“Do people really need an entire book on consent? What do they fill it with, anyway? Isn’t it obvious?” A friend asked me this about a week ago while I was caught up in feminist journalist Sarah Ratchford’s debut book, Fired Up About Consent. Consent is mandatory. However, when conflated with desire, it often gets muffled and pushed to the background. According to the World Health Organization, “one in three women will be sexually or physically assaulted by a partner, or experience sexual violence, in their lifetime.” And so, a better question to ask is: “why hasn’t this been declared an international state of emergency?”

Rape culture repeatedly drowns out the voices of survivors and dominates the discourse surrounding sexual assault and rape. In Fired Up About Consent, Sarah Ratchford aims to empower survivors and advocate for them. The book is carefully divided into four sections: (1) Defining Rape, Defining Consent; (2) In the Middle of Rape Culture; (3) Conjuring Consent Culture; and (4) Taking Action. Ratchford identifies how sexual violence is normalized and attempts to reframe this kind of thinking by introducing a culture of consent. They thoughtfully weave intersecting themes like sexual education, virginity and porn with healthy and unhealthy relationships. Movements like Black Lives Matter and #MeToo are examined alongside comparisons between intersectional feminism and mainstream white feminism. Sex can be sensual and erotic, but also comfortable and cathartic – no one deserves to feel unsafe. This practical, trauma-informed guide encourages “healthy, mutually satisfying sex lives” that we are all entitled to.

In their candid approach, Ratchford shares personal stories from their past without centering themselves into the narrative and overly personalizing the experience. They discuss dress code violations in fourth grade (“spaghetti straps”), their first real date with a yoga instructor that actually respects them in bed (shocking!) and submitting to a “victim-blamey mindset” after being raped by someone they loved and trusted. Although the subject matter is delicate and, perhaps, painful to relive for those that have shared in similar moments, it is both validating and empowering to take in. Ratchford is vulnerable and reeling and we get to share that with them. 

In reading their work, I feel recognized as I reflect back on my elementary school days. I would be heavily criticized, even sent home, for having a little shoulder showing or when my skirt was shorter than the length of my middle finger, while men had absolutely no restrictions on their bodies. By no fault of her own, my mom would sternly advise that I wear a bra every time I left the house or told me to “cover up,” so as to not attract “the wrong kind of attention.” As if that was in my control! Why not stop teaching women how to dress and, instead, start teaching men not to rape? I would get so angry.

Fired Up About Consent is grounded in reality. Ratchford’s brutal honesty is intriguing and hooks us into each chapter; putting the statistics, quotes and facts they discuss into context and allowing us to understand how these experiences affect real people. It is my childhood, my adolescence and my womanhood. Hell, growing up, I felt so alone in those moments where decisions about my body would be made for me by other people. Not only are these examples relatable, but by telling their story, young women and feminine-presenting people engaging with this content, like myself, can identify with and, in turn, feel a certain sense of kinship and unity. The more survivors that come forward and tell their stories, the easier it feels for the rest of us to share.

As a journalist, Ratchford does their due diligence. Fired Up About Consent is painstakingly written in such a well thought-out and respectful way. They include an array of perspectives from various professional fields. Ratchford speaks to lawyers, feminist writers, sociologists, sex educators and other survivors that add nuanced and insightful opinions to a deeply challenging subject. They call on multiple sources because survivors’ voices are often not enough. Their stories are questioned and torn apart. These expert voices uplift those misheard and ignored. Ratchford does a fantastic job of demonstrating how widespread this issue is with the amount of research they conduct. They call out problematic examples in pop-culture, such as What to Expect When You’re Expecting and how it incorporates scripts that demonstrate a total lack of consent and glamorize rape. With this, Ratchford teaches us to be analytical about the material we consume; even rom-coms that are seemingly harmless perpetrate this continuous lack of respect for the word “no.” 

It is admirable how Ratchford does not make this conversation solely for one particular person or group. Anyone can commit acts of assault and can be assaulted; it is not a binary event. Their “Note on Language” emphasizes this need for inclusivity when discussing consent. To allow fluidity for the reader and to avoid misgendering, Ratchford introduces feminine, masculine and androgynous non-binary terms, as well as gender-neutral pronouns (they/them/theirs) that the audience may be unfamiliar with. This all-encompassing language distinguishes it from other research done on consent and rape culture, as “a lot of research on rape has been done in [solely] binary terms.” The intersectional lens reframes this issue, allowing us to construct a more equitable reality; it recognizes that rape and sexual assault can happen to anybody. Ratchford’s work does not alienate us, but is certainly inviting and accepting. 

In the last section, “Responding to Sexual Assault,” Ratchford answers questions like, what to do if you’ve been sexually assaulted, if someone you care about has been sexually assaulted, if someone close to you sexually assaults someone and if you have been accused of sexual assault. This is a practical, applicable and invaluable resource for young people as well as those in positions of power and should be committed to memory. The general lesson that repeats itself in response to each of these questions is to believe the survivor. Do not correct, do not try to fix – just believe them. This ties in to Ratchford’s initial message at the start of the book: “This book is for survivors. I believe you.” These words are encouraging and inspire reassurance, considering how women are berated, criticized and constantly second-guessed when it comes to sharing their stories. But, of course, Ratchford does not have all the answers, they are only one person.

They may have gathered the tools in this guide for us to cope with sexual violence and rape culture, but that is all it is – a guide. It is something to come to terms with; to pick and choose what relates closest to you and morph it into something that applies best to your situation. But, at the same time, there is beauty in seeing that. Even if you do not know how to voice what you feel entirely, Sarah Ratchford can at least offer a shoulder of support.