Held by the Water: A Healing Journey to Falling Foss
- Laura Douse
- Jun 28
- 7 min read
They tell you to come forward. To be strong. To be brave. “Do it for the others, the women and girls”, they say. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t feel brave, or strong. I just wanted to hide in my bed. I wanted to escape, to numb myself. The wine, the weed, the doom scrolling, binge eating, the distractions. I didn’t much feel like becoming another sad percentage, or having people judge me, or treat me like a victim.
A week passed. We had invited people round to the house for a party and I didn’t want to cancel it. I just wanted to feel normal, to drown out the mental chatter that consumed me. The music was flowing, and so was the wine. I started to talk about what happened to me, bringing up memories that I had tried hard to suppress all week, drunkenly offloading my heavy luggage on people who just wanted to have a good time. I could feel myself sucking the positive vibrations out of the air, their pity and sympathy prickling my tender skin like a fever.
I took a temporary escape to the roof, glass of merlot in one hand, a big fat doobie in the other. Then came an almighty flash of light and a thunderous bellow, followed by the downpour. It felt like it was happening all for me, like a message from the Gods and Goddesses. The chaos in the sky reflected the chaos within, and I felt seen. I felt held. I knew what I had to do.
“Hello… sorry if I should have called a different number… I’m not sure who I need to speak to… I need to report a rape.”
The words were like fire, searing their way out of me before I could stop them. As soon as they left my mouth, everything inside of me cracked open. There wasn’t time to brace myself, no room to gather strength. Vomit. It poured out, uninvited, overwhelming. My body had been holding it in, it seemed, since that awful day.
The police had arranged to come over for an official interview. They said they’d keep it discreet, that they’d come in an unmarked car so the neighbours wouldn’t gossip. But to my horror, they arrived in a police car. Two officers made their way into my home. I made us all a cup of tea, and we sat down.
And so, I started from the beginning.
I told them about him. How I met him a week earlier. He had something about him, like he didn’t quite belong, and it was magnetic. A strange mix of Bob Dylan and a young Johnny Depp, that aloof charm that made people look twice.
I told them about the date that we went on, how it went well and how I had no reason to distrust him.
I told them about the following Sunday. The open mic at my local pub. The ridiculous cowboy hat he was wearing, how it covered up his wavey brown hair and receding hairline, but couldn’t mask the smell, like an old damp towel left to fester in a corner.
I told them about the walk we took to The Westwood, one of my favourite places on this sweet earth, an expansive, green, luscious land. The sun was still out, and the trees felt like old friends.
I told them about the poem I read to him, hoping it would add an extra layer of romance to our time together. The poem was The Peace of Wild Things, by Wendell Berry.
I told them about the black butterfly fluttering above my head, and how something in me could feel this was a warning, a bad omen. The air turned, and a darkness filled the space. My intuition was screaming at me, urging me to run.
The police officers nodded with quiet understanding, and I found myself wondering how many times they had heard stories like mine — women harmed by men who believe the world belongs to them. “Take your time, Laura. Take all the time you need.”
I took a deep breathe, trying to ground myself into the present before I continued. “He kissed me.” I said. “He pushed me down onto the ground. His hands were on me. My body froze. I was tense, stiff—like a plank of wood. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. All I could muster was “Wait… stop… what if someone sees?” But the words came out in a desperate whisper, and they didn’t stop him. He continued anyway, and I was powerless.
What they don’t tell you is how the aftermath can bruise just as deeply, how people look away, or say too much, or say nothing at all. How some speak in barbed suggestions that sting like nettles:
“Well, she was talking to him...”
“She should have known better..."
“Cock tease…”
As if the harm was something I invited. I feel it important to clarify here: THERE ARE NO EXCUSES. Having a drink with someone is not an invitation, nor is a short skirt, or a friendly smile. The bottom line is: NO CONSENT = RAPE.
When you already carry the weight of what was done to you, the shame that blooms uninvited, their words fold around you like cold steel. You become smaller. Numb. Broken in ways language can't reach.
When the trauma of what happened rises like a tide, when the shame and heartache ache in my bones, when the noise of judgment and silence becomes too much — I return to the wild places. To the trees and the rivers, the sky, and the soil. To the peace of wild things.
To remember who I was before the breaking.
To remember that I am still whole.
The Waterfall
I once heard a wise man say that when you feel stagnant, you should ask the water for advice, because she knows about movement and flow.
My friends and I decided to take a road trip to Falling Foss, a thirty-foot waterfall nestled in the heart of the North York Moors, about six miles from Whitby. We parked up in the May Beck car park, the starting point of our pilgrimage through the wilds.
The trail led us through ancient woodlands, home to towering oak, ash, alder, and cherry trees. The forest floor was adorned with bluebells, primroses, and early purple orchids, painting a vibrant tapestry beneath the canopy. Birdsong filled the air, with Red Breasted Robins, blackbirds, and Goldcrests offering a melodic soundtrack to our journey.
As we followed the path, we faced natural obstacles that added a sense of adventure to our hike. We crossed the stream several times using steppingstones and even climbed over fallen tree trunks, remnants of the forest's ever-changing landscape.
After an hour of walking, we reached Falling Foss. The sight of the water cascading thirty feet into the pool below took my breath away. Compelled by an irresistible urge, I stripped down to my swimming costume and waded into the pool. The water was cool and invigorating, each icy touch awakening my senses and making me feel alive. I swam towards the waterfall and let the water wash over me, like a gentle, loving mother saying, "It's okay, I've got you."
Afterward, I sat on a rock with a towel around my shoulders, watching the waterfalls endless flow, the sun warming the towel. For the first time in months, I felt ok. In fact, I felt overwhelmingly joyful. The waterfall had given me strength and reminded me of what was truly important: love, resilience, and the beauty of nature's continual movement.
"I am Grandmother Water," she whispered, her voice gentle and deep, woven into the rhythm of the falling stream. "I have been here long before you, and I will be here long after. I have seen pain. I have seen sorrow. I have seen women broken and rebuilt, softened and strengthened. I have carried their tears to the ocean and washed away the wounds they could not bear to hold alone. You are not ruined. You are not unclean. You are not lost. You are not small. You are part of me, and I am vast, and I am unbreakable. You are here. You are whole. You are loved."
Her words penetrated my bones. She took the weight I had been holding; not erasing what had happened, not changing what had been, but transforming it into something I could accept, bringing clarity. I wasn’t stuck. I wasn’t drowning. I was moving, just like her.
When I finally stood, wrapping my warm, sundried towel tighter around my shoulders, I felt different. Lighter. Stronger.
The journey back through the woods felt easier somehow. The trees no longer loomed, they reached. The steppingstones no longer felt like obstacles, they guided.
By the time we reached the car park, I wasn’t the same woman who had arrived. I turned back for one last look at the path we had taken, at the wild heart of the forest that had held me, thinking about the waterfall, still crashing, still flowing, still speaking.
I whispered back, "I will keep moving."
The Peace of Wild Things
by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least soundin fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,I go and lie down where the wood drakerests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.I come into the peace of wild thingswho do not tax their lives with forethoughtof grief. I come into the presence of still water.And I feel above me the day-blind starswaiting with their light. For a timeI rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
They tell you to come forward.
To be strong.
To be brave.
“Do it for the other women,” they say.
But bravery, for me, didn’t look like a bold stand.
It looked like small, quiet acts of survival.
It looked like getting out of bed.
It looked like picking up the phone.
It looked like telling my story through tears and tea-stained lips to two officers in my living room.
It looked like taking steps into a journey of inner healing.
It looked like swimming beneath a waterfall and whispering, I will keep moving.
If you have experienced rape or sexual assult, there is help out there for you. The Blue Door held my hand through some dark times and helped me during anything to do with the investigation. Here are some helpful numbers and links:
The Blue Door helpline: 0800 197 47 87
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