Recently, as I walked from the parking lot to my office, I encountered an unsettling moment. An older man driving a utility van eyed me a bit too long before pulling into the parking lot. In an instant, my anxiety spiked, and I gripped my car keys between my fingers—a familiar position for self-defense. I was just 27 when this happened.
A few years prior, I sat at a red light in a bustling college town, my window cracked and doors unlocked. I noticed a young man who had just left a nearby bar ambling alongside the cars, peering into windows. Instinct kicked in, and I locked my doors just as he approached my vehicle. He yanked on my passenger side door handle, demanding to be let in. As the light turned green, I hit the gas. I was 22.
Almost a decade ago, I had evening classes that required me to walk home in the dark. I always kept my keys ready, my phone on standby, and I knew the locations of the emergency call boxes on campus—blue lights meant for women in distress.
One night, a male classmate offered to walk me back to my dorm, supposedly to borrow my notes. But once inside, his demeanor shifted. He never wanted my notes; he wanted something far more sinister. After too many unwanted advances, I found myself threatening to “kick him in the balls and call the cops.” I was 20.
Earlier that same year, I attended my first fraternity party, dressed more modestly than most. The bouncer refused us entry without a kiss. My friend, eager to get in, obliged and we found ourselves surrounded by passed-out women and questionable behavior. When we tried to leave, the frat boys at the back door frisked every woman, and I was groped in the process. I was 19.
Back in high school, I was stranded at a basketball game by my boyfriend after chatting with a friend from the other team. A guy offered me a ride home, only to suggest we have sex in his car. I was 17.
And I can’t forget my preteen years. I remember being teased for my underwear in sixth grade, and a boy thought it was funny to pull my pants down in class. I was just 12.
Now I’m 27, a wife, and a mother to two children—a boy and a girl. It’s my responsibility to prepare them for a world where “boys will be boys” often overshadows consent, and girls are told to stay quiet.
You might think I’m just sharing my past for sympathy, but these are the sanitized versions I’m willing to recount. I never told my parents about these experiences, and it’s likely your daughter hasn’t confided in you either. One day, she might come home upset after a boy snaps her bra strap in class, and you’ll wish you had informed her it’s okay to stand up for herself.
The truth is, she may never share these incidents. But what if she faces something far worse? My close encounter might not be your daughter’s reality; she could become another statistic. Instead of a boy accepting her rejection, he might escalate to assault.
Furthermore, we must also recognize that as mothers, we have a duty to educate our sons. The unfortunate reality is that some of them might become the men who perpetrate such acts. It’s crucial to teach them that it’s not acceptable to treat women as objects or to disregard consent, despite what they might hear from influential figures.
For more insight into these topics, check out this post on home insemination. And for more resources on fertility, visit Make a Mom and UCSF’s IVF guide, both of which provide excellent information.
In summary, it’s vital to have open conversations with our children about consent and respect. We must prepare them for the realities of this world while also teaching our sons to be advocates for change.