Hi Reader,

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about something I didn’t understand when I was younger.

When I lived in India, I didn’t know that I was potentially unsafe as a woman. I lived there for two years, and it wasn't until after I left that I heard so many horror stories about the experiences of other women.

I had small signals. When I went to the internet café, the browsing history was almost always porn sites. Consistently. And some friends told me that they kept their eyes on the road walking to work so they wouldn't see any men masturbating in public. But I saw very little of that myself and so I knew something was off, but I had no idea how much.

And then one night, I was walking to a friend’s house. A man approached me and propositioned me. I didn't even understand what he was asking at first, but once I did, I clearly said no. I told him I’d scream. He walked away. But then he came back. He suddenly grabbed my butt before he ran a few paces, got on a bicycle, and pedaled away.

For weeks afterward, every time I saw a man on a bicycle, I wondered if it was him. I remember wishing I had one of those dye packs they use in movies, something that would have marked him so I would be able to identify him in the neighborhood. But here’s the part that surprises me now.

I told the story laughing. I was 23-24 and while part of me understood I had been in danger, the other part resisted that. I didn’t yet understand what it meant for women beyond me. Until the moment he grabbed me, I wasn’t very scared. His voice had been trembling, and I interpreted that as weakness. I assumed that meant he wouldn’t hurt me. I thought that if I screamed, the neighbors would come out.

I decided that I was safe. And maybe I was. Or maybe I was lucky.

I’ve been reading Briefly Perfectly Human, and the author describes hiding in her hotel room after an altercation with a taxi driver. She was so shaken that she couldn't face having another incident.

That space between certainty and possibility is where so many of our decisions live. Women face this constantly. I don't think men have it to the same extent, but let me know if I'm wrong.

I’ve also been reading stories recently about women traveling alone in Morocco. And it brought me back to Essaouira. I loved that city. The light. The ocean. The calm. I have great memories of going to the hamam and walking by the water, sitting on a rooftop balcony, and enjoying a strong breeze. But I also remember the jeering. The way men spoke to us in the street. It only happened the day we arrived but it colors my memory. Nothing “happened.” And yet something did. All it takes is one moment to change how you move through the world. It may not make you stop, but it makes you aware in a different way.

The last few weeks have found me in Cambodia, Laos, Sri Lanka. I haven't had any scary situations, but I'm primed for something to happen. I move differently than before I knew to be alert.

I’m sharing this because solo travel didn’t just give me confidence. It gave me awareness. It gave me discernment. My relationship with myself was forged through solo travel, and while I am not hypervigilant or moving with fear, I'm not naive. I learned the difference between being open and being unaware, between being confident and being oblivious. And maybe I did lose something but you know what, my world isn't any smaller. But my relationship with myself is strong and intentional.

One thing I believe is that freedom isn’t the absence of risk. It’s the presence of self-trust.

What about you? Was there ever a moment that quietly changed how you saw the worldor yourself? Reply and tell me. I read every message.

Joyfully,
Damianne

P.S. The latest episode of the podcast is about both how competence shields me and how it sometimes makes me unintentionally invisible. Listen here.

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