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A Young Woman in a Man’s World

Trigger warning SA/H


I'm not a stranger to the advances of men. I was sexually assaulted at the age of 7 or 8, in a knee-length skirt made of shades of blue and a bright green Hannah Montana T-shirt. I was leered at by the angry man's cousin when I wore a ruffled pink skirt my school had asked parents to buy for a concert. He didn't touch me, but his eyes undressed me as I played on the trampoline.


I learned to cover up. I also learned that wearing boy clothes, being a gothy tomboy, or avoiding clothes that actually fit me wouldn’t stop a man from aggressively reaching between my legs in broad daylight. Staying away from boys, and being scared of men, was never going to make them not notice me. Like something that goes bump in the night, the scent of fear only seemed to get them going.


I’m 25 now, and as I’ve said, I’m not new to this. But for the first time, I’m surrounded by grown men. I can’t escape them—I bump into them at every turn. I’ve never had to deal with them as an adult. Them, or their advances. And honestly, it’s been a horrible experience.


Because I’m so used to being around my girls, my partner, and my guy friends, it’s easy to forget how women are perceived by others. When you’re with certain people, you exist as an individual—not defined by your gender or your body. You’re just a person, living, laughing, enjoying life with your people.


Also—and I don’t mean this in an arrogant way—but I’ve never had men flock toward me in my adult life. They seemed more comfortable doing it when I was a minor, which is terrifying. But now, suddenly, they’re in my face, and it’s disturbing.


Mind you, I’ve never really dated. If I’m single, I’m single. And if I’m in a relationship, no one else exists to me. I don’t know what’s changed—but now they think it’s okay to approach me, to be overly friendly, to harass me, to talk to me in ways that are wildly inappropriate.


And I’m not talking about men in their 30s. I mean old men. Men sexually harassing me at their place of work. Men who know exactly what they’re doing and know they’ll probably never face consequences. And mind you—it’s not playful. It’s not innocent. It’s calculated. And it’s wearing me down.


Honestly, I’m not coping.


Does that make me a crybaby? 


How do women survive in the workplace? How do young women survive? How many more uncomfortable encounters and inappropriate moments am I supposed to nervously laugh my way through?


It’s affecting my mental health. My anxiety has spiked. I find myself dreading certain hallways, certain meetings, certain people. I’m hyper-aware of my body again—of how I dress, how I speak, whether I smile too much or not enough. I overthink everything, because I know that at any moment, it could happen again: another comment, another too-close stare, another man who thinks I owe him something. My time. My attention. My body.


I feel like I’m reverting. Like that scared little girl again—helpless, cornered, trying to laugh it off so no one accuses me of “overreacting.”


I don’t know, y’all. Maybe my naivety is showing—but excuse me for assuming that men would at least be professional in the workplace. Excuse me for thinking they’d be faithful to their wives. I really thought there were lines that people—grown men—just didn’t cross. But this? This has been eye-opening in the worst way.


It feels like I’m being swallowed whole by a culture I never truly realized the weight of until now. A culture where entitlement is normal. Where disrespect is casual. Where women are expected to just deal with it, laugh it off, or stay quiet.


Like Etta James, all I could do—all I could do—was cry. And that’s exactly what I did an hour ago. Because what else is left, really, when you’re exhausted, cornered, and constantly trying to make yourself smaller just to feel safe?


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