I was 19 the first time someone shared her story of being sexually assaulted with me. Over AOL Instant Messenger, a friend from high school said she’d lost her virginity at a party a year earlier. “But,” she added, “it wasn’t what I wanted. I was drunk. He took advantage of me.”

I had no idea what to say. I understood that she was describing a traumatizing experience. I could tell she was still upset. What she was alluding to was terrible, but it was also commonplace. I heard stories of hookups gone bad almost every weekend. I sat frozen at my keyboard. Should I ask for details or would that only make it worse? Should I encourage her to talk to someone – her mom, an adviser, a therapist? It didn’t occur to me that she was talking to someone: me.

I finally typed: “I’m sorry.” Then we changed the subject and neither of us ever mentioned it again. It would be a few years before I learned to call non-consensual drunken sex “rape” and years more before I understood that all those nights I spent tipping back red Solo cups in fraternity basements were part of a larger culture of sexual assault. What happened to my friend was happening to women around me all the time. As I watch the news, I think often of this moment, of how completely I failed my friend, of how I wish I could go back and do it differently.

I’m lucky to be able to say I’ve never been sexually assaulted. Or, to be more precise, I’ve never been sexually assaulted if you don’t count the time a friend ignored my first three noes and finally relented at the fourth, the one that was angry and loud. And if you ignore all the times I was groped on dance floors, and the times I laughed off uncomfortable advances from male friends because I was the kind of girl who “could take a joke”. I’ve never been sexually assaulted as long as you don’t count the times I said no later than I wanted to but before things got really bad. Still, I count myself lucky. In rape culture, the bar for luck is low.

This week I received an email from Jessica, one of my closest friends. “I’m about to lose my shit,” she wrote, “I’m forwarding this to you because I am too angry to reply.” What followed was a lengthy exchange between her and her uncle about the Brett Kavanaugh hearings. He didn’t understand why women were just now coming forward with stories about assaults that happened years ago. To explain, she decided to tell him her story.

“It takes so much courage to speak up about sexual assault,” Jessica wrote back. “It’s hard. It’s re-traumatizing. I have been holding my experience in for 25 years. I’ve never pressed charges or said anything publicly.”

If putting someone else’s feelings before your own experience feels uncomfortable, remember: survivors do it every day

In response, he wrote: “Sorry to hear about your run in with a ne’er do well, but glad to know you are of strong enough character to move forward.” And then he proceeded to complain about Hillary Clinton.

It’s taken all I have not to reply to this man in all caps: SOMEONE YOU LOVE JUST TOLD YOU ABOUT THE WORST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO HER. YOU CAN DO BETTER.

In a way, I can empathize with my friend’s uncle. The two of them have always been close and I imagine that if he stopped to really consider her experience (like, for example, the fact that 25 years ago, Jessica was 11), he’d be horrified. I’ve known about her assault for the better part of two decades and I still find it difficult to think about. When someone tells you about being assaulted, it is always easier to dismiss, to make light, to blame or ignore than it is to really make space for their pain. I know because that’s exactly what I did with my high school friend. But we can all do better.

The reason I don’t call my experiences assault is the same reason my friend has kept her story private for so long: our culture is designed to minimize women’s pain, to fold it up and tuck it away so it cannot make anyone else uncomfortable. For many survivors, “Sorry about your run in with a ne’er do well” is the best sentiment on offer.

But now we are in the midst of a reckoning. Survivors of assault are sharing their stories and we need to learn how to respond. Here’s how you can start:

Believe the story – every single part of it. Don’t judge their feelings or mention how you think you might feel in their situation. Don’t ask why they didn’t tell you sooner. Listen without judgment. It’s a big deal for someone to trust you enough to share their story – it costs them something. Acknowledge that.

Don’t minimize their experience. Calling an assaulter a “ne’er do well” is a great way to minimize it. Same with “it wasn’t that bad” or “it could’ve been worse”. No experience of trauma is more or less legitimate than another.

Don’t blame survivors. When Jessica’s uncle said, “I’m glad to know you are of strong enough character to move forward,” he intended to be nice. But comments like this imply that it’s the job of the person who was assaulted to “move on” and that not “getting over it” is a kind of failure. Trauma doesn’t just get up and walk out of a person’s life one day; it only gets further incorporated. As Jessica puts it: “If you know a survivor and they don’t seem that broken up about it, don’t assume they aren’t struggling and don’t imply that someone else shouldn’t be.”

Avoid the impulse to make this experience about you. Sitting with the suffering of someone you love is painful. Secondhand trauma is a real phenomenon. But don’t expect the survivor to help you feel better about their trauma – they’ve spent their lives doing this. And don’t share the story with others in hopes of finding support. Survivors are the only ones who get to decide who hears their story. If you need support, visit a professional.

Saying “Is there anything I can do?” often feels like a kind gesture. But keep in mind that not only can asking for help feel like a burden, it often exacerbates trauma. Instead, take action. Get informed. Speak up about the prevalence of assault and the importance of believing survivors. Donate to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network. Or turn to the person you love and say simply: “You can call me any time you want to talk about this. And you can call any time you’d rather do anything but talk.”

In short, your job is to love. Love in ways that are generous and explicit, and put everything else – politics, judgment, fear – aside. If this – putting someone else’s feelings before your own experience – feels hard or uncomfortable, remember that it’s the least you can do: survivors do it every day.