Narrator: Two Swedish graduate students are cycling across the Stanford University campus late one night when they see something deeply disturbing. Behind a dumpster, a man is on top of an unconscious woman. They shout, and the man tries to run. They tackle him and hold him down until the police arrive. The woman, Chanel Miller, wakes up hours later on a hospital gurney with no memory of the assault, only the physical evidence left on and in her body—pine needles matted in her hair, abrasions, and internal pain. For years, the world would know her only as Emily Doe, the anonymous victim in a high-profile sexual assault case that would ignite a global conversation. In her memoir, Know My Name, Chanel Miller reclaims her identity, her story, and her voice, providing a searing indictment of a justice system that often fails the very people it’s meant to protect.

Narrator: From the moment the legal process began, Chanel Miller’s identity was systematically stripped away. She was no longer Chanel; she became Emily Doe, a pseudonym meant to protect her but which also served to erase her. This dehumanization is a central theme, as the system is not built to handle the complexities of human trauma. It seeks facts, not feelings, and in doing so, it often re-traumatizes victims.

This became painfully clear during her first meeting with the prosecutor, Alaleh, and her advocate, Bree. Instead of a conversation about the crime, it felt like an interview for a job she never wanted: the role of the "perfect victim." Alaleh questioned her about her education, her work, and her drinking habits. Miller felt an immediate pressure to present herself as an upstanding, likable, and flawless individual. She understood that her character was now an asset to the case, and any perceived imperfection—past, present, or future—could be weaponized by the defense to undermine her credibility. This process reduces a survivor to a strategic pawn in a legal game, where their humanity is secondary to their utility in securing a conviction.

Narrator: If the initial legal proceedings were dehumanizing, the trial itself was a form of psychological warfare. Miller describes the experience of testifying as a second assault, where her trauma was dissected, questioned, and manipulated in a public forum. The defense attorney employed tactics designed to confuse and discredit her, objecting to her statements and twisting her words. She describes the feeling with a powerful metaphor: "I was a dog with an electric collar around my neck, the remote in the defense’s hand. Every time I spoke I felt the shock, turned around confused."

The cross-examination focused on irrelevant minutiae, such as what she ate for dinner or the exact sequence of text messages, in an attempt to find inconsistencies and paint her as an unreliable narrator of her own experience. The emotional toll was immense, culminating in a moment during a court break when Miller completely broke down in a courthouse bathroom. Sobbing on the cold, tiled floor, she felt she had hit rock bottom. Yet, in that moment of absolute despair, a sense of clarity emerged. She realized that things could not get any worse, and the only way forward was to slowly, painstakingly, begin to crawl back out.

Narrator: The jury returned a verdict of guilty on three felony counts. It was a moment of validation, a confirmation of the truth. But the relief was short-lived. At the sentencing hearing, Judge Aaron Persky delivered a sentence that shocked the nation: just six months in county jail, of which Brock Turner would serve only three. The judge’s reasoning centered on the "severe impact" a prison sentence would have on Turner, a young man with a promising future as a star swimmer. The perpetrator’s potential was valued more than the profound and lasting harm done to the victim.

This decision, compounded by a probation officer’s report that misrepresented Miller’s wishes, filled her with a righteous rage. She realized the system would not give her a voice, so she had to take it. She channeled her anger and pain into writing a 12-page victim impact statement. Standing in court, she read it aloud, addressing her attacker directly: "You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today." The statement was not a plea for pity but a declaration of her humanity, a detailed account of the devastation he had caused, and a refusal to be silenced.

Narrator: Though her statement failed to sway the judge, it ignited a fire outside the courtroom. After the sentencing, the news outlet BuzzFeed published her statement in its entirety. It went viral. Within days, it had been viewed millions of times and was being read aloud on CNN. Messages of support poured in from around the world, including a letter from then-Vice President Joe Biden, who wrote, "I see you." For the first time, Miller felt truly seen and heard, not as Emily Doe, but as a human being whose experience resonated with countless others.

Her private pain had become a public catalyst. Her story fueled a recall campaign against Judge Persky, led by Stanford professor Michele Dauber and powered by volunteers who endured insults and hostility to gather signatures. In 2018, Judge Persky became the first California judge to be recalled in over 80 years. Miller’s individual act of speaking her truth had transformed into a collective movement for accountability, proving that one voice, when amplified by many, can indeed change the system.

Narrator: Know My Name makes it clear that healing is not a linear path with a neat conclusion. It is a long, messy, and ongoing process of reclamation. The trauma of the assault resurfaced in unexpected ways, such as a debilitating panic attack during a routine Pap smear, a reminder of how the body holds onto traumatic memories. For a long time, Miller felt she had to be a fortress, constantly on guard.

A turning point came through an act of compassion. She and her partner began fostering senior dogs, and eventually adopted a tiny, anxious Pomeranian named Mogu. In caring for this small, vulnerable creature, she learned to unclench her fists and embrace tenderness again. Healing, for Miller, was not about forgetting what happened, but about integrating the experience into her life without letting it define her. It was about learning to find joy, to trust again, and to reclaim the life she deserved—a life of safety, creativity, and purpose.

Narrator: The single most important takeaway from Know My Name is that a survivor’s story does not end with the crime committed against them. The assault is only the beginning of a grueling journey through a legal system that questions their credibility, a society that blames them, and a personal struggle to reclaim their own humanity. Chanel Miller’s memoir is a testament to the profound power of reclaiming one's own narrative.

By refusing to remain the silent, anonymous "Emily Doe," she not only found her own voice but gave strength to countless others. The book challenges us to look beyond the headlines and court transcripts, to see the full, complex, and resilient human being at the center of the story, and to fight for a world where every survivor is not just believed, but is finally, and fully, known.