Ever since I learned what it meant to be a girl, I knew I wasn’t starting on equal ground. It was clear to me that I was already behind, marked as different. Growing up as the only girl in a house full of four brothers made it even clearer. My parents handled me differently. I could tell they were more careful—like I was fragile, or maybe like the world was going to treat me differently, so they felt, I think, obligated to prepare me.

My first real memory of that difference is burned into me. I was about five. One of my brother’s best friends came over. He was nine, just like my brother. Having another kid in the house felt unreal and almost magical. We weren’t really allowed to have friends over, so I was excited. I remember climbing onto his back, laughing while he carried me around the living room. Just innocent fun. Then my father walked in. He froze, yanked me aside, and scolded me: Don’t behave like that.

Behave like what? I remember being very confused. To me, it was nothing. But that moment? That was the start of something I didn’t have words for yet. The start of shame, unease.

Middle school made it worse. I was . My body was changing, growing in ways I didn’t fully comprehend yet. Curves, attention, stares—I felt insecure and uncomfortable about all of it. I wanted to disappear at times, to hide from the way people suddenly started to look at me, treat me.

One experience solidified the anxiety and fear, though it was far from the only one, sad to say. I remember it well; I was fourteen years old. It was during art class, and I went to the storage room to grab some supplies. Two boys from my class followed me in. They cornered me. They touched me. One of them even grabbed a broomstick and rubbed it against me while laughing. I told my teacher. You know what happened? Nothing, really. Just a light warning. A slap on the wrist. Like it was all a joke. Like I was the one who was supposed to swallow it down and move on.

Adulthood didn’t fix anything, unfortunately. Some experiences worse than others. Grocery store. Metro. Parties. Festivals.Busy streets. Quiet neighborhoods. Doesn’t matter. You could wear baggy sweatpants or a dress that shows skin. Heck, you could wear a trash bag; it makes no difference. The harassment still comes. The stares, the grabs, the grinding, the whispers, the catcalling.

Because I know, it is never about the clothes. It was never about “how you act”. It was about me existing in a body they thought they had the right to claim ownership of.

And what’s the worst part? The silence. The way everyone treats it like it’s normal. Like, we should just deal with it. Don’t make a scene. Don’t overreact. Don’t ruin the mood. Stay quiet.

So you learn to hold it in. To “just deal with it”. You learn to swallow the fear, the shame, the rage. You learn that unease is ordinary. And silence? It’s expected.

But I am tired. Tired of swallowing fear, of adjusting my life to avoid danger, or pretending this is just part of being a woman.  I want change. I want change for myself, for my cousins, nieces, for my friends, my colleagues, for every woman out there who has ever been made to feel small, unsafe, unheard.

It often starts with boys testing boundaries, learning behaviors, or not understanding consent—but society still places the weight of safety on us women. We clutch to our phones, ready to press speed dial, carry our keys in our fists as makeshift brass knuckles, take self-defense classes, watch how we dress, and watch how we speak. Why should the responsibility of safety always fall on us? Why aren’t there better ways to teach respect, boundaries, and accountability from the start, so these situations don’t keep happening?

Yet even in the face of fears, hope persists. I know, every woman standing up for herself now chips away at the old norms. Each step forward, no matter how small will plant a seeds of a society, a culture, a world where accountability and care become the expectation, and not the exception.

Where unease was once ordinary and silence expected, we women keep finding the courage to rise. Change is infectious, and it will continue to ripple outward. For every girl and woman who deserves to walk unafraid, to be truly safe, seen, and heard.

With love,

The Awkward Black Girl.