Constant Vigilance, and Other Lies

My family has superpowers. 

No, we can’t fly or lift cars. But honestly? I’d argue our powers are more useful than that.

My mom had an epic spidey sense. She always knew when something was fishy, someone was lying, or something bad was about to go down. I don’t think she was ever wrong.

My dad has a sixth sense for getting in line at exactly the right moment. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve walked into Chipotle, joined a blissfully short queue, and watched thirty seconds later as the line wrapped around the building.

My middle sister inherited that talent and made it iconic. Any kind of line—food, bathrooms, concerts—she wins. I think people just see her in line and instinctively go, “Oh my god, I need what she has.” She’s like a one-woman trend alert.

My youngest sister’s superpower is possibly the most delightful: she gets free food. Constantly. There’s always someone who “accidentally” bought a second pizza and hands it to her, starry-eyed. And honestly, same. If I had an extra slice and saw those big blue eyes? It’s hers.

And mine?

Well. I’m obviously biased, but I think I got the best one.

My family calls me Midas. Everything I touch turns to gold.

Case in point: I was terrified to move out after college. It felt like one wrong step would ruin everything—my finances, my independence, my entire adult life before it even started. But one day, I decided I was done spiraling. I googled apartments. Found one. Got a cashier’s check. Packed. Moved in.

The whole thing took less than a week.

Was it impulsive? Yes. Did it work out? Of course. That’s the Midas effect.

I love my building. Yes, the first summer featured a minor millipede infestation, but other than that? Perfection. Monthly free food events. Weekly food trucks. A park across the street. A coffee shop across the other street. Friendly neighbors. Rent that’s stayed the same for two years.

I hit the jackpot.

Even the building management is unusually competent. They’re great about communication. Just yesterday, they sent out an email saying there’d been reports of “suspicious activity” in the hallways and stairwells, and that we should be alert and report anything concerning.

No details. No description. Just: “Be careful.”

At first, I appreciated it. Hey, thanks for letting us know! But the more I sat with it, the more irritated I got.

Because what does that even mean—suspicious activity?

I grew up with “stranger danger” drilled into me. I don’t need warnings. I am the girl who walks fast, keeps her keys between her fingers, and still wonders if it’ll be enough.

I already avoid getting Ubers alone. I avoid going out without a group. I avoid being alone with coworkers who trip my internal alarm bells. I have bells on my doors to alert me if someone gets in—even though I triple-check that they’re locked.

Go ahead, call me paranoid. I know I am.

But I also know I’m not wrong.

When I told my dad how uneasy I get in Ubers, he blinked. He said he loves taking them—he gets to nap while someone else drives. I stared at him, stunned that anyone could relax in that situation. But of course, he can. He’s a man. The world feels safe to him by default.

To me, safety isn’t a given—it’s something I have to manufacture. And even then, it’s never guaranteed.

Whoever wrote that email about “suspicious activity” clearly doesn’t understand that. Because from my perspective? Everything is suspicious. A man loitering near the elevator. A neighbor I don’t recognize. A glance that lingers too long. A hallway that’s suddenly empty. A stairwell with bad lighting.

I'm already operating at a level of vigilance that most men can’t even imagine. So what exactly am I supposed to do with your vague little warning?

This kind of communication isn’t neutral. It reflects a worldview where “danger” is an exception—something that can be spotted and avoided if you just squint hard enough. But that worldview is steeped in male assumptions. For women, marginalized people, and anyone with good reason to distrust “safe-looking” spaces, danger isn’t an anomaly. It’s ambient.

So here’s my ask: if you're going to warn us, actually warn us. Give us details. Be specific. Name the threat. Otherwise, you're just outsourcing fear—and we’re already doing that job full-time.

When we talk about safety, let’s stop pretending it’s a shared baseline. Let’s name the truth: some people get to feel safe by default. Others are just trying to survive long enough to get their mail.

You know what actually would have been helpful? Something like this: 

“Dear residents, there was an attempted break-in on the 3rd floor last night. No injuries. The person was male, white, mid-30s, wearing a grey hoodie. Please avoid the stairwells alone if possible.”

Instead, we got: 

“Dear tenants, life is scary. Figure it out.”

I live by Mad-Eye Moody’s advice: constant vigilance. 

But really? It doesn’t keep me safe.

It just keeps me afraid. Keeps me clinging to the illusion that if I follow the rules, nothing bad will happen.

But that control isn’t real. It never was. 

If - more likely when - something happens, there won’t have been anything I could do to prevent it, other than shrink myself even smaller, crawl further into my shell, and refuse to live my life. 

That’s the cost of constant vigilance. Imagined control, and a really small life. 

And yet, even as I know what it costs me, I can’t quite let go. 

Sometimes I imagine a more badass me, saying ‘fuck it’ to every monster out there, and abandoning my pretend safety measures. 

I’d leave my keys in my bag, instead of walking with them between my fingers. 

I’d go to a club, drink, make out with a stranger, and take my chances in an Uber home. 

I’d throw on an outfit without pausing to think about whether it could be sending the wrong signal, or asking for it. 

I’d be angry, instead of afraid. Honestly, I’m already halfway there. But am I really ready to let society paint me as the villain in my own victimization? 

Am I ready to be the next girl on the stand, testifying about her rape outside a party, dismissed because I was drunk and didn’t have enough clothing on? 

Am I ready to take chances, knowing how badly it can turn out? 

I know the cost of playing it safe. I know that it doesn’t change anything. If anything, it makes things worse, because I’m letting myself perpetuate all those rules about what it takes to stay safe, while requiring nothing of the men who do harm. 

I know I’m a hypocrite.

But so are they.

And somehow, I’m still the only one expected to pay for it.

Wanting men to take responsibility—for once, just once—shouldn’t be asking too much.

But apparently, it is.