Brave, heroic, courageous, inspirational—these words have been repeated over the past weeks to describe Gisèle Pelicot, yet none seem to fully capture her strength.

At 72, Gisèle, a Frenchwoman, has shown an astounding level of resilience, enduring an eight-week trial in an Avignon courtroom, where every painful detail of the abuse against her is laid bare. Each day, she arrives to applause, a testament to the impact she’s already having. “Watershed moment” might feel like a cliché, but we may indeed be witnessing one.

Many of us have likely wondered if we could display even a fraction of her fortitude. We hope never to answer that question. But one thing is clear: Gisèle’s courage and drive to shift the conversation around sexual assault are something we should all admire deeply.

The details of her case are horrifying yet familiar to those following it. Her husband, Dominique, stands accused of secretly drugging her food and then inviting men he met online to assault her while she was unconscious. Gisèle had no idea until police, investigating Dominique for another crime, uncovered video evidence of the assaults on his devices. Alongside Dominique, fifty men, most living within 40 miles of Gisèle’s village, are also on trial, some claiming ignorance, suggesting they believed she was complicit in some sort of “game.”

Until recently, Gisèle hadn’t addressed the court directly. But her actions have spoken volumes. She refused to hold the trial behind closed doors and ensured that the accused could not hide from the public gaze. By waiving her anonymity, she challenged the idea that victims should bear the weight of shame.

“When you’re raped, there is a shame, but it’s not ours to bear; it’s theirs,” she told the court when she finally took the stand. “I want every woman who’s been raped—regardless of the circumstances—to see that if Madame Pelicot can stand up, they can too.”

It’s hard to think of anyone braver than Gisèle. But she brushes off the praise, saying,

“People tell me I’m brave. I say it’s not bravery but determination to change society.”

And she just might. Her case is already reframing how we perceive so-called “normal” men and their potential for harm. Her husband and the men accused are not faceless figures in the dark; they are tradesmen, journalists, farmers, and medics—men with families, even partners, men whom one might imagine, as Gisèle did of her husband, “growing old” with.

“The profile of a rapist isn’t someone in a shadowy alley at night,” she reminded the court, responding to female relatives who defended some of the accused as “exceptional men.” “A rapist can be in our families, among our friends.”

There’s an undeniable truth here we must face: Gisèle’s case, with its video evidence, compels us to listen to her in a way that might not have happened otherwise. It avoids the all-too-familiar, judgmental questions of “Why didn’t she speak sooner?” or “Why did she stay?” that can cloud survivors’ perceptions. If we want this moment to be as transformative as it feels, these are the discussions we must confront urgently.

No one woman can change an entire culture overnight. It’s neither her duty nor her burden to bear. After this trial, Gisèle will be left to rebuild her own life. She said, “I am a destroyed woman, and I don’t know how to put myself back together.”

Yet, perhaps the knowledge of how she has already transformed the conversation—and inspired so many—will strengthen her in the coming days. This selfless woman owes us nothing, yet we owe her so much.