trying to walk boldly

through a world that still makes me cautious

“You are alone?”

I bristle at the question, pausing for a beat.

“Yes…”

Sometimes I answer this proudly—especially around women, or groups of people I feel safe in.

But when asked by a man at 1 a.m. in the Istanbul airport, I hesitate. I wonder if telling the truth compromises my safety.

I suppose it’s a reasonable question. I’m standing at a triage point for the airport pickup I arranged (without a ton of confidence) through WhatsApp.

The man tells me to follow him through a sparse parking structure, and I do. The pull of exhaustion makes me compliant, but unease still prickles at my skin.

I reach for my phone and text my boyfriend, the comfort of him seeing my location anchoring me. If he were next to me, I wouldn’t think twice about the situation.

I make it to my hotel safe and sound. In the comfort of my bed, my breathing softens.

And I lay there for a little while, thinking about fear and the role it’s played during my travels.

Because there’s a lot I’m not afraid of:

I’m not afraid of skydiving, parasailing, or hot-air ballooning (which I’m doing tomorrow!!). I’m not afraid of traveling to a city where I don’t know the language, of missing a flight or losing my luggage. I’m not afraid to talk to strangers, to navigate new transportation systems, to wander, or even to get lost. I’m even less afraid of bees than I used to be (iykyk).

But I am afraid of men. Not all men—I’m not saying that. But I am afraid of the man on the Tube after midnight who stares at me with an intensity that’s hard to ignore. Of the one walking a little too close behind me down a dark street to my Airbnb. Of the tour guide who kept touching me even when I moved away, who knows the address of the apartment where I’m staying because he picked me up that morning. Of the man leaning against the wall outside the pool bathroom, whose lingering gaze makes me suddenly regret my swimsuit choice. I’m afraid of the ones who don’t hear the word no. The ones who call me a bitch for refusing whatever they’re selling. And yes, sometimes even the ones who ask if I’m alone—when I’m far from home and unsure where I’m going.

It’s not that I believe all men are dangerous. But enough have crossed boundaries, ignored discomfort, and chipped away at my trust that caution now rides shotgun with me everywhere I go.

I don’t like admitting this—don’t like giving away that kind of power. But my fear keeps me safe. It’s the voice that makes me double-check the deadbolt, that prompts me to call a friend when I’m walking alone, that urges me to text my boyfriend so he knows my movements. It’s what has me googling “Is x country safe for solo female travelers?”.

And I know I’m not the only one. Every woman I know who travels alone carries her own list of rituals: text chains, fake phone calls, dropped pins, keys between fingers. We trade them like travel tips, like unspoken passwords to safety.

It’s a sad part of womanhood, this constant background hum of fear. The fact that my courage comes with an asterisk. That my independence, my boldness, my joy in wandering the world always has to share a suitcase with caution.

And yet, here I am. Still wandering. Still saying yes. Still alone— with fear not stopping me, just walking beside me.

walk boldly,

Caroline