The Math of Staying Safe
How Women Move Through the World
I don’t think I’ve gone a single day without running some form of safety calculation in my head. It’s like breathing at this point, automatic, constant, invisible to anyone who’s not doing it. I don’t even notice I’m doing it anymore, but it’s there, all the time, shaping where I go, how I go, and who I go with.
If I’m leaving my house, the first thing I think about is what I’m wearing. Not for fashion, not for weather, but whether I’ll get unwanted attention. That cute short dress? Love it, but not if I’m walking through certain streets. That oversized hoodie? Probably safer, even if it makes me look like I just rolled out of bed. The bag, crossbody? Easy to keep close. Tote bag? Love it, but harder to grip if someone tries to snatch it.
When I walk anywhere, I instantly scan the street. How many people are there? Are they walking in my direction? How spaced out are they? I don’t walk with headphones on full volume because I need to hear footsteps, car doors opening, or someone calling out. I’ll pretend to check my phone, but really I’m using the front camera as a rearview mirror.
At night, it’s an entirely different math problem. Street lighting matters. The side of the street I choose matters. I’ll switch sides if I don’t like the look of someone coming towards me. I’ll even slow down or speed up to avoid walking right next to someone for too long. I’ve faked phone calls so many times that I could probably win an award for Most Convincing Imaginary Conversation.
Public transport is its own battlefield. I’ll scan the carriage before I sit. Is there someone sitting alone but staring too much? Is there a row that lets me keep my back to the wall? If a guy sits too close when there are plenty of empty seats, I’ll move, no explanation given. If someone’s making me uncomfortable, I’ve got my “accidentally intimidating glare” ready, the one that says, “Yes, I will cause a scene if I have to.”
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Even things like ordering food at night come with their own checklist. Who’s delivering? Am I meeting them outside, or are they coming to the door? If I have to open the door, do I keep the chain on? And yes, I do that thing where I act like there’s someone else in the house. “Thanks, yeah, my brother’s upstairs.” My brother doesn’t even live here. Also, I don’t have a brother.
Crowds can be just as tricky as empty streets. In a crowd, you’re not invisible; you’re accessible. I’ll keep my bag zipped, my phone gripped, and my elbows out just enough so no one can press in too close. Festivals, concerts, markets, they’re fun, but I’m also mapping exits in my head in case something goes wrong.
If I’m meeting someone new, I’ll tell a friend the details, name, location, what time I should be home. I share my live location with at least one person if I’m out late.
Even the smallest errands have safety steps built in. Walking to the shop? Grab keys before leaving, not just for opening the door but in case I need to hold them between my fingers. Taking the bins out at night? Quick glance around first.
The thing is, none of this feels extraordinary to me anymore. It’s just running in the background, like an app I can’t close. Men can walk home and think about dinner. I’m walking home thinking about shadows, light sources, doorways, voices, and whether that guy is walking behind me because he’s going the same way or because of me.
It’s not paranoia. It’s reality. And it’s not even a dramatic reality. It’s just the version of life I’ve been trained to live since I was old enough to walk down a street on my own. My male friends don’t get why I’m so quick to cross the road or send a “home safe” text the moment I get in. My female friends don’t even need to ask. They already know.
It’s the strange math we do every day, without calculators, without formulas, but with stakes higher than any exam. And honestly? I wish I could forget how to do it. But until the world changes, I’ll keep calculating.
Until our next rendezvous.
