What’s in a name?

When I chose Lemon Studio, it wasn’t because I believed that everything happens for a reason, or that creativity could erase what had happened to me. It was because, after sexual violence and the long, painful struggle that followed, I chose to build something: a pottery studio rooted in community and the belief that creative activity can support our wellbeing. Lemon Studio grew from that choice—not as a cure for trauma, but as a place to make, connect and find a way forward, one small piece at a time.

Those of you who have known me for a long time will know that I am a survivor of sexual assault. It happened at a work-related event and was perpetrated by a senior member of staff.

I have never kept it a secret, and I have never been ashamed. Over the years, I have spoken openly about what he did, how the company mishandled the situation and how badly the case was subsequently handled by the CPS and in court.

What I rarely talk about is the pain and grief of what happened that night. The years of stress, depression and trauma that followed. And the devastating personal cost of sacrificing my career, my financial security and my future in order to fight for justice.

I went to trial for a reason. I wanted this man to understand that what he had done was not acceptable. I wanted him held accountable, and I wanted to do everything in my power to prevent him from doing the same to another woman.

But the system that was supposed to deliver justice failed me.

I met my CPS barrister for less than five minutes immediately before going into court. I had no idea that the case had not been properly prepared. The file hadn’t been read, appropriate witnesses hadn’t been called, vital evidence hadn’t been requested in time and, as far as I could see, almost no preparation had taken place.

All he told me was that it was a clear case, that the defendant would be found guilty and that I would be on the witness stand for less than five minutes.

That was the sum total of our conversation. In a tiny room behind the courtroom, with nobody allowed in to support me.

When he was found not guilty, my world imploded.

In that moment, I lost my career, my confidence, my faith in the justice system and the future I had worked so hard to build. The financial security and pension I had planned for disappeared alongside it.

It took a very long time to rebuild myself. To find a different path, nurture a more creative career and begin to feel like myself again. I genuinely thought I was doing well.

Then came the #MeToo movement, which brought so much of it back. Watching certain programmes and documentaries on television can still be incredibly difficult.

But nothing has triggered those feelings quite as unexpectedly or intensely as the Russell Brand case.

Seeing him standing outside the doors of the very same court I had to walk into, seeing the apparent arrogance, the denials and the lack of remorse, has been incredibly painful.

But perhaps the most difficult thing has been hearing the words spoken by the judge yesterday:

“Whatever women wear, wherever they go, whatever they drink, they retain the right to say no and demand justice in the criminal courts when sexual predators like you, Mr Brand, act without their consent.”

Those words stopped me in my tracks.

Because in my case, the defence barrister chose to show photographs of me holding a glass of wine at the event and made me account for every single drink I had consumed that evening.

I could remember every one.

Over four and a half hours, I had a rum and Coke, a glass of Prosecco, a glass of white wine and one further rum and Coke. I had also eaten a three-course meal and drank a lot of water. I was nowhere near drunk.

The man who assaulted me, on the other hand, was ordering bottle after bottle of wine for the table and repeatedly encouraging me to drink. At one point, he even followed me to another table carrying two bottles.

Yet his behaviour and his alcohol consumption were never questioned or even mentioned in court.

I didn’t touch him. I didn’t assault him. So why was I the one who had to account for my behaviour, justify what I had drunk and defend how I had conducted myself that evening?

Why was my drinking relevant, but his wasn’t?

Ten years on, I am realising that perhaps I am not as over it as I had convinced myself I was.

Today, I am sitting at home, struggling to face getting dressed, feeling that familiar weight of pain and sadness creeping back in. I hadn’t expected to find myself here again.

I am sharing this because I want people to understand that sexual assault doesn’t end on the night it happens. The impact can last for years. The court process, the questioning, the failure to be heard and the experience of being disbelieved can compound the original trauma in ways that are incredibly difficult to explain.

I also want to believe that things can change.

I sincerely hope that cases like mine are listened to, that the failings within the criminal justice system are properly examined and that meaningful improvements are made.

Women should not have to sacrifice their careers, their mental health and years of their lives simply to have their voices heard.

And no woman should leave a courtroom feeling that the system designed to protect her has failed her.

I couldn’t get the justice I fought so hard for. I can only hope that other women will.