Sarah Everard’s disappearance strikes a chord with every woman who’s ever been afraid to walk home alone

We don’t yet know what happened to Sarah Everard. The 33-year-old marketing executive disappeared a week ago, in Clapham, on her way home from a friend’s house at about 9pm. A serving Met Police officer has since been arrested on suspicion of murder, kidnap and a separate allegation of indecent exposure. Human remains have been found in woodland in Ashford, Kent, where detectives have been hunting for clues.

What is clear is that her disappearance has struck a chord with thousands of women, some of whom have shared their stories on social media and are begging for change. A change to the narrative that tells women and girls to “stay home” for safety, or that puts the onus of responsibility on women to avoid something most men wouldn’t think twice about: walking home, taking a back route, cutting across a park or quiet street.

We are shaken. And that’s because when we read about a woman going missing at night, we know – with a deeply unsettling and searing sense of dread – that it could be any one of us.

Ask any woman and you’ll hear the same stories, over and over again: of carrying our keys threaded through our fingers like weapons; of getting our phones out to pre-dial 999, thumbs hovering anxiously over “call”. Of being calm and polite – even sweet – in the face of unwanted harassment or attention from a stranger, because we sense instinctively that to respond in any other way could lead to aggression and put us in danger.

We are primed to de-escalate – we’ve learned that to react in any other way could render us unsafe. We’ve been taught the same lessons since birth, by our mothers, grandmothers and female friends; and had it reinforced by rape statistics, male-to-female microaggressions and everyday street harassment. It’s practically in our DNA.

We’ve been kerb-crawled, cat-called, grabbed and shouted at, assaulted and flashed. I was just 12, taking a Sunday stroll with a schoolfriend, when a man first exposed himself sexually on a local golf course, and pregnant when I was groped at an office Christmas party.

I was pushing my baby daughter to nursery in her buggy when a man shouted, “Oi, bitch – come here!” and started chasing me down the street. I was followed home, late at night, while living in Japan, 15 years ago – but didn’t realise until I heard my apartment door open and came out of the bathroom to see a stranger standing in my hallway. I screamed – he got scared and ran.

And then, a couple of nights ago, after reading about Ms Everard’s disappearance, I went for a walk after dusk near parkland close to my house in east London. I stood there, surrounded by trees, wanting to clear my head, but realised I was in a state of complete hypervigilance – and it was by no means unfamiliar. Women feel this way an awful lot of the time. We have to. Our very survival can depend on it.

On Twitter, other women’s stories were shocking, sobering – but they weren’t surprising. “Last year, I was followed by a man in the woods, and when I changed direction to an open field, which felt safer, he cut through the centre and was waiting for me when I got there,” one woman said – adding that she later avoided walking in those woods, “for about four months – you know. The usual.”

“A couple of years ago, a bloke hit on me in the park – I made clear I wasn’t interested,” another said. “I was 50 when it happened, and he was in his 30s. He was waiting for me on the way back, the exchange was repeated and he still tried to follow me home. I sprinted home the long way round, sweating and terrified.”

One woman echoed the experiences of many female runners – who have been encouraged by police to run in groups, to avoid being sexually harassed. “I run by the canal with a key clutched between thumb and forefinger, at dusk, even though it’s not sensible,” she said. “I hate that voice telling me to stay where it’s safe, or stay inside. I rage against it, then there’s this [Ms Everard], and the darkness just got darker.”

Another said that whenever she goes for a run, she gets her husband to take a good look at what she is wearing, and repeat it back to her – “in case I don’t come back”.

This week, UN Women UK released findings that almost all young women in the UK have been sexually harassed. Men aren’t, of course, exempt from harassment, assault or violence – at the hands of other men, sometimes women. But we should be very careful not to divert the everyday experiences of so many women with a cry of, “What about men” (prolific on social media) – because that helps no one, and risks obscuring the extent of the problems faced by women on a daily basis.

Before the inevitable trolling starts, hear this: the two issues can, and do, co-exist. Both are a grievous wrong. But in the light of Ms Everard’s disappearance, let’s focus on women, at least for today. As one male friend put it: “The situation is awful and really made me think about what I do, compared to what my female friends do – I basically walk with impunity, and run after dark on my own. Women are far more likely to be targeted, and I’m more likely to be seen as a threat.”

Similarly, there are cries of “not all men” on social media today – the thing is, we already know it’s not all men. But that misses the point: women know it’s not all men, but they don’t know which ones it is, so we end up having to be wary of all men – by necessity.

Perhaps the main difference between men and women is that women are constantly assessing whether or not we are safe. Going on a date for the first time? Most men wouldn’t realise that one of the first things women do is send the name, address, contact number and time of their date to a female friend – even to a whole group. Sometimes, we include physical descriptions, even licence plates.

We use WhatsApp as a lifeline: a way of recording the houses, bars and parks we are stepping into, so that we can be rescued, if needed – or found. We remind each other to “text when you get home, so I know you’re okay”, and we set up security calls with our friends, too. “If you haven’t heard from me by 11pm, call me. If I don’t answer, call the police.”

Since Ms Everard’s disappearance, some friends have messaged to demand we stop walking alone at all, as if to impose a moratorium on our already restricted freedoms. With little else to do in lockdown, this feels incredibly sad. Why should women have to take responsibility to stop themselves being attacked by men? If anyone deserves a curfew, it should be the men who prey on women in the first place.

So, how can we help women feel safer? Well, first we have to change the narrative. Rather than focusing on the victims, let’s shift the gaze to the perpetrators, where it belongs. Let’s cast it wider: to our politicians, our police force, and our male peers. We need strong leadership and concrete resolutions to end violence against women and girls. That’s why some of us have now signed an open letter, calling for a firmer commitment to protect women and girls from violence.

Let there be no more missing women – and that might just have to start with men.