Why the Diddy Verdict Tells Women Exactly What We’re Worth

When the system hands out crumbs and calls it justice, survivors learn to stay quiet

The Diddy verdict didn’t surprise me. I spent my early twenties working in a domestic violence shelter, both in the house and behind the scenes writing grants. I saw how hard it was for survivors to be taken seriously, how often the system failed them, and how rare real justice was. Watching this trial unfold brought all of that back. This essay is a direct look at what the verdict says about power, violence, and the truth women carry when no one wants to hear it.

Read Time: 4 minutes

There was a trial. Let’s start there.

Sean “Diddy” Combs was found guilty of two charges: transporting women across state lines to engage in prostitution. He was found not guilty of sex trafficking by force, fraud, or coercion. He was not found guilty of racketeering.

That is the official record.

Despite multiple women coming forward. Despite detailed and consistent accounts of abuse. Despite surveillance video showing him dragging, kicking, and assaulting Cassie Ventura in a hotel hallway.

Two convictions. Not for the violence. Not for the threats. Not for the control or coercion. Just for moving women like freight.

This is what the system was willing to believe. This is what counted.

And this is why we do not report.

This isn’t theory for me. In the early 2000s, I worked on-site at a domestic violence and rape crisis shelter during college breaks and summer holidays. I was in the house, helping run it while women arrived bruised, terrified, and trying to protect their children. The rest of the year, I wrote grant applications. We rarely got the funding we needed. There was no glamour in that job. Just scarcity, burnout, and a constant sense that we were trying to bail water out of a sinking boat with a paper cup.

That experience shaped my life. It is why I care so deeply about justice. It is why I fight for women’s rights. It showed me that violence against women is not the exception in this country. It is the structure. It is the system working as designed.

And the more power a man has, the more invisible his violence becomes.

I have heard detectives ask rape victims why they wore thong underwear on a date. I have watched officers roll their eyes while taking statements. I have seen women beg to be taken seriously only to be told there was nothing that could be done.

One woman I knew was sentenced to prison for murder after finally defending herself. After years of abuse, threats, and injuries, she snapped. The court had no interest in what she endured before she fought back. They only cared about what she did in the end.

This is the world survivors are asked to navigate.

We tell women to come forward. We tell them to speak up. We tell them to trust the process. Then we punish them for doing exactly that.

Cassie Ventura came forward. She had the bruises. She had the story. She had the video footage. It still wasn’t enough.

Other women came forward too. Their accounts were consistent. Their stories were credible. But the charges that carried real weight, the ones about force, coercion, and trafficking, were the ones that didn’t stick.

That is not justice. That is containment. That is the legal system doing exactly what it always does for men with power.

We don’t report because we know how this ends. We have seen survivors humiliated, discredited, dissected, and then discarded. We have seen abusers get second chances, comeback tours, and rebranding campaigns. We have seen trauma turned into headlines, then forgotten before the next news cycle.

This verdict is not just about Diddy. It is about the way this culture decides who matters. It is about a system that demands impossible evidence while ignoring what is already in plain sight. It is about the fact that Cassie had everything women are told they need to be believed and still, her abuser walked away with a fraction of what he deserved.

I have seen the aftermath. I have sat with women whose voices were never heard. I have watched survivors choose silence because they knew the cost of speaking was too high.

So when you ask why we wait, why we stay quiet, why we do not report, this is your answer.

The system is not broken. It was built this way.

Until that changes, we are not safe.

We know it. And now you do too.