We call her reckless, dramatic, or complicit. We make her pain a public trial instead of a private tending.

And we do it on the front end — when a woman or girl speaks up early, daring to name danger and set boundaries — we mock her caution.
We joke. We minimize. We side with the status quo.

Who knows the terrain of misogyny better than us?
Yet too often, we use that knowledge not to protect one another, but to police one another.

We become the enforcers of the very rules that keep us unsafe.
And until we stop doing that — until we start seeing another woman’s boundary as a shield that covers us all — we will keep losing ground we were born to claim.

1. I thought we women were unlearning the old lie: “It didn’t happen to me, so it can’t possibly happen to you.”

We were supposed to be past that. Wiser than that. Or at least trying.

2. Back in my club days — the 1990s and early 2000s — the ladies’ restroom was a sanctuary.
   A safe zone.
   A quick breath between the beats.

When a man on the dance floor went too far — or when his stare felt like a trap from across the room — you’d slip away to that glowing refuge, not because you wanted to, but because you needed to.

It was dark outside. The parking lot felt like a gauntlet. Even with friends, you learned to move in formation.
So sometimes, the safest plan was simply to duck into the restroom, think fast, and breathe.

Maybe you were uncomfortable.
Maybe you’d changed your mind. (It could have been something about you and not them)
Maybe he said something that made the air turn sharp.
Whatever the reason, you knew: some men turn dangerous when they feel rejected.
They mutter, “Who does she think she is?”
They sneer, “I didn’t like your [expletive] anyway.”

I liked my life — still do. So yes, I’ve taken that quick escape to preserve it.

And once inside, it was not uncommon to meet other women who’d done the same.
We didn’t have to know each other’s names, be the same color, shape, height, speak the same native language or anything. 
Just a nod, a whisper: “Girl (0r some other term), watch out for him in the red shirt.”
It was instinct — an unspoken sisterhood of survival.

So when people ask, “What’s to stop any man from walking in? A sign?”
Yessssssssssssss, new earthling. Once upon a time, that was enough.

Cultural norms, community, and accountability used to guard those doors.
A man crossing that line risked being called out — by bouncers, patrons, or women armed with mace, high heels, being tired of men’s s&%$,  and resolve.

And if you’ve ever paid attention — even in movies — you’ve seen it.
A woman excuses herself to the restroom not to “freshen up”, but to plan her survival.
To look for a window.
To whisper a prayer.
To find a moment to think.

Women’s safety depends on having spaces free of men — not because we hate men, but because it only takes one having an unwell day to end everything.
Not a council, not a board — one person.

If that isn’t your story, give thanks.
But don’t judge, mock, or condemn the women whose stories are different.
Life can change in seconds — and when it does, every woman deserves a door she can close behind her and breathe.