By: Aithne
The weight in my purse is a cold reminder of a decision I never thought I’d make, nestled rather uncomfortably between my keys, a half-eaten pack of mints, and what I suspect is a fossilized tube of lipstick. It’s an object so alien to my core beliefs, I half expect it to demand I take it to my leader. Yet, here I am, learning to master a firearm. My friend, bless his saintly patience (he’s probably due for a medal, or at least a stiff drink), is guiding me through this uncomfortable new territory. The basics of aiming, the jarring recoil (which can really wake you up, by the way), the acrid smell of gunpowder at the range — it’s a crash course in a world I never sought. Loading it? That’s next lesson. I’m envisioning something requiring the dexterity of a brain surgeon combined with the calm aplomb of a bomb disposal expert, neither of which are my strong suits before 10 AM.
You might ask, as I often ask myself (usually around 3 AM), how did a lifelong pacifist come to cradle an instrument of potential death? The answer is etched in the memory of pain, in the week spent in a cast, a brutal consequence of being small, female, and apparently, an irresistible target for someone with more brawn than brain cells. Ethical convictions, I’ve learned, become tragically flexible when confronted with the stark reality of your own fragile vulnerability.
It’s a grim calculus. More often than not, the victims I’ve seen laid out on city streets, casualties of some unseen, vicious act, have been women. Just recently, a friend became another statistic. She was targeted by a predator feigning helplessness — a man claiming to be new in town, lost, needing directions to a motel. It was a practiced lie, a sickening ploy she later heard him attempting on another unsuspecting woman. This calculated manipulation, this twisting of our innate desire to help into a weapon against us, feels almost as vile as the assault itself. It’s a chilling testament to a species seemingly teetering on a moral precipice, and frankly, it’s enough to make you want to stay home and just re-watch funny pet videos.
Then there are the others, those who don’t bother with the Oscar-worthy performances. Stalkers, bullies, men whose motives remain shrouded in menacing ambiguity, but whose methods are terrifyingly clear: to intimidate, to impress upon us our perceived frailties, to make us feel small, helpless, insignificant. They use our awareness of physical disparity, apparently missing the memo that “might makes right” went out of style with powdered wigs. This guy has been a real thorn in my friend’s side. The moment I lent an ear to her woes, he stormed the Observer’s office, and started slinging threats. Bless his heart, he clearly doesn’t know me very well.
Let me be clear, this isn’t a diatribe against an entire gender. I know the man who attacked me and those that preyed on my friend are, I desperately hope, the exception. But their existence, their actions, cast a long, chilling shadow that the harmless majority can’t dispel. The online chorus, often quick to dissect and blame women for our conduct (particularly when men are involved, go figure), conveniently ignores these predatory exceptions. I suspect the examples of so-called “misbehaving” women they champion are also outliers, magnified for effect by commentators whose primary life skill appears to be outrage farming.
Here in the glorious year of 2025, navigating life as a woman feels like walking a razor’s edge. There’s the societal expectation of self-reliance, the badge of “independence.” Yet, there’s the gnawing, visceral understanding that a significant portion of the population possesses the sheer physical power to break you like a twig. And I, for one, have always aspired to be more of a sturdy, well-rooted oak, or at least a particularly resilient bonsai. Whoever equated equality with a desire to physically spar with a full-grown man profoundly misunderstood. My independence was never a claim of physical supremacy; it was not even about being able to open my own pickle jars.
So, where does this leave me, and perhaps many like me? I’m wading through the murky complexities of modern existence, just like everyone else. I have no grand epiphanies to offer, just a slightly bewildered expression and a newfound appreciation for well-made holsters. Perhaps this is a plea: to the men out there, even if chivalry is taking an extended nap, remember that violence against women is never “in fashion”, no matter what some angry dude bro in a podcast might suggest behind the veil of empowered masculinity. True strength doesn’t prey on vulnerability; it protects it, or at the very least, doesn’t act like a complete troglodyte.
And to the women: stay vigilant. Recognize the insidious ploys, the rehearsed helplessness, the undercurrent of intimidation. Be aware, be cautious, and maybe invest in really good running shoes. Because sometimes, the most unexpected hands are forced to find strength in the most undesired of devices. That lesson on the loading of my firearm should probably happen soon. Mostly because I suspect announcing, “I have a gun, but, um, can you help me load it?” might not be the deterrent I’m hoping for.
