On Dec. 6, 1989, I was enrolled as an undergraduate student at Western University in London, Ont.

My sense of self and security was shattered that day when a man shot 28 people and massacred 14 women at École Polytechnique. Thirty-six years of marking the tragedy have yet to dull its impact.

Five months later, in April 1990, an engineering student at Western, Lynda Shaw, was sexually assaulted and murdered at a fast-food outlet on Highway 401 near Ingersoll, Ont. I knew her. I had stopped at that very rest stop dozens of times.

Like so many of my privileged peers, I was profoundly and personally impacted by these atrocities. Our grief drove us to organize, establish peer networks and lobby campus administrators. We advocated for education and awareness campaigns, orientation programming, accountability for perpetrators and survivor-centric supports.

Nonetheless, countless times since, there have been incidents of sexual assault, sexual harassment, stalking, indecent exposure, voyeurism and sexual exploitation on campuses around the globe. I refuse to believe that this is because administrators don’t care. I’ve worked for 30 years in the post-secondary system in Canada and the U.S. I care a lot.

That care rests on two equally important pillars. First, I have invested my entire professional life fostering human development and student success; I know, without question, that personal safety, security and overall well-being are foundational to learning. Second, I understand — deeply, personally — what it means to “survive” sexual violence.

In 2016, with the full support of my family and my colleagues, I wrote an op-ed piece for the Toronto Star newspaper announcing to the world that during the second year of a doctoral program at Bowling Green State University, I was stalked.

One day, I noticed a tall man wearing army fatigues standing outside my classroom. Later, I saw him at the gym, then a few days later . . . he was outside my apartment when I opened the windows before bed. His appearance was striking and soon I saw him everywhere: in the parking lot, at the grocery store and always at the gym. He rarely spoke to me, but when he did, it was lewd. Mostly, he just stared, glared and smirked. I had never met him, didn’t know his name and couldn’t for the life of me explain his near-constant presence. When the behaviour continued, I made sweeping changes in my schedule in the hope that he’d tire of my unpredictability. That had no effect on his behaviour — he appeared out of nowhere, everywhere.

Nothing dissuaded him. He continued to stalk me and I continued to document his criminal behaviour. It consumed me, but that log would ultimately provide the impetus for him to plead guilty to menacing by stalking, a crime for which he was sentenced to two years in jail. I am both proud and saddened to tell you that his was the first criminal conviction under that statute in Ohio’s history.

The path to that outcome — all too rare in instances of sexual violence — was incredibly difficult. To secure the conviction, I had to tell him, repeatedly, that the attention was unwanted. Nothing I have done before or since was more frightening. For months, I lived in fear and had panic attacks. I am still easily startled and get anxious; everybody in my house knows that I hate surprises.

As is typical, my academic performance, physical health and mental well-being suffered.

I spent a lot of time questioning what I had done to elicit the criminal’s attention and started doubting my personal choices. I felt particularly guilty that my entire family put their lives on hold so they could support me through protection orders, the university’s judicial processes and a criminal trial.

To be clear, I survived being stalked by a man with a violent criminal history because of my parents, my brothers and a few close friends. Nobody — NOBODY — should have to experience bullying, abuse, harassment or discrimination, but what about women who don’t have the support system I did? Particularly when it’s combined with the reality of wage disparity and barriers to access for women. This is the biggest threat to harnessing, honing and realizing human potential, potential that is so fundamental to advancing the goal of equality and human rights for all.

I am a white, third-generation Canadian whose grandparents and parents went to university. I grew up in a double-income family, in a house my parents owned, filled with books. I am a woman of immense privilege. I was a nationally ranked swimmer until I broke my back. Two years later, unable to do flip turns, I won the U.S. Open four-mile, open-water swimming title. I am tough and resilient. I started university ahead of my peers and finished four degrees on scholarships. I am smart. My first full-time job was in an all-male residence hall. I am deft in the art of difficult conversations.

And yet, despite my unearned privilege, accomplishments and attributes . . . gender-based violence almost broke me.

This issue — the impact it has on our students, our communities, the global population — demands that we all be seized. It compels me and others who are privileged to lead in the post-secondary sector to draw on every one of our professional competencies and do our very best, every single day.

In memory of the 14 women murdered at École Polytechnique, this is my commitment to every member of the Memorial University community.

• Geneviève Bergeron
• Hélène Colgan
• Nathalie Croteau
• Barbara Daigneault
• Anne-Marie Edward
• Maud Haviernick
• Maryse Laganière
• Maryse Leclair
• Anne-Marie Lemay
• Sonia Pelletier
• Michèle Richard
• Annie St-Arneault
• Annie Turcotte
• Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz