I Survived a Random NYC Assault—And Then the Media Abandoned Me

The News Covered My Attack, Then Disappeared. I’m Still Here—and So Are Hundreds of Other Women.

I’ve been a journalist for over 20 years. I’ve stood on crime scenes, interviewed victims, reported on tragedies, and tried—always—to do so with integrity and respect. I’ve asked hard questions, but I’ve never forgotten that behind every headline is a human life.

But nothing prepares you for the moment when the story becomes your own.

In August 2024, I was the victim of a random, unprovoked attack on the streets of New York City. It happened just after midnight outside my office building in Hudson Square. The streets were quiet. I had just finished my shift and was walking toward the subway station—something I had done countless times before—when a man I didn’t know came charging up behind me.

Within seconds, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed me backward onto the pavement.

There was no warning. No confrontation. Just the raw force of impact.

I hit the ground hard—my body crashing against the concrete, my elbow landing squarely on one of the sharp metal spikes of a tree guard. At first, I didn’t even feel the pain. I jumped to my feet in a daze, heart racing, trying to understand what had just happened. The man had already vanished around the corner, leaving me in shock.

I screamed for help, and a few people nearby—workers from a restaurant that was closing up—rushed over. One of them took one look and said urgently, “You’re bleeding—badly.”

The adrenaline wore off fast. That metal spike had torn through my elbow—exposing the bone. Blood streamed down my arm. I was rushed to the hospital by paramedics who told me bluntly: “This is bad.”

I was left with a severe concussion, deep bruising, and a gaping wound that required stitches and follow-up care.

In the days that followed, I began to experience something else I never anticipated. Reporters started calling—some colleagues, some strangers. I was no longer the one holding the mic. I was the subject. The story. The “woman attacked in Manhattan.”

And that’s when I saw something I hadn’t wanted to admit until I lived it: The media will cover your pain—but it won’t stay with you through the aftermath. It will spotlight your trauma for twenty-four hours—and then move on.

You, the survivor, are disposable.

That role reversal revealed more about the system I work in than any newsroom training ever could.

After the Headlines—Silence

In the hours after my assault, I knew I had to speak up—not as a journalist, but as a woman in New York City.

For months, I had seen women take to TikTok and Instagram to share stories of their own unprovoked assaults—many in broad daylight, many eerily similar to mine. I had always respected their bravery. And now it was my turn.

I wasn’t trying to go viral. I wasn’t trying to make a statement. I just wanted to warn other women. Not to fearmonger—but to inform, to alert, to do what the news often fails to do: connect the dots and sound the alarm before it’s too late.

So, despite the concussion. Despite the deep laceration. Despite having not slept in over 48 hours—I made a TikTok video.

My head was pounding. My elbow throbbed. I could barely form coherent sentences. But I hit “post” anyway.

At the time, only a few people knew what had happened—some close friends, family, and colleagues. I hadn’t told the world. But when that video went live, the world found out.

It gained traction quickly. The comments poured in. Messages flooded my inbox. Women shared similar stories. And suddenly, I realized: I wasn’t just a victim—I was becoming a vessel for something much larger.

I put out a call in the video, asking if other victims wanted to reach out. Many did. I knew right then I would cover this story—not just mine, but the growing trend no one seemed to be tracking.

That’s when the New York Post picked it up. They found my video and published a story. A reporter I didn’t know reached out, asking for more information and quotes—but I wasn’t in any shape to respond quickly. My body and mind were in survival mode.

Still, they ran the piece. To their credit, they quoted my video accurately, and even reached out to the NYPD for comment. The article was factual and respectful. I was grateful for that.

But that piece ignited a media firestorm. Suddenly, everyone wanted the story.

My phone lit up with requests from almost every major New York City outlet—and even some international ones. Colleagues, acquaintances, strangers. My number was getting passed around like wildfire. If you’ve worked in New York media, you know how small this world is. A few degrees of separation is all it takes.

But while my phone buzzed, my body collapsed. I had no sleep. I was deeply concussed. I couldn’t string sentences together, let alone go on camera.

I kindly asked the reporters if they could wait a few days. Just enough time to sleep, recover, and get my bearings. I knew it was a calculated risk.

I’m in this industry. I know the 24-hour news cycle. I knew I might be forgotten if I didn’t strike while the iron was hot. But I hoped—naively—that since I was one of them, they’d wait.

They didn’t.

After a few days, once I could finally think clearly, I reached back out to the reporters who had been chasing me for interviews. And what I got was silence.

No follow-up. No second wave of interest. Just crickets.

The same media that rushed in with urgency had already moved on. I wasn’t the headline anymore. And if you’re not the headline, you’re invisible.

When the Spotlight Shifts—The Media's Real Agenda

What happened to me wasn’t just a personal betrayal. It was a brutal confirmation of something I had long suspected but never wanted to believe:

The mainstream media is not here to help. It’s not here to heal. It’s here to use you.

The moment your story becomes clickable, they want it. They want you—but not as a human being. Not as a woman who just survived a violent assault. They want you as content. As a headline. As a temporary ratings spike that helps them sell more ad space.

It’s not personal—it’s profit. If you’re not the hot topic, you’re not worth their time.

This is the unspoken truth behind the industry I’ve worked in for two decades: It’s built on urgency, not integrity.

Yes, journalism is supposed to inform the public, hold power accountable, and give voice to the voiceless. But somewhere along the way, those core values got replaced by algorithms, engagement metrics, and the relentless pursuit of clicks.

Your trauma? It’s a 24-hour ratings boost.

Your pain? It’s monetized.

And once that news cycle resets—once something shinier comes along—you are left in the dark, still bleeding, while the spotlight chases someone else.

When I didn’t respond fast enough—because I was concussed, exhausted, and traumatized—they didn’t wait. They didn’t follow up. They didn’t check in.

They moved on.

That’s the reality. This isn’t journalism as service. It’s journalism as spectacle. And that’s why we keep failing victims—especially women.

We report the crime. We quote the police. We move on. There’s no follow-up. No deeper investigation. No systemic accountability. Just a fast-moving carousel of headlines, each one replaced by the next.

And the people living those stories? We’re left to clean up the mess alone.

The Moment It Became a Mission

I knew it almost immediately. In the back of that ambulance, still bleeding, still shaking, my journalistic instincts kicked in.

I was in shock, yes. But I was also alert. Something clicked. Something said: “This isn’t just happening to you. This is a pattern. Report it.”

Even before I arrived at the hospital, I was already asking questions—interviewing the paramedics who were patching me up. Had they seen other women come in after being attacked like this? Had there been more?

By the time I reached the ER, I was interviewing the nurses and the doctors, trying to piece together what wasn’t being said publicly. I was concussed, bruised, split open—but I was also in reporter mode.

Because I couldn’t not report this. And I couldn’t let it end with just me.

I’ve always believed in transmuting pain into purpose. So when I posted my TikTok video—still raw, still hurting, still running on zero sleep—I also put out a call to action: If you’re a woman who’s been attacked like this, I want to hear from you.

And they came. Emails. Comments. DMs. Stories I’ll never forget.

At first, it was women from New York—then across the country—then around the world. Many of them had never told their stories publicly. Many had no media coverage. Most had no justice.

They had been pushed, punched, followed, grabbed, chased, attacked in broad daylight. And like me, they were told by police that if no weapon was involved, the assault likely wasn’t a felony. Like me, they were shocked to learn their trauma didn’t “count” in the eyes of the system.

And like me, they quickly realized something even more devastating: No one was connecting the dots.

Since March 2024, I had been tracking reports of random attacks on women in Manhattan. I believed them—I always believed them. But deep down, I never imagined I’d become one of them.

Then I did. And it shattered the illusion that “it won’t happen to me.”

That’s when I made a vow: I will tell this story. Not just mine—but all of ours. Because no one else is.

No media outlet was putting the pieces together. Each story was treated like a one-off. Another “isolated incident.” Another name. Another day. There was no broader context. No investigative deep-dive. No urgency to uncover why these attacks are happening—or why they’re so often ignored.

But I knew. I knew it was systemic. And I knew it wasn’t going to stop.

So I started documenting it. Cataloging. Interviewing. Investigating. Because this isn’t a trend—it’s a crisis. And if the media wouldn’t take it seriously, I would.

No One Would Let Me Report It—So I Did It Myself

Warrior of Truth was already my podcast. It was the space I created to go deeper than mainstream media would allow—to tackle the stories others wouldn’t touch. But after my attack, I knew a new chapter needed to begin within that platform.

This wasn’t just personal anymore. It was systemic. And no one else seemed willing to report on it.

I had been tracking the surge of random, unprovoked assaults against women in New York City. I saw the patterns forming. I heard the women’s stories on TikTok and Instagram. I believed them. I knew what they were saying was real. But when I tried to pitch the larger picture to media outlets—places where I had worked, with colleagues I had known for years—no one would take it.

No one wanted the story.

They were either too afraid to touch it, or too apathetic to care. And that, in itself, raised even more red flags.

Why doesn’t the media want to connect the dots? Why is no one acknowledging the pattern? Why do these attacks get treated like isolated blips instead of symptoms of a much larger crisis?

These weren’t just editorial decisions—they felt like intentional suppression. So I decided I wasn’t going to wait for permission.

I launched a special investigative series within Warrior of Truth dedicated entirely to uncovering the truth about this wave of violence against women.

I opened my inbox to survivors. I conducted full-length interviews. I gave women the space to speak—without time limits, without spin, without needing to prove they were “hurt enough” to be taken seriously.

If the media wouldn’t do it, I would.

This series is not a one-off. It’s not a trend-chasing gimmick. It’s a sustained investigation and a sacred act of witness.

Because the attacks are not stopping. The stories are not being told. And the truth is being buried—by silence, by bureaucracy, and by a media machine that would rather look away.

What the Interviews Revealed—And What the Media Keeps Ignoring

As the stories started flooding in, certain patterns became impossible to ignore.

Nearly every woman I spoke to had been attacked at random—no warning, no prior interaction with their attacker, often in broad daylight or just after dark in what were considered “safe” areas of Manhattan. The locations varied, but the M.O. was eerily consistent: A man (or sometimes woman) approaches. No words are exchanged. He strikes, pushes, or punches—and walks away.

But the real gut-punch came when I started piecing together what happened afterward.

Misdemeanor Loopholes

Many of these women were told that because no weapon was used, their assaults were considered misdemeanors—even when they sustained serious injuries. This legal gray zone has become a free pass for attackers.

You can beat a woman bloody in this city—and walk away with a slap on the wrist. Or worse, never be caught at all.

This loophole is not just dangerous. It's deadly. It teaches predators that if they keep it “unarmed,” they’re unlikely to face consequences. Women are being brutalized, and the law is turning its head.

NYPD Failures

Multiple survivors told me they had trouble even filing police reports. Some were discouraged by officers from pursuing charges. Others said detectives never followed up. In one case, a woman was told flat-out, “There’s nothing we can do.” Several women who managed to file reports say they’ve heard nothing since.

This isn’t just a resourcing issue. This is a systemic disregard for women’s safety.

Media Negligence

The media, when it does cover these attacks, presents them as isolated events—a single paragraph, a passing headline, a brief video segment. There is almost never a follow-up. No context. No pattern recognition. No sense of crisis.

And make no mistake—this is a crisis.

The attacks are escalating. The silence is spreading. And instead of raising the alarm, the media has chosen to treat these women as disposable content.

A Personal Call to Action

I’ve been a journalist for over two decades. I’ve reported for some of the biggest names in news. But I’ve never been one of those aggressive, ruthless reporters who push a microphone in your face or hound someone for a quote. That’s never been my style.

From the very beginning, I understood that the people I interview are human beings. They are often vulnerable, hurting, or grieving. They’re not sound bites. They’re not headlines. They’re people.

One of my earliest reporting assignments was on the red carpet at the New Jersey Hall of Fame. Brian Williams, the former NBC anchor, was being inducted that night. He was the big get—every outlet wanted him. CNN, ABC, you name it, they were there. The moment he stepped onto the carpet, the crowd of reporters surged forward. It turned chaotic.

I was new to the scene, working for a much smaller outlet. I didn’t shove or scream or elbow my way forward. I just stood quietly, off to the side, waiting. Brian Williams noticed. He looked past the frenzy, pointed directly at me, and said, "You. You’ve been so patient—I’ll talk to you first."

That moment stuck with me. Respect goes a long way. So does integrity.

And I’m sharing this now because I want my fellow journalists—and the next generation coming up behind us—to remember something: Journalism is supposed to be a public service. It’s supposed to expose injustice, elevate truth, and protect the people. Not exploit them.

If you’re in this industry only for the attention, the followers, the viral moment—you’ve missed the point.

What happened to me in August was a nightmare. But from the moment I hit the pavement, something inside me said, You have to turn this into something more. So that’s what I’m trying to do.

I’m using my podcast, Warrior of Truth, to give voice to women who have been violently attacked and completely ignored by mainstream media. I’m doing the job that so many outlets have refused to do—because these stories matter. These women matter.

Even now, months later, I’m still being ignored. After the initial burst of media attention faded, I began reaching out to those same reporters and outlets who had once flooded my inbox. I followed up with thoughtful pitches, detailed updates, and a call to go deeper on a story that affects countless women across New York City and beyond. Most never responded.

I had waited—out of necessity—for more than 24 hours to speak after my assault. I was concussed, bleeding, traumatized. And for that pause, I was forgotten.

Many of the people who once claimed they wanted to help, who promised they’d follow up or support this story, have since vanished. Just a few genuine allies remain. And that’s been one of the hardest but clearest lessons in all of this: when the spotlight fades, so do most people’s intentions. You learn very quickly who’s real, and who was simply there for the headline.

But I will not stop.

This isn’t just my story—it’s the story of hundreds of women who are being silenced, minimized, and ignored. And if the mainstream media won’t keep the spotlight on this crisis, then I will.

To my colleagues in media: Do better. To my fellow survivors: Keep speaking. Keep sharing. And to the women of New York City—and cities everywhere—I see you.

We are not helpless. We are not alone. And I won’t stop reporting until this epidemic of violence is seen for what it truly is: a crisis.