The Collective Processing of Female Fear and Trauma
Last week, I attended a meeting at a dedicated women’s co-working space near where I live in north London. As soon as I walked in, I breathed an involuntary sigh of the kind that happens when your nervous system detects a safety zone. In a nanosecond, my senses took in the organisation of the space—the tidy desks, organised work, and systems designed to make things more productive and efficient. My senses also took in the beauty and harmony of the design and the comforting smell of herbal tea and coffee brewing. I could also feel the calm, creativity and industriousness of the women who inhabited the space.
I wanted to be there, in the presence of these women, whose energy and artistry filled the room and made me feel instantly at peace.
It’s a peace that feels deeply needed but sadly fleeting in the current political moment we find ourselves in.
At the time of writing in February 2026, the newsfeed is full of the newly released Epstein files, disclosed a few weeks ago by the US justice department.
Even for someone like myself, who is extremely careful about the content and volume of news I ingest, it’s impossible to escape the revelations brought by the new tranche of documents.
I won’t go into the details of the documents here, nor the revelations of the countless well-known, wealthy and powerful men who conducted close friendships with Epstein long after his 2008 conviction for sex offences against a minor, often defending him privately, courting his favour and offering him advice.
The friendships of these men in the higher echelons of power, their sordid conversations and protection of one another’s interests, do not come as a great surprise to anyone who has lived through the cultural and political climate of the last few years. It is sinister, reprehensible and anger-inducing—but not entirely surprising.
What shocked a group of my female friends, expressed on a women-only WhatsApp group, was the speed at which the Thames Valley police arrested Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor (the royal formerly known as Prince Andrew), for the alleged ‘sharing of confidential files’ with Epstein. Former UK politician and lobbyist Peter Mandelson was also arrested on the same charge.
This stands in stark contrast to the troubling absence of arrests connected to the sexual offences committed by Epstein’s clients. To date, only one person—Epstein’s accomplice, Ghislaine Maxwell—has been convicted in relation to the sex trafficking of girls, leaving survivors with little sense of justice or accountability.
As one friend observed, there is something profoundly disturbing about the lack of legal consequences for the abuse of underage girls, especially when set against the swift response to allegations of “misconduct in a public office.”
Leaving aside the inherent difficulties of litigation, especially regarding historical allegations, the notion that the justice system feels more confident in investigating the insider trading of information than the abuse of girls is horrific.
The message is that crimes against women and girls are widely accepted, but woe betide anyone who messes with the State.
What struck me as potent was where our WhatsApp conversation went next: why were we having this conversation on a closed WhatsApp group with other like-minded women, and not in other, more public spaces and with our male friends and partners involved?
We explored many ideas: do we need a safe echo chamber for these conversations?
Is it because we have been socialised to protect men’s feelings?
One friend reflected that, as a businesswoman with children, she already carries so much responsibility that it can feel easier to choose her battles and remain silent on certain issues. Other women shared that they often find themselves in spaces dominated by louder, more confident, and more opinionated voices, where their own perspectives can easily be overshadowed. And then there is the risk that these conversations quickly descend into polarisation—producing more heat than light, and ultimately leading nowhere.
Several women commented how, as they get older, they are more interested in deep, thoughtful and authentic conversations where emotions and gut feelings are honoured—and these conversations happen more often with the women in their lives.
Another friend spoke about the backlash she has faced when calling out misogyny, including the loss of friendships and connections, and how painful those consequences have been.
There’s also the historical fears that we carry around in our DNA and our blood. The fear that speaking out or creating dissent could once have branded us as witches, punished and burned at the stake in the UK or America, only a few centuries ago. Or that defiance might have led to violence at the hands of partners or strangers.
More recent examples emerged in our conversation of how women have been controlled and silenced. In the UK, women could not get a mortgage in their own name until 1975. Before then, they needed a husband or father to co-sign a mortgage to be ‘allowed’ one.
This is something we all carry with us, either consciously or unconsciously, through the socialising of our parents and grandparents in the 20th century - the idea of it being unwise to challenge men or hold too strong an opinion, since they held the purse strings. Even though these ideas are far outdated in 2026, they are recent enough that we all carry the burden of their legacy.
As I listened to my friend’s stories, I felt painfully aware of the trauma and fear that we all carry around in our private and public lives. The generational trauma around money and security. The need to shut up or shut down to keep ourselves safe. Being in environments where our voices are shouted down or drowned out. The fear that speaking up may result in violence. Or that, even if we dare to speak up, nothing may change. And even more frightening - how these fears and traumas are institutionalised across every system in society.
When bell hooks (2004, p.18) referred to the “imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy”, she was not being grandiose. She was referring to the interlocking systems of power that underpin most Western social, legal, and political systems. She is referring, for instance, to the network of famous, wealthy and powerful men, such as those mentioned repeatedly in the Epstein files, who cover up their own misdoings and those of their powerful friends—and who will likely never be prosecuted or held to account for their behaviour.
I wonder if we need female-only spaces, like the one provided by the group of 13 women who inspired this article, to process the global trauma of women and girls coming to light in the media. The men like Epstein and his clients, the stories of women such as Virginia Giuffre, Gisèle Pelicot, and the many women who spoke out against Harvey Weinstein. Every girl and woman whose stories unfolded in the wake of Me Too. The fears and trauma we hold in our bodies, passed down from our mothers and grandmothers and all the women who came before them. The fears we feel for our daughters, knowing how the systems of power, named by bell hooks, still hold powerful sway.
We need these safe spaces to have a voice, to be believed and understood, to process rage, dissent, fear and our hopes of change.
Another friend shared a fantasy she holds for the future with her now four and seven-year-old daughters. She imagines a time when they are grown, sitting together with them over a glass of wine, reflecting on the political moment of 2026. In her mind, her daughters respond with shocked disbelief—that such events could ever have taken place—because the world they inhabit is so different from the one we know.
And yet, alongside that hope, there is also a quieter fear: that perhaps the world will not be so different after all.
As Audre Lorde (2017) reminds us, our silence will not protect us. We need to publicly show our dissent, too, including having these necessary conversations with the men in our lives. But to do so requires calm nervous systems and an army of female support behind us so that we can be clearly heard and understood.
(With thanks to the 13 women who kindly allowed me to use their thoughts, words, their stories, and their hopes and fears in this article. In doing so, we hope that other women who read it will not feel alone.)
References:
hooks, b. (2004). The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love. New York: Atria Books.
Lorde, A. (2017). Your Silence Will Not Protect You: Essays and Poems. London: Silver Press.