But more often I wonder if there’s something else at work—an exhaustion, perhaps, that keeps us silent and complicit (are there only so many battles we can fight?). Or a nagging fear of acknowledging that our communities—our support spaces, our organizing groups, our people—could be infected with the same misogyny we spend our days fighting everywhere else. A fear that patriarchy exists in the bodies of those we know and love, in the allies, the activists, the Good Guys. A recognition, painful perhaps, that survivors and perpetrators don’t split neatly along a binary, the one all angelic and good, the other evil and bad. That violence is much closer to home, that it has the face of a friend, the name of a fellow fighter.