Let’s admit it: walking alone at night as a woman isn’t just “going for a stroll.” It’s an Olympic-level sport in risk management. The moment the sun sets, the rules of movement shift. What men see as a casual walk home becomes, for us, a strategy session: Which shoes won’t slow me down if I have to run? Should I avoid that dark alley even though it cuts five minutes off my journey? Do I look confident enough to avoid attention, but not so confident that I’m “asking for it?”
It’s exhausting. For women, a night out doesn’t end when the music stops or the drinks run out. It ends when we finally lock the door behind us, safe. Until that point, we’re on high alert. We keep our keys threaded between our fingers like makeshift brass knuckles. We fake phone calls to friends or family to deter unwanted company. We avoid headphones so we can hear footsteps behind us. This is not paranoia, it’s survival.
And here’s the maddening part: this constant vigilance is so normalized that we hardly question it anymore. We share our location with friends before leaving a party. We text “home safe” to the group chat because not sending that message sets off alarms. We even make calculations about what to wear based not on comfort or style, but on how our outfit might influence the wrong kind of attention. It’s as though enjoying yourself comes with a fine print clause: but don’t forget, danger may apply after dark.
Think about what this really means. The city that belongs to everyone during the day suddenly belongs less to us at night. Streets, sidewalks, parks, public spaces shrink for women after sunset. We don’t just lose time; we lose freedom. Freedom to be spontaneous. Freedom to walk slowly without worry. Freedom to enjoy silence, stars or simply our own thoughts without a shadow of fear trailing behind us.
Of course, we learn to adapt. We form protective packs with girlfriends because there’s safety in numbers. We adjust routes to stick to busier, better-lit streets, even if it adds time. We call a taxi even when we’d rather save the money. We laugh it off, calling ourselves “paranoid,” when deep down we know it’s not paranoia if it keeps us alive.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: this isn’t just about walking home. It’s about control. Every time we feel forced to rethink our outfit, route or plans, we’re reminded subtly, but firmly, that our freedom has limits. Not natural limits, not reasonable limits, but limits imposed by the threat of violence and by the people who perpetuate or excuse it.
We’re told to take precautions, as though safety is solely our responsibility. We’re told not to drink too much, not to wear that skirt, not to walk alone, not to be “reckless.” And if something happens, the question too often isn’t “Why was she attacked?” but “Why was she out there in the first place?” It’s a narrative that shifts blame onto women while ignoring the real issue: the right to simply exist, freely after dark.
So let’s say it plainly: women are limited because walking alone at night is not safe. And until it is safe, we will continue to carry our keys like weapons, text our friends obsessively and weigh every decision against the backdrop of risk. But let’s also remind ourselves: this is not how it should be. Nighttime should be as much ours as it is anyone else’s.
One day, perhaps, a woman walking alone at night won’t be a cause for concern, debate or whispered warnings. It will just be a woman walking. Nothing more, nothing less. Until then, sisters, stay clever, stay cautious and keep demanding more than survival. Because we deserve not just to make it home alive, we deserve to live freely, fully and without fear.
Monika has been interviewing trans people in her blog, The Heroines of My Life, since 2013. Click here to see who she has interviewed lately.
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| Wearing Paige |
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| Nick Sinckler, Kuba Szmajkowski, Marcin Januszkiewicz and Ewelina Flinta impersonate The Pussycat Dolls on Polish television's Twoja twarz brzmi znajomo. |
