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“Oh, yeah. He’s like that. He’s got a bit of a reputation,” says Lauren* as she takes the final drag of a cigarette before stubbing it out on the balcony wall of a Shoreditch hotel.
We’re dressed in leopard print for the staff party—jungle themed—which feels fitting for the wildly inappropriate interaction I’ve just had with a senior member of staff. To my horror, he has just told me I have very large breasts and that he likes them, while continuing to make comments and stare at my chest like a cartoon character.
Without saying much, Lauren has told me all I need to know: that this sort of thing has happened with, let’s call him Tim*, before, and the other women in the office know to steer clear of him at the company Christmas party. Strangely, despite the humiliation I feel at Tim’s lurid gawking, Lauren’s words are a comfort: a warning signal telling me to keep a keen eye on my drink and to avoid him for the rest of the night.
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The whisper network comes with its own language, rules, inferences, and subtext, allowing it to fly under the radar.
This subtle exchange of information has a name: the whisper network. It comes with its own language, rules, inferences, and subtext, allowing it to fly under the radar.
At their heart, whisper networks are informal exchanges, often in the workplace, helping women and minoritised groups navigate gender-based inequality, violence, and sexual harassment. They operate on the expectation that you, or a woman you work with, are likely to experience the sexual violence continuum to some degree, and that formally reporting incidents is unlikely to lead to accountability or justice.
Despite my best efforts to heed Lauren’s advice, the night ends in disaster. Unwelcome hands grab at my waist and backside as Tim tries to spin me around on the dancefloor. Words bubble like bile in the back of my throat as I scream, “Fuck off, seriously, just fuck off,” until, startled, his grip loosens. I wriggle free and make for the exit, hot tears streaming down my face.
The interaction became the topic of conversation the following Monday between the girls and me. Lauren and another colleague encourage me to have a quiet word with HR. But I worry I won’t be believed—or that maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing. After all, I’m still young, and I haven’t learned how to tell men like Tim off, or that I shouldn’t have to.
Like all forms of gossip, whisper networks are often dismissed as untrustworthy fabrications designed to ruin men’s reputations; nothing more than office chatter. Yet culturally, whisper networks are crucial for understanding the commonality of experience where sexual harassment, abuse, and violence are enacted upon women and girls by men.
Whisper networks are often dismissed as untrustworthy fabrications designed to ruin men’s reputations
This is partly because women’s words have long carried an air of mistrust; a superstition reinforced when gossip, originally genderless, became female-coded in the Middle Ages.
The word, originally used to describe someone or something in relation to God, was sacred: gossip, or God-sibb. Over centuries, it evolved to describe trusted groups of women, like nuns or midwives, gradually infused with a sense of mystery and distrust. Later, gossip came to mean an unruly, talkative woman who would spill secrets or speak ill of her husband, and gossipers were considered sinfully disobedient.
Herein lies the crux of women’s battle: wanting to be taken seriously but having no singular system that reliably helps them.
Now, almost ten years later, I don’t think about Tim often. But one evening, while finishing some notes for my research into the necessity of whisper networks for my debut non-fiction, Beyond Belief: A Defence of Gossip and the Women Who Do It, his words about my body come back to bite me.
It takes a second or two for my heart rate to stop thrumming against my ribcage. When it does, I can see clearly how, in an environment where I was vulnerable, women came to my aid. They reassured me that what happened wasn’t okay, and while there might not be swift justice, I was believed, and that meant something.
Whisper networks thrive because real-world support and justice are lacking. In fact, they’re thriving so much that in January 2026, Forbes reported on a new website, WallStreetDiscrimination, which encourages women to report discrimination and harassment anonymously. Wherever women encounter the sexual violence continuum, a sorority-style support network will likely exist.
But it isn’t just about being believed. There is also a retributive threat many women know intimately when they attempt to warn others about a man’s behaviour. Members of the Facebook group, Are We Dating The Same Guy, learned this when faced with defamation lawsuits for warning one another about potentially dangerous partners. The backlash is swift and particularly vicious.
The demand for peer-to-peer protection has even led to businesses offering specialised assistance. Tea is one such app, which found itself at the centre of controversy when hacked by a group on a Manosphere site. The attack exposed thousands of women to danger, sharing personal information like home addresses, driver’s licenses, some 70,000 photographs, and private messages—along with the chilling message, “enjoy.”
These spaces, online and offline, are often the last bastion where survivors’ voices are given the benefit of the doubt over alleged perpetrators. Women, by virtue of gender, occupy a space beyond belief by default. Yet there is solace in shared glances, knowing nods, and supportive sanctums. In exchange for their stories, support is given, and, perhaps most importantly, belief.
*Names have been changed
Beyond Belief: A Defence of Gossip and the Women Who Do It by Katie Baskerville is published by HQ, £20.
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