These days, the catchword around sexual assault is “survivor.” Just like the survivor of a natural disaster, it makes one seem brave, even heroic. And, just like with a natural disaster, it makes the problem seem unavoidable and agentless.

I am wary of using the word “survivor” to describe myself. While some people have certainly survived their attack—they are strong and have put it behind them—that is not the case for me.

I once told a friend that she was so brave for pursuing a case against her attacker. Her response disarmed me: “I want you to know that even if I wasn’t pursuing the case, even if I was in my room crying everyday, I would still deserve admiration.” I believe her answer gets to the bottom of why I find the word “survivor,” and all its connotations, offensive.

As much as we should admire the courage of women who seek justice from their abusers, we should show equal respect for the victims of sexual assault who remain quiet. Every day after their attack may be a struggle, and they are no less of a person for not pursuing charges. We might assume this is due to some weakness, but it could be due to a number of reasons.

Even if fear were one of those reasons, I must ask: What more of an excuse for fear does one need than experiencing sexual assault?

The victim-survivor dichotomy is just one subset of a long-running discussion of what it means to be a feminist or an independent woman. In a country like the U.S., where first-wave feminism (e.g. women’s suffrage) is already secured, the debate naturally turns more nuanced. What sort of adjectives should we ascribe to womanhood? I think the answer should be none: Each woman should choose her own qualities.

Indeed, part of the issue people see with “victim” is that the word seems distinctly feminine. Traditionally, feminism worked by advocating infiltration of male spheres, rather than expanding the choices and identities available for women. Examples include forcing women into the workplace and out of their homes, despite their own preferences. Although incontrovertibly groundbreaking at the time, this created the idea of a “successful” woman who was merely a woman in men’s clothing.

Sexual assault is a horrific crime because it takes away a sense of autonomy that we deeply value in our society. When it comes to our bodies (the most personal of our possessions), we expect to be the only person justified in making decisions. Those decisions can run the gamut from choosing whom to have sex with to remaining celibate until marriage.

And the ability to self-identify is an equally crucial right.

After my assault, I was most afraid of the pressure to come forward and be a role model. I was afraid of being expected to appear powerful when that was the last thing I felt.

Back then, I had no forewarning of how to deal with sexual assault. But I understand that here at Harvard, a case against an attacker may depend on a victim decides to not go forward with it This puts an unnecessary and severe pressure on victims who are already dealing with the unthinkable.

Reworking the terms of the Ad Board would be one meaningful way of putting less pressure on victims, and allowing them the peace of mind to recover fully.

First, Harvard should stop referring to sexual assault cases as “peer disputes”—a phrase which implies that the case and its outcome have no relation to the overall university environment.

Instead, why not model sexual assault cases on the way Harvard approaches plagiarism? Once the Ad Board takes up a plagiarism case, the investigation and trial are directed by the administration, rather than by the individual professor who brought the complaint. This is because plagiarism is taken as an affront to the academic culture of the school—not just a crime against an individual professor or an individual class, but the to the scholarship we demand of students.