My 22-year-old daughter recently moved to Boston to complete her master’s degree while working two jobs. On a rare open block of time, she went to a gym just a couple of blocks from her apartment—a needed release, a way to discharge stress, to move her body and feel grounded again.
Like she often does, she called me while walking. It’s become a quiet safety habit—another layer of protection as she moves through the world. She is mindful of her surroundings, of what she wears, of how her pepper spray is positioned. She walks with purpose. Not fear exactly—but awareness.
I understand it deeply.
When my children were young and our dog was still alive, I used to walk before sunrise. I would move fast—almost a walk-run—through about two miles so I could return in time for the morning routine. And when I didn’t go, I felt it in my body, like I was being trapped inside my own life. I would say, I need to go for a walk. It wasn’t optional. It was mental health. It was survival.
So I understand her need to move.
While on the phone with me that day, her tone shifted. “Just walk with me, Mom,” she said. And then I heard it—someone yelling in the background. A man’s voice, loud and aggressive, filled with profanity and hostility. Then silence from her end.
She told me he was screaming at her, threatening her, escalating as she moved. It felt like every instinct in her body was telling her not to stop. She turned around and headed back home. Her voice changed—breathless now, not from running, but from fast, urgent walking.
I stayed on the phone, torn between staying with her and calling for help. My instinct wanted to do both at once. She made it back into her apartment safely, but the adrenaline stayed in her voice long after the door closed.
“I’m so angry right now,” she said. “I just wanted to go to the gym.”
This wasn’t the first time.
On another day, a different man followed and screamed at her while she walked. He was close enough that she could feel the danger of him. She crossed the street. Other women in cars at a stoplight saw what was happening and moved to physically block him. That moment of solidarity is what allowed her to get away.
These are not isolated incidents. They are part of a pattern many women recognize instantly: walking with awareness, adjusting behavior, scanning exits, preparing for interruption, preparing for threat.
The result is a kind of constant vigilance. A shrinking of ease in public space. A low, steady hum of tension that never fully turns off.
What stays with me most is not only the fear—but the anger.
The anger that movement through the world still requires calculation.
The anger that safety often depends on luck, timing, or strangers stepping in.
The anger that “just go with a buddy” is offered as a solution to a much larger problem.
I have always been deeply anti-violence. I still am. But I also understand something more complicated now: repeated exposure to fear changes the nervous system. It changes how women move, how they breathe, how they plan their days. It creates a quiet accumulation of rage—not explosive, but steady, present, and real.
My daughter will likely move from that neighborhood, even though it is close to her work and school. Not because she wants to, but because she has to.
And I find myself holding a question that has no simple answer:
What does it mean when everyday life requires this level of vigilance just to walk two blocks to the gym?
For now, women adapt. We call our mothers. We avoid earbuds. We stay alert. We carry pepper spray. We cross streets early. We listen constantly.
And somewhere underneath all of it, there is this quiet, persistent truth:
We are tired of being afraid to move through the world.
If this piece resonated with you, maybe your heart is asking for a little support too.
Sometimes one meaningful conversation can shift something we’ve been carrying for a very long time. I offer 1:1 intuitive wellness coaching sessions for women navigating change, emotional overwhelm, healing, and life transitions. You don’t have to figure everything out alone. If you’d like to connect, you can reach me at: kristen@kristendarcy.com
