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The silence is what hurts most. Not the noise of headlines, the gossip on the street or the messages in the group chats, that was expected. It’s the quiet judgement, the people I thought I knew basing their opinions on a line of text instead of the years they’d spent knowing me. Not one word to me. Not one word to my family. Just silence.
I know I played my part in that silence too. I deleted all my social media because I couldn’t face the public commentary. I wanted, no I needed to hide, to take back some control. But it meant I also made it harder for people to reach out. Still, some managed but some of the ones I thought might… didn’t. That hurt more than I can explain.
And in the darkest moments, it felt like a double conviction. Court had passed its judgement, and now society had too. Friends I’d laughed with, shared birthdays with, travelled with vanished. As though I no longer existed, except as a headline. The weight of that isn’t just loneliness; it’s questioning your very worth. If people who knew me best could erase me so easily, maybe I was never worth much at all.
Recently though, someone did reach out. They’d stumbled across my blog and told me it had got them thinking about the doubts they’d always had about the media’s narrative. That small act of honesty of trusting their own judgement meant more than I can say. It reminded me that even now, even with a conviction hanging over me, I still want to leave the world better than I found it, a mission that all those who knew me, know that that has always been my mantra and small moments of humanity fuel the desire to keep going, a little harder now, I will give you that.
I also understand the fear some people must have felt. To stand up for someone, especially someone accused of what I was accused of, it is to risk your own reputation. People weren’t just protecting themselves, they were protecting their families. Selfish maybe, but also human. And I can’t pretend I don’t understand that. But understanding it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Because while the majority stepped back, a few stepped forward. People who refused to believe a headline over the years they’d known me. Even people who had only met me briefly told my family they didn’t believe what they’d read. That trust, that loyalty it’s impossible to put into words how much it means.
Most people never get the full picture. Some just read the headline and stop. Others dig a little deeper, spot the flaws and see that things don’t add up. But far too many let the noise of gossip and rumour drown out their own memories, their own knowledge of a person. That’s what hurts most, the idea that we live in a society where it’s easier to trust strangers, than the truth we’ve seen with our own eyes.
I miss the wider circle I once had. How couldn’t I. But the strength of the smaller circle I have now is unshakable. And maybe it’s naive, but I do like to think there are others out there old friends who haven’t reached out yet, but might one day.
This is why Next Chapter Scotland matter, we matter because silence and stigma ruin lives. Because families, friends and people caught in the storm of a conviction need somewhere to turn before, during, and after the courtroom. Not charity, but solidarity. Not pity, but practical support. We exist to remind people that silence doesn’t have to be the end of the story.
I’ll end with this question:
As a society, is it really who we are? A nation that trusts headlines over history, strangers over our own judgement? If so, what does that say about all of us?
