Content warning:
This passage includes sensitive content about sexual violence and may be triggering for some readers.
Jenna’s story reveals the lasting impact of sexual assault and the courage it takes to speak up. Drawing on both her professional experience and her own survival, she calls for trauma-informed care, respect for women’s boundaries, and real accountability in health and aged-care systems. Her message is clear: safety begins with belief and compassion.
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I’m a 75-year-old retired social worker—though I still help people all the time, just not for pay. I’ve worked in trauma care and sexual abuse counselling, and I’m also a survivor.
I was assaulted three times in medical settings: the first at four and a half during a tonsillectomy, the second at university, and the third in my late 30s by a GP. I didn’t connect the childhood incident until three years ago. I was in hospital for a colonoscopy, and my obs were all over the place. A nurse asked if I was anxious, and it clicked. I realised I’d always been controlling in medical settings, and I started having flashbacks. Suddenly, it all came together.
I told my GP and she believed me—which meant a lot. I’ve since started National Redress applications for both institutions involved. It’s not about money—it’s about documenting what happened and maybe protecting others.
Understanding the abuse brought relief. It explained why I’ve always felt uneasy around men. I was married twice; my second husband was a lovely man, older than me. Now I’m very careful. I’ve had trouble with some aged care services.
One male contractor sent to fix my clothesline was aggressive and verbally abusive—banging on my door, yelling. When I reported it, the agency minimised it and flagged me as a “problem.” My home care worker encouraged me to make a formal complaint, but nothing came of it. That man still works in the system.
Agencies don’t always understand what it means to be a survivor. If you ask for female staff, it can be treated like an inconvenience. Survivors aren’t “hyper”—we’re vigilant. That’s not paranoia, it’s common sense rooted in trauma.
There are so many women like me who don’t even recognise what they went through as abuse. We were raised to shut up. Our mothers were trying to protect us, because reporting it often made things worse.
Recently, I had surgery to remove my thyroid. The surgeon had to use a camera down my nose and throat—it was triggering. Afterward, I told her about my history. She was kind and compassionate. She arranged for all-female staff in the operating theatre. That made a huge difference.
In recovery, I had another trigger and asked to use my phone. The nurse hesitated, but when I explained I was a survivor, she let me text a friend. That small act of compassion grounded me.
I live with lichen sclerosis, an autoimmune condition affecting the vulva. It requires regular treatment, and I worry how that will be managed if I become more dependent. If I ever got dementia, I fear what could happen to me. Not the disease itself, but how vulnerable I’d be. I worry people won’t believe me or will dismiss what I say as delusion.
Sexual abuse isn’t about sex—it’s about power. Some perpetrators are opportunistic. They test the waters, and when they’re successful with a certain group, they target them. As children become less accessible in places like churches, I believe some of those same predators will move toward aged care.
Ageism is just another form of sexism. As older women, we’re often dismissed, ignored, or treated like burdens. We don’t talk about abuse or sexual trauma. I’ve had women walk away from me when I try to raise it. I don’t push—it’s a delicate topic—but we need to start speaking about it.
I remember a woman on a train platform telling me her GP had made an inappropriate remark. She confronted him, and he brushed it off as a joke. She didn’t want to report it. Many older women don’t even have the language for what’s happening to their bodies. I suspect my own mother had lichen sclerosis and never sought help—she called it “down there.” That’s how her generation was raised.
I got my period at 10 and a half. My mother told me not to tell anyone. Purity culture ran deep—our bodies were seen as dirty, our problems as shameful. We weren’t taught about consent or rights. My mother couldn’t understand the concept of marital rape—it didn’t make sense to her because she had a loving husband. But not all women are that lucky.
I was born when my mother was 43—she didn’t know she was pregnant for five months. Someone from the church said, “something must have gone up the wrong chimney,” shaming her for being sexual at that age. That shame shaped our relationship.
When my husband died, memories resurfaced in strange ways. Trauma often comes back like that—disjointed, sudden. I believe every woman of my generation carries some kind of trauma. Even just being groped on a tram and feeling powerless to stop it.
One day I was at a Lego exhibition and got groped. I called it out—loudly. Said to all the women nearby, “There’s a creep here feeling women up.” That was a turning point for me.
Even as a professional, I couldn’t get a bank loan after my marriage ended. The male bank manager just wouldn’t support it. That’s the systemic sexism we face.
Now, I just call things out. I don’t care if people think I’m difficult. When men are caring for vulnerable women, especially in aged care, it matters. We need to make that safe. Some women want to be touched—intimacy doesn’t stop at 70—but we need to be protected too.
When my husband was in care, he was in a men-only unit. That’s sometimes necessary to keep women safe. In aged care, women may not recognise danger signs—especially if they’re lonely. Touch can be welcome, but also risky.
Aged care staff need real trauma-informed training. I’ve been to presentations where survivors speak and the audience shuts down. That’s not helpful. We need people to listen, to ask what we want, not take control.
Facilities need protocols for responding to sexual assault—including access to forensic care. SIRS guidelines cover reporting but don’t address police referral or specialist support. That has to change.
I’ve seen what a coordinated response looks like—police, forensic nurses, counsellors all working together. That’s not happening in aged care. Assaults by residents with dementia are often dismissed. But the risk is real.
COVID changed things too. Because RNs are now required on site 24/7, ambulances may not respond quickly. I know of a woman who waited 24 hours for an ambulance. That’s not good enough.
Rape isn’t going away, especially not in aged care. So the question is—what are we going to do when it happens?
There must be a specialised, trauma-informed response for older women.
And it starts with listening. And believing. And acting.
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