To men: I do not hate you. I am afraid of you. 

Experiences with men throughout my life have been a mixed bag. Some have spun me in a glittery prom dress and become best friends with my grandmother, while others have broken awkward silences with jokes so devastatingly crude it makes me genuinely consider moving to the woods. 

To say I’m afraid of men is a generalization, I admit, but I’d rather approach an encounter with a man with apprehension than be humiliated—and that’s the best case scenario. 

This anxiety definitely isn’t being soothed by the constant reminders of just how violent and disgusting men can be. It’s easy to be afraid when the examples don’t stop.

Think of Gisèle Pelicot, who was repeatedly drugged by her husband, who invited dozens of other men to rape her while she was unconscious. Or maybe you’ve heard of Debrina Kawam, who was burned alive while sleeping on the New York City subway. Or the 26 women who have come forward with their experiences of sexual misconduct, who now have to watch their abuser be sworn in as president of the United States. Not to mention the thousands of other murders, kidnappings, and assaults, all that go unreported. Almost one-third of women worldwide have experienced some form of domestic violence, a 2024 analysis from the World Health Organization reported. Whether it’s physical or sexual, by a partner or total stranger, that’s 30% of all women. 

I know about the violence committed against women, and I know I’m not alone when I say the statistics hang over my head like a ticking time bomb. I constantly wonder if I will be next. What if my luck runs out? When will it be my turn to face what so many women before me have?

This overarching question is an ever-worsening damper on my view of the men in my life; not only am I afraid of the men I don’t know, but I am also afraid of being betrayed by those I love. Unfortunately, the society we live in is one that perpetuates violence against women in its many forms: emotional, physical, or social. Women are often taught to be submissive towards men and their advances, while men are taught to exercise their control and seemingly innate power over women. And when these expectations aren’t met, it can get ugly. And one day, the men that I love the most could be one of those perpetrators. 

This fear isn’t just about the violence. It’s there because I receive texts from my friends to “watch out when walking through the alley,” because the guy who lingers outside of our usual coffee spot is still asking them if they’ll sleep with him. It’s because of the feeling of being told you have “perfect tits” while walking to dinner with your parents. It’s clutching the familiar pink bedazzled pepper spray while walking, wondering if pretending not to hear the guy behind you is going to backfire. 

This fear isn’t paralyzing, but it’s normal. It’s always been here. It’s been in the bottom of my stomach for a long time now, a nauseating pit that grows as time goes on. There are some really great men, but they are still unfortunately a part of a society that enables, if not encourages, male violence. 

I can’t help but wonder if this fear is inhibiting my ability to live. Is this caution stopping me from finding new friends, lovers, and life experiences? How am I supposed to enjoy those experiences with constant reminders of the habitual violence of my male peers hanging over my head?

A common misconception is that women hate men; that they hold grudges against men, even those who are innocent of the crimes committed by those they don’t know. But for me, it’s nothing like that. I don’t hate men. I’m afraid of them.