I am afraid for my daughters.

Everyone is talking about it. It is devastating and it is entirely unsurprising. It is as ordinary as the air we breathe and unfunnily enough, this is how we come to face this harm.

By breathing. By the virtue of existing as female. 

I am afraid for my daughters. And I am angry too. This world is not kind, especially to women. And toxic masculinity and the patriarchy are not kind either. To anyone.

I don’t want to raise my daughters to hurry through the quiet streets at night, keys clutched tight, and four different exit routes mentally mapped out.

I don't want to raise my daughters to never leave the group, to hesitate before hopping in an Uber, and to always text their friends to make sure they got home okay.

I don't want to raise my daughters to question what they wear, to put their hair up instead of down, and to always have a polite, ready-made excuse.

I don't want to raise my daughters to have to do any of these things. To constantly monitor and adjust their behaviour when they’re just going about their lives so that nothing bad happens. Because if they don’t, it’s their fault then right?

But I probably will raise them to do all of these things. Because while women are still getting harmed every, single day by people's sons, then what choice do I have?

I also don't want to raise my daughters to do any of these things, because these rules don't actually work.

And that prospect is scary. You can follow the impossible rules about how much is too much and how short is too short and how late is too late all you like, but these rules don't actually keep women safe.

The only rule that will truly keep women safe is the one that's not for women to follow. Is it really too much to ask, even after comparing us to their cars or their beloved sisters, that men simply stop harming women?

And I don’t want to teach them what to do when it does happen.

Because it will happen, in some way, shape or form.

They’ll get hurt. It’s inevitable.

I don’t want them to have to console their friends, arms around their shoulders saying, “you could tell someone”, but both knowing that at best nothing would change, and at worst the shame and blame they’ve been forced to carry would get more suffocating.

I want to keep them safe forever, but this is impossible. The world is a dangerous place.

And yet, the world is a whole lot more dangerous again for women without our privileges.

How do we keep our daughters safe in a system that endangers them simply for existing? How can I make sure that no harm comes to them when it’s everywhere around us? How can I reassure their hope when calling yourself a feminist isn’t the norm or default?

This isn’t just for Sarah Everard or Brittany Higgins. They are just two of many millions, most of whom you never hear about; a sea of unnamed survivors and victims. There are countless women and gender diverse folk who are harmed every minute of every day. By those who know them and by those who don’t. At work and at bars and at the park and at school and at university and at their friend’s house and at their relative’s house and at the gym and at campgrounds and at their own home.

It is within the perpetrator’s palms that the responsibility for change burns.