I find it strange how fast a beautiful scene can become ominous. About a month ago, I visited  friends in Strawberry, California during spring break. Strawberry is starkly different from San Francisco, consisting of a few sparsely maintained roads and a reported population of 50. We had pulled off of the highway and into the driveway after a 4 hour drive. I was itching to stretch my legs and enticed by the bright colors splattered across the evening sky by the setting sun. I grabbed my earbuds and a jacket and let my friends know that I would be gone for a while. Then I ventured out into the brisk air. 

I wandered through a small neighborhood that ended in a quaint cul-de-sac. From there, I continued onto an unpaved road that wound through the forest and up the mountain, occasionally catching glimpses of cabins visible between patches of trees. The sound of a rushing river, flush from the recent snowmelt, created a constant, calming backdrop for my wandering thoughts, washing my worries and cares away with it. 

I became so enamored with the landscape that I lost track of time. About forty minutes into the walk, I found myself on a small ridge, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the mountains. Darkness settled over the terrain like a heavy blanket. My steps became hurried as I inwardly berated myself for my negligence. What was once a charming landscape had quickly transformed into a threatening one. The treeline transformed into looming silhouettes, from which a figure could easily emerge without my notice. The stream now seemed aggressive and panicked, a loud deluge of noise that drowned out the world around me, obscuring the sound of potential threats. 

It wasn’t really the forest that scared me, or the dark, but rather a fear of what — or who — they could hide. There are fears that I think every woman has, and are conditioned to have, that seem to materialize in the dark — whether in an abandoned forest, or on empty city streets. 

I walk to work early on Saturday mornings, often before the sun has risen, clutching pepper spray — bought for me by my mother when I started this job — in my pocket as I pass lethargic-looking figures lurking on dark corners. When I return home on the bus a few hours later than expected, I find myself hurriedly walking the few blocks to my house with my phone in hand.

The worst part about this fear is the uncertainty. I never know whether it is justified, or whether it’s just paranoia: whether the man I passed on the street had any inkling of bad intentions, or whether he barely gave me a passing thought. I got home safe, in Strawberry, and I have never had a serious encounter walking alone in the dark. But still, the fear is powerful. I am constantly warned by the world around me of a constant, omnipresent danger. I don’t claim to have a singular claim to this fear; I think it’s almost universal among women, cultivated from a young age. A message is broadcast to all girls. It’s delivered consciously, through the way in which each woman has a cautionary tale to tell, and in the gifting of a bottle of pepper spray. It’s conveyed unconsciously by how we try to shield our daughters, teach them to smile, and be modest, so as to not attract the wrong type of attention. Either way, we have received the message: you are not safe. 

While I am always the most afraid in the dark, I am also intensely aware that I, and most women, are not safe even during the day. I have been catcalled, called slurs, and been confronted by men I do not know. Sometimes on the bus, and sometimes while walking home. There’s a certain comfort in being in a public setting. But I have learned that the presence of others isn’t always an absolute protection. Oftentimes, these confrontations have happened around bystanders who have not come to my aid. This, more than walking by myself, makes me feel alone. A lot could be improved with a little more self awareness, and a bit more support from the community. No woman should feel like she is alone or unsafe in a crowd.

Despite my fears, I have to walk in the dark anyways. It’s not exactly possible to avoid it — I still have to get to work at the same time every morning, and I can’t always get home early from nights out or find a safe ride home. I wouldn’t say I’ve overcome my fears. I’m not sure if it’s possible to overcome something so engrained within me. I will probably never walk alone in the dark without looking over my shoulder every few seconds, and maybe the abundance of caution is for the best. But I have learned to live with my fears, and live despite them. I think most women have. In a society in which anyone, anywhere, can be a threat, we don’t have much other choice. But we can — and should — choose to protect each other using the methods at our disposal, by standing with women when they are targets of harassment, by making them feel less alone.