Women’s Safety and the Unseen Burden of Adapting

Whether it’s tennis player Emma Raducanu or everyday women, staying hypervigilant about safety is, unfortunately, necessary.

Emma Raducanu’s experience with a stalker at the Dubai Tennis Championships has been weighing on my mind, leaving me increasingly bothered and frustrated. I have watched and rewatched the moment she walked up to the umpire, pointing out the man sitting right there in the front row—the same man who had been stalking her, the one she had already said shouldn’t be let in. But he was there, watching her play.

It’s such a stark reminder that even in a controlled, supposedly safe environment, her safety was still at risk. Instead of being able to focus on her match, she had to manage fear in real-time, in front of an audience, and still find a way to perform.

Even if we give the staff and security the full benefit of the doubt—trusting they did what they could—the broader issue is that we know how many women are stalked, harassed, and threatened, both online and in real life. And yet, we act surprised when it happens, especially to women who’ve gained fame for their talents or those working in traditionally male spaces.

Julie DiCaro’s book, Sidelined: Sports, Culture, and Being a Woman in America, discusses this, as does this two-minute clip from an HBO interview where Julie talks about the physical threats and trolling she received for writing about sports and her own experiences with sexual assault. During the interview, she is asked if she’s ever considered just getting off social media, but for women in sports, media, and most jobs these days, being online isn’t a choice—it’s a necessity. Asking her to quit social media is essentially asking her to give up her career.

While men tell me they, too, face harassment for their work or opinions, studies consistently show that women—especially those with public profiles like journalists, authors, activists, and influencers—are overwhelmingly targeted with misogynistic language, threats of sexual violence, and harassment that can quickly escalate to real-life safety concerns. While men might be criticized for their work, women face deeply personal and gender-specific threats, including rape and murder.

I’m still thinking about the woman in Idaho who was dragged out of a town hall led by a local Republican committee. Lawmakers were discussing their legislative actions, including cutting Medicaid, women’s rights, and school vouchers, when she yelled out, “Is this a lecture or a town hall?” She was literally dragged out for being “disruptive.”

Yes, we can debate the disruption, the fact that she was previously warned, our stance on her freedom of speech, and all the other things I know I’ll get comments or emails about—but it still feels like men who challenge authority are called bold, courageous, or trailblazing, while women who do the same are considered nuisances, troublemakers, or even "out of line."

What really bothered me, though, was the reaction—the men clapping and cheering as she was dragged out, and how the event’s emcee called her “little girl” while she was being forcibly removed. He was caught on tape saying, "Just look at this. This little girl is afraid to leave. She spoke up and now she doesn't want to suffer the consequences."

As a social worker who advocates for girls and women—and as the mother of three daughters—I’m constantly reminded, both at work and at home, how dealing with threats against women becomes women’s work. The burden falls on us to adapt, adjust, and protect ourselves because too often, it feels like indifference prevails.

Emma Raducanu deserved to feel safe on the court. Julie DiCaro should be able to do her job without facing rape and death threats. And women who speak up at town halls about schools, Medicare, and women’s rights—because isn’t that what town halls are for, to be heard?—deserve the chance to be heard.

It’s about the freedom to exist and thrive without constantly feeling threatened. But instead of seeing this as a systemic issue, we act like adapting to danger is just a necessary skill for women. They’re expected to change their behavior, adjust their routines, and carry the mental load of assessing risk in every situation.

I’ve worked with enough women who have been stalked, abused, or threatened to know exactly what they’re told by law enforcement. Change your schedule—avoid going out at night, never take the same route home twice. Alter your behavior—dress modestly, avoid eye contact. Stay hyper-vigilant—hold your keys between your fingers, share your location with a friend, and always “check in” when you get home safely. These aren’t suggestions—they’re survival tactics and a reminder that women's safety falls on women.

Even without explicit threats, these expectations are already built into most women’s lives—sometimes so subtly that we don’t even realize the extent of the accommodations we make for safety (wearing headphones without music, parking under streetlights or close to the building, locking car doors immediately, checking the backseat before driving, scanning a room for exits, covering drinks at bars, leaving events early because it’s getting dark, texting a friend when home safe, sharing your Uber ride status with someone, avoiding eye contact with strangers… I could go on). The mental load of this is enormous and mostly invisible to those who don’t live with it.

And please, please don’t read this and question whether these precautions are necessary or convince yourself that women are just being neurotic. Many of these steps are daily necessities—so ingrained that we barely talk about them. This isn’t about being overly cautious; it’s about taking responsibility for our own safety. And if we do walk home when it’s dark or forget to lock the door, suddenly our decisions are under scrutiny. Women carry both the responsibility and the blame.

In Restoring Our Girls, I talk a lot about how important it is for the men in our lives—including sons and brothers—to understand the constant, underlying threat many of us feel, from small, everyday moments to bigger, more serious situations. If starting this conversation feels hard, share this Substack with them.

The beginning of change for any issue starts with awareness—shining a light on something that many may not see through a woman’s perspective. Instead of placing the burden on women to adapt to a lack of safety, can we shift the conversation toward building a culture where women’s safety is prioritized and understood?

It means holding systems accountable and talking to our kids—especially our sons—about respect, boundaries, and compassion, both for themselves and others. It’s about speaking up when something feels off and building communities where safety isn’t the exception but the rule—where showing up, speaking up, and doing what you love doesn’t come with such a heavy cost.