The Fear I Carried as a Little Girl: A Truth Many Women Still Live With

Today, I want to share something deeply personal with you.
The fear carried as a little girl doesn’t disappear with age—it quietly shapes how many women grow up and see the world. A fear from my childhood—one that, even today, has not completely left my life. And I know I’m not alone. Many girls carry this same fear silently, growing up with it, learning to live around it.

This story takes me back to when I was about 10–11 years old.

There were many evenings when we would be cooking dinner and suddenly realise that some kitchen item was missing. There was no phone at home at that time. If we had one, it stayed with my father when he went to the office. There was no son in our family, and my father usually hadn’t returned yet.

So, even if my mother didn’t want to, she had no choice but to send me down to the shop.

We lived on the third floor. The third floor felt fine. Even the first floor had at least one light and didn’t feel too frightening.
But the second floor—that was different.

No lights.
Very few residents.
No movement.
Just silence that made your heart race.

To make sure my mother didn’t feel worried, I would say yes without hesitation. But inside, I was terrified.

To cross the second floor quickly, I developed a strange habit. I would close my eyes and run up or down the stairs. I was so used to the stairs that I could climb two or three steps even with my eyes shut. I believed that if I couldn’t see the darkness, it wouldn’t scare me.

But the second fear waited outside the building.

The environment at night wasn’t safe. Groups of men often stood or roamed around the road. As a little girl, just passing by them felt frightening. I didn’t know what they might say or do. I only knew I wanted to disappear quickly.

I would rush to the shop, buy the items, and return to the building. Before climbing back up, I would take a deep breath, remember God, close my eyes again, and run upstairs.

Many times, I fell on those stairs.
Many times, I got hurt badly.

But I never told anyone.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because I wanted to make myself strong. I thought strength meant silence.

I heard comments more than once. I felt anger many times. I wanted to turn back and reply. But my mother once told me a saying that stayed with me:

If you throw a stone at mud, the splashes will fall back on you.

She meant that sometimes, replying only damages your own dignity—especially when you are still weak and vulnerable.

That was when I first understood a painful truth:
In society, boys and girls are still not equal—even if we wish they were.

Being a girl is not wrong.
But a girl’s life has invisible boundaries—created not by girls, but by wrong people.

Thankfully, things have changed over the years. There is more awareness now. Conversations around equality exist. Social media has given many girls the courage to speak. Women like me found their voice. We questioned meaningless rules and broke many of them.

Yet, even today, one question stays in my mind:

Are we truly safe?

Yes, we now talk about equality, respect, independence, and freedom.
But if all this exists—why do we still not feel safe?

I have seen governments change. State governments, central governments—so many parties came and went. Still, women’s safety remains a promise that rarely turns into reality.

Why is it so difficult for any government to protect the women of its own state?
Why do systems fail when girls need them the most?

As citizens of India, we can vote.
But when something wrong happens to us, taking a stand feels terrifying.

It’s not that laws don’t exist.
It’s also true that the law often doesn’t work the way it should.

Justice takes so long that by the time it arrives—if it arrives—the victim has already suffered more. Sometimes through repeated questioning. Sometimes through pressure from powerful people. Sometimes through silence forced upon them.

People keep waiting for justice, but many never receive it.

This is a hard truth for girls in India.

I don’t say this to spread fear.
I say this with honesty.

To every girl and woman reading this:
Live your life the way you want. Dream freely. Love deeply. Build your independence.
But please—take care of yourself.

Your safety matters.
Your life matters.

Be strong.
Be aware.
And never believe that your fear is weakness.

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I write about life, healing, beauty, and quiet moments.
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This story connects deeply with who I was growing up—curious, calm, and quietly determined.