Brand?
We form attachments to people we admire.
Celebrities, public figures, spiritual leaders and successful men can become associated with qualities we value: intelligence, humour, courage, rebellion, charisma or authority.
For some followers, an admired public figure becomes part of their identity.
They have invested time in him. They have defended him. They have believed his words.
They may feel that he represents their values or speaks for people like them.
When serious wrongdoing is established, accepting that reality can create an uncomfortable conflict.
The person they admire has done something they find morally unacceptable.
One way of resolving that conflict is to reconsider their opinion of him.
Another is to question the information that challenges their existing beliefs.
Psychologists describe the discomfort associated with conflicting beliefs as cognitive dissonance.
It may help explain why some people become more determined to defend someone as the evidence against him becomes harder to dismiss.
Of course, people can have legitimate concerns about criminal investigations, evidence and the justice system. Wrongful convictions do occur, and scrutiny of legal proceedings matters.
But a general claim that courts sometimes make mistakes is not evidence that a particular conviction is unsafe.
In Russell Brand's case, a jury heard evidence during a four-week trial and convicted him of one rape and three sexual assaults. He was acquitted of three other charges.
Those acquittals deserve the same respect as the convictions.
Yet public loyalty can sometimes become so powerful that even a criminal conviction fails to change someone's position.
And when loyalty becomes more important than evidence, the people harmed can disappear from the conversation altogether.
In my earlier article, Russell Brand Conviction: Why Women Protect Abusers, I explored how childhood experiences can influence a woman's loyalty towards someone who harms her. Here, the question extends beyond intimate relationships to the powerful emotional attachments people form with public figures.
When Loyalty Becomes More Important Than Truth
There is another aspect of this that deserves attention.
Women, too, can participate in defending men who have harmed other women.
Sometimes this may reflect a personal relationship. Sometimes a shared identity, deeply held beliefs, emotional dependency or a fear of what acknowledging the truth would mean.
Sometimes it may be connected to lessons learned in childhood about loyalty.
A girl who was praised for protecting her family, keeping secrets or standing by people regardless of their behaviour may grow into an adult who finds it profoundly difficult to challenge someone she loves or admires.
To question him may feel like betrayal.
To acknowledge his behaviour may threaten her understanding of the relationship.
To withdraw her loyalty may provoke shame.
This does not explain every woman's decision to defend a man accused or convicted of sexual violence. We cannot know an individual's private motivations from the outside.
But it raises an important question.
When does loyalty to someone else become abandonment of yourself?
And when does protecting one person's reputation begin to contribute to another person's silence?
What About His Wife and Children?
One argument appearing in discussions about Russell Brand concerns the impact of imprisonment on his family.
His children may experience genuine distress and loss. They deserve compassion and privacy.
But the existence of a family does not erase criminal responsibility.
When we suggest that women who report sexual violence are responsible for the suffering experienced by an offender's family, we place another extraordinary burden upon them.
They become responsible for the assault.
Responsible for reporting it.
Responsible for the investigation.
Responsible for the verdict.
And now responsible for the consequences experienced by people connected to the offender.
How much responsibility are we expecting women to carry?
And why are we so reluctant to place it where it belongs?
Why Didn't She Tell Someone Sooner?
In January 2025, I gave a talk to a women's organisation.
It was intended to be a New Year's motivational event, but I chose to speak about sexual violence, the shame that surrounds it, and the ways undisclosed experiences can influence women's lives.
I spoke about Gisèle Pelicot and her insistence that shame must change sides.
During my talk, a woman in a senior position interrupted me.
She stood in front of me and insisted that we mustn't hate men, that not all men were like Andrew Tate.
But I hadn't suggested that they were.
I was speaking about women's experiences of sexual violence.
A male cameraman who was present intervened and said he hadn't heard hatred towards men. He had heard truth.
I finished my talk, although the atmosphere had changed.
That experience stayed with me.
Because even in a room of women, speaking about sexual violence had somehow become a conversation about protecting men from criticism.
And I wondered how many women in that audience had experiences they had never disclosed.
How many had been blamed?
How many had been told to keep quiet?
How many had learned that their experiences were simply too uncomfortable for other people to hear?
Sometimes we ask why women don't speak sooner without considering what happens when they do.
Shame Can Become Its Own Form of Imprisonment
One of the most painful aspects of shame is that it can continue long after the original experience.
A woman may no longer be in danger.
The person who harmed her may no longer be part of her life.
She may have built a career, raised children, formed relationships and become outwardly successful.
Yet she may still struggle to speak about what happened.
She may experience overwhelming guilt when setting boundaries.
She may feel responsible for other people's disappointment.
She may find herself apologising, explaining and justifying decisions that require no apology.
And she may be able to recognise injustice immediately when it happens to another woman while struggling to extend that same compassion towards herself.
Because understanding something intellectually does not necessarily change the emotional expectations established through earlier experiences.
This is one of the reasons shame can be so difficult to overcome. We may understand where a belief originated and still find ourselves responding as though it were true. In my article, The Inner Child Healing Process: The Two Questions That Shift Self-Belief, I explore how questioning the beliefs we formed about ourselves in childhood can begin to change the way we understand our experiences today.
Perhaps the deepest injury of shame is that it can persuade us to participate in our own silencing.
We begin anticipating the accusations before anyone has made them.
We question our memories.
We minimise what happened.
We imagine what people will think.
And sometimes we decide that remaining silent is safer.
That is how shame can continue influencing a life long after the event that gave rise to it.
Shame Must Change Sides
Gisèle Pelicot's words have resonated with women around the world because they challenge something deeply embedded in our culture.
For generations, women have been expected to carry shame for experiences in which they were harmed.
They have been judged for speaking.
Judged for remaining silent.
Judged for staying.
Judged for leaving.
Judged for seeking compensation.
Judged for refusing to forgive.
And sometimes judged simply for surviving in ways other people do not understand.
We cannot eliminate sexual violence through words alone.
But we can begin changing how we respond when someone tells us what happened.
We can stop assuming that delayed disclosure means dishonesty.
We can recognise that freezing, complying or dissociating does not constitute consent.
We can stop treating a man's popularity, wealth, family connections or public reputation as evidence of innocence.
We can examine allegations fairly while refusing to humiliate the people making them.
And we can teach children that another person's reputation is never more important than their right to protection.
I think about the sixteen-year-old girl I once was.
I think about what she needed to hear when she returned home.
That she had done nothing to deserve what happened.
That being in someone's bedroom did not surrender her right to say no.
That his family's prominence did not make him more important than her.
And that she was entitled to protection, regardless of who he was.
Those are the messages I wish every child could grow up hearing.
Because shame can begin in a single moment.
But its consequences can reach across a lifetime.
And the shame that belongs to someone else's actions should never become the burden a woman spends her life trying to escape.
Stella Dove MBSCH is an Inner Child Healer and qualified clinical hypnotherapist. Her work explores how childhood experiences of shame, emotional neglect and misplaced responsibility can influence adult relationships, boundaries and self-worth.
Through Inner Child Healing, I work with adults exploring how childhood experiences of shame, rejection, emotional neglect and misplaced responsibility continue to influence their relationships, boundaries and sense of self. My approach combines guided inner child work with clinical hypnotherapy.
If you recognise the lasting influence of shame in your own life, book a private 90-minute Online Inner Child Healing Session for £195.
If this article has brought up painful memories of sexual violence, the UK Rape Crisis 24/7 Support Line is available on 0808 500 2222.
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