By Kaley Kavanaugh, Student Staff Member

Everyone said I had to go. It was my first semester of freshman year, and the message was clear… frat parties were how you made friends, how you “did” college, how you proved you weren’t lame. People promised me I’d regret it if I stayed home, that the parties were harmless fun. That everyone did it. So I went. Nervous. A little excited. Trying to play it cool while secretly overthinking every detail: what I wore, how much I should drink, whether I’d look out of place. I walked in wanting to believe this was the true college experience. But what I didn’t realize was that parties had unspoken rules, ones that no one had explained to me.
From the second I stepped inside, it felt like everyone else already knew the script. The guys at the door decided who got in and who got turned away. The drinks weren’t just drinks, they were controlled, handed out, and poured in a way that kept you dependent on the frat bros running the house. The music was loud enough to make conversation nearly impossible, forcing you to lean closer, to play along. It felt exciting at first, the flashing lights, the crowded rooms, the sense that anything could happen. But beneath it, I felt small. Unsure. Out of place. This wasn’t just a party. It was a performance. And I didn’t know my lines.

At some point, an attractive frat guy came up to me and started to make conversation, he offered to grab me another drink. I thought, okay, sure, that’s harmless. But instead of heading back toward the kitchen, he told me he’d give me a “house tour.” I didn’t know how to say no without sounding rude, so I followed. I was new, I didn’t want to seem stuck-up, and part of me thought, maybe this is what’s supposed to happen. Each hallway pulled me farther from the noise, farther from my friends, deeper into a house that didn’t belong to me. Eventually, we stopped outside his room. He turned and asked, “You’re not too drunk, are you?” Like it was a checkbox. Like that was the only thing standing between him and whatever he thought would happen next.

It was never said outright, but the expectation was clear, I’d go inside. He kept pressing for something, anything. The way he looked at me, the way he lingered in the doorway, all of it carried the weight of assumption and expectation. I tried to change the subject. I kept steering back toward the party, toward the sound of music and laughter, toward the safety of numbers. But he didn’t take the hint. So I kissed him, thinking maybe that would be enough. A way to end the moment without saying the thing I was too nervous to say…..NO. But even as I kissed him, my whole body was saying otherwise. My shoulders tensed. My feet angled toward the door. My words were desperate to redirect. My lips said yes, but everything else was saying no.

And then my friends showed up. They’d noticed I was gone. They’d gone looking. And they found me in that hallway. They pulled me back into the living room, into the noise, into the light. Back into a space where I could breathe again. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that moment may have saved me. Because harm in party culture often relies on silence, on isolation, on getting someone alone.
That night taught me that harm doesn’t always look like a shadowy figure appearing behind you in a dark alley. It can look like a “house tour” that leads to a bedroom door. It can sound like “You’re not too drunk, are you?” being asked not out of care for you, but to cover for him. It can feel like being cornered into choices you never really chose. Sometimes harm is dressed up as fun. Sometimes it looks like ordinary rituals. Sometimes it hides inside the stories we tell ourselves about what college is supposed to be.

Looking back, I see that frat parties aren’t just random nights of fun. They’re structures. Systems. Men decide who gets in, who gets welcomed, who gets cut off. They pour the drinks, control the space, and decide how long the night lasts. And women, especially freshmen, are left to navigate those unspoken rules, often at their own expense. The hardest truth is this, harm can happen even without words like “no” or “stop.” Our bodies say no all the time. In the freeze, in the pull away, in the way we reach for the door. Those no’s should matter. What happened that night wasn’t just about one guy, or one party. It was about a “typical college experience”, one that normalizes pressure, excuses harm, and leaves safety up to chance.

Primary prevention isn’t just about intervening in moments of harm, it’s about reshaping the culture so those moments never get the chance to unfold.
That looks like:
Challenging the idea that “this is just how parties work.”
Not waiting for the person you’re interested in to get just drunk enough to say “yes”.
Tuning into body language to see if someone is actually wants to engage with you
Finding the spaces where we have power and starting conversations about harm
Recognizing that silence, pressure, and blurred consent are harmful.
Holding friends accountable when we see them pushing boundaries, even subtly.
And holding ourselves accountable for the moments we stay quiet, laugh things off, convince ourselves it’s not our business, or cross the line and cause harm.
And accountability isn’t punishment. It’s about creating spaces where care is the norm, where safety is collective, and where fun never comes at someone else’s expense. My first frat party taught me that harm can happen in an instant. But prevention can, too, if we’re willing to take responsibility, step in, and change the story.