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A UK study on pregnancy after rape: themes, insights & limitations (part 2)

Content note: This blog shares themes from research with women who have raised a child conceived through rape. There are no graphic details, but some readers may find the material emotionally difficult. Please take care of yourself while reading, and feel free to pause or stop at any point.

In my previous blog, I wrote about why I undertook research into rape‑pregnancy. In this post, I want to gently share some of what women told me about their experiences.

This post is written with survivors in mind. You are invited to read only what feels manageable, and you do not need to take anything from this unless it feels helpful to you.

As a reminder, my name is Hannah and I am a counsellor at SARSAS. As part of my Doctorate, I was required to design and complete an original research project. I chose to focus my research on the experiences of women in the UK who had given birth to, and were raising, a child conceived through rape. In this second post, I share the findings of that research.

I want to say from the outset: there was no single story. The women who took part spoke about a range of feelings, relationships, and meanings, many of which changed over time. If your experience does not match what is described here, that does not mean it is wrong or unusual.

Eight women took part in this study. All had lived experience of rape‑pregnancy and had gone on to raise their children. The women brought diverse life experiences.

All participants identified as Black women. Seven identified as Christian, and six were teenagers at the time of the rape. All participants gave birth to daughters, who were under ten years old at the time of interview. The perpetrators included romantic partners, acquaintances, a family member, and strangers.

What the women shared most strongly was a desire to break the silence around raising a child conceived through rape. They hoped that by sharing their experiences, other women might feel less alone. Many described storytelling as healing, empowering, and a way to foster connection, self‑compassion, and hope.

After the interviews, I analysed the recordings and five themes emerged, which I wanted to share.


In the first theme, women spoke about how trauma following rape shaped their experiences of pregnancy and the choices they faced. Many described feeling disconnected from their bodies, which affected how they noticed and experienced pregnancy. Some struggled with distress, low mood, or trauma responses that were not always recognised at the time, particularly when their focus was on safety and survival.

Decisions about continuing a pregnancy were rarely straightforward or made in isolation. They were shaped by fear, family responses, faith, and the presence—or absence—of support. Many women described holding conflicting feelings at the same time, highlighting how complex pregnancy after rape can be.

For many women, pregnancy decisions were made within difficult and constrained circumstances, rather than as freely chosen options.


The second theme explored women’s experiences of telling professionals about rape‑pregnancy, and how shame and self‑blame affected access to support.

Many women did not tell healthcare professionals that their pregnancy was caused by rape. Fear of judgement, racism, stigma, and not knowing what support existed all shaped these decisions. Some had already experienced blaming responses from family or community and expected the same from services.

Where women did feel safe to disclose—often through counselling or compassionate maternity care—support became a turning point. Being believed helped reduce self‑blame and enabled access to practical and emotional help. Silence was often a form of self‑protection, rather than a lack of need for support.


The third theme focused on how women thought about whether, when, and how to tell their daughters that they were conceived through rape.

All of the children were still young, and none of the mothers had yet had this conversation. Women described different approaches: waiting until their child felt emotionally mature, sharing a partial or softened version of the truth, choosing not to disclose, or allowing another family member to take responsibility for telling.

Across all positions, the primary concern was protecting their daughters from harm. Decisions about disclosure were ongoing and deeply thoughtful, showing how parenting after rape involves careful balancing of safety, honesty, and emotional wellbeing.


The fourth theme explored how women experienced loss after rape‑pregnancy, and how motherhood helped them imagine a different future.

Many women described grieving the life they had expected to have, including their plans, education, relationships, and sense of youth.

Over time, their daughters became a powerful source of meaning, strength, and motivation to heal. Motherhood helped some women reconnect with hope, rebuild a sense of purpose, and commit to parenting differently from how they had been parented. While healing was ongoing and not without difficulty, love for their daughters supported resilience and growth.


Finally, it was important to acknowledge how women’s experiences of rape‑pregnancy were shaped by the people and environments around them.

Women did not go through rape‑pregnancy alone. Their experiences were deeply influenced by faith, family, and friendships. For some, faith and church communities offered comfort, meaning, and practical support. For others, religious beliefs increased shame or pressure.

Family responses ranged from care and reconnection to disbelief, judgement, or silence. Where family support was absent or conditional, female friends often became vital sources of safety and stability.


These findings show that support after rape‑pregnancy is shaped by wider social, cultural, and relational contexts—not just individual coping.

I have presented findings from this research at two national conferences and at a Parliamentary roundtable jointly hosted by Natalie Fleet MP and SARSAS. My aim is to raise awareness of the existence and experiences of rape‑pregnancy, and to contribute to meaningful change. Watch a summary of this presentation here.

If you are reading this and recognise aspects of your own experience, please know that you are not alone we are here to listen, believe and support you.

The SARSAS helpline services offer confidential and anonymous support across Avon and Somerset for anyone who has experienced any kind of sexual violence or abuse at any time in their life. You can talk to us about anything and won’t be judged for your experiences and reactions.


You can read the other blogs in Hannah’s three-part series here:

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For subject names please contact info@toucan-productions.co.uk or GSKIMPACTAwards@gsk.com

A UK study on pregnancy after rape: Little Ro’s reflections & contributions (part 3)

Content note: This post shares themes from research with women who have raised a child conceived through rape. There are no graphic details, but some readers may find the material emotionally difficult. Please take care of yourself while reading, and feel free to pause or stop at any point.

For subject names please contact info@toucan-productions.co.uk or GSKIMPACTAwards@gsk.com

A UK study on rape pregnancy: shaping the research idea (part 1)

Content note: This blog discusses rape‑pregnancy. There are no graphic details, but some readers may find the topic difficult. Please take care of yourself while reading.

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The growing threat of AI-generated sexual abuse: why we need stronger protections now

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