Walking home, alone

“I am left to battle myself and decide how much I’m willing to sacrifice so I’ll feel like less of a target.” 

It’s happened time and time again: it’s late and I’m out with my friends. As the night draws to a close, I’m thrown into a frantic scramble to find a safe way home. Even if I am within walking distance of my apartment, I often feel stressed about those few minutes alone on the street. I consider all of my options: can I walk back with someone who lives near me? Can I make a joke about being tired enough to justify taking an Uber? These are just some of the techniques I use to disguise the fact that I am afraid to walk alone at night. I am both frustrated with and embarrassed by this fear. I pride myself on being an independent, modern woman capable of taking care of herself, but in this respect I often feel helpless. 

When I push myself to walk alone in spite of this fear, I am plagued by ceaseless paranoia. After moving from the security of an enclosed Vic residence with the wealthy barrier of Yorkville to protect me, I was not accustomed to the new terrain of my Chinatown apartment. Even in daytime, walking alone sometimes feels like a subtle game of Murder Wink. I am constantly surveying the people around me, trying to evaluate who will be the one to take me out. In these situations, I remind myself of the facts: Toronto is a relatively safe city and the odds of something happening to me are slim. Despite this rationality, I still can’t turn off my worries. 

I have inherited these fears from constant warnings I was told growing up. Ever since I was old enough to begin taking the subway alone, I have been reminded to be careful when I’m by myself. I have heard this advice from my parents, from relatives, and even from practical strangers. This advice used to confuse me. Being able to travel alone marked a new level of autonomy which I couldn’t understand why others were trying to limit. When my mother enforced curfews or had me incessantly text her when I changed locations, I was frustrated. I felt ashamed of these restrictions, as if they somehow made me weaker than my male friends who weren’t limited in this way. 

But I understand where these fears come from. When I am catcalled on my walk home or ogled on the TTC, I am reminded that the threats women face in our society are unfortunately very real. Even when no physical action is taken, unwanted attention can be scary. It is a reminder of the power others can have over me and makes me feel defenseless. I understand my mother’s fears because I feel them too. I am not the only woman nervous about walking alone; it’s a feeling many of my female friends have also expressed. Each person’s own experiences and identities shape the way these fears affect them, and as a cisgender, white woman, I know my fears may be different than those of folks from marginalized communities. The key is to decide how we manage these valid fears in ways that makes sense for us.  

I am left to battle myself and decide how much I’m willing to sacrifice to feel like less of a target. Whether it’s by taking a completely different route home or by dressing less provocatively on a night out, I have certainly made conscious changes in order to feel safer. But each time I make these changes, I’m left frustrated; I shouldn’t have to go out of my way to  guaranteed a feeling of safety. I want to be able to feel safe walking home alone no matter what time it is, no matter how much I’ve been drinking, and no matter what I’ve decided to wear that day. I constantly feel I must sacrifice my feeling of safety for other choices I want to make, choices that are burdened by my fears. I am frustrated, not only with those who make me feel unsafe, but with the society that tells me these fears are my responsibility. What saddens me the most about this situation is not the danger I fear, but that I have allowed it to dictate my choices. 

It is this frustration that has forced me to change the way I look at these fears. When I feel those worries growing now, I push myself to find a middle ground between ensuring my safety and exercising my agency. I try not to make accommodations for these fears when they are irrational and focus on being aware instead of afraid. Simultaneously, I know and accept that these fears are real for me and that there will be days when I will feel paranoid. When I am worried, it does not make me less of a feminist to admit I feel safer walking with a friend. Although I wish I didn’t experience these fears, they’re the reality for myself and many others, and should not be a source of shame. Even if there is little I can do to change how safe I am when walking alone, choosing to conquer this fear and not letting it affect my choices is perhaps the greatest personal victory I can achieve.