The fear of running as a female runner.
As a female runner, the fear of running is a real problem, one that most female runners have faced many times in their life. It’s not the fear of injury or sickness; it is the fear of the unknown, the fear of unwanted attention, the fear of being targeted and attacked.
That was my run today.
We spent the weekend in Nashville, TN celebrating my daughter’s graduation, and even with all the excitement, I wasn’t about to skip my runs. I got up early each morning and slipped out before anyone else was awake, making sure my miles didn’t interfere with the plans or take away from her big moments. After all, this weekend wasn’t about me or the miles I needed to log — it was about my daughter, her achievements, and everything we were there to celebrate.
So each morning, I laced up and ran the streets of Nashville. It was navigational, but it was a maze of red lights, crosswalks, and stop‑and‑go moments that tested my patience. Every block felt like a mile.
But today, I found a greenway path. No traffic lights, no cars, no worrying about getting clipped by a distracted driver. It should have felt like a gift — a break from the chaos of downtown. Instead, it brought a different kind of fear. The kind that makes me turn off my music, tune in to every sound, and constantly look over my shoulder. The fear of being alone with the possibility of danger — an attacker, a perpetrator, or the kind of human monster women runners know all too well.
I admit that this was not always a fear for me. I once believed that I wasn’t one of those girls who could have bad things happen to them while running. I thought I took all the safety precautions — choosing neighborhoods, busy streets, or paths where I thought other good‑hearted runners would be. I thought I was safe because I was careful.
But I also ran with a bit of stupidity — the belief that bad things don’t happen to good people unless it’s just “their time.” Yeah… I said it. Stupidity.
I truly thought my friends and family were crazy when they bought me pepper spray, brass knuckles, and all the tactical gear available.
Turns out, I was the one who didn’t understand the world I was running through.
Bad things only happened in the movies, right? Never to a suburban girl who was just out for a jog to relax, unwind, destress, and log a few miles toward a goal she was chasing.
All of that changed the night I came face‑to‑face with a group of young men in my own neighborhood, just past dark — men who threatened to do very explicitly bad things to me. I won’t relive every horrible detail, but I will share this: I was lucky.
I managed to avoid that attack, even as fear surged through me and their words made it painfully clear what they intended to do. I am lucky that not one of them took the next step toward me. Because if they had… I’m not sure I’d be here today to tell this story.
My husband forbade me from running after that. But I’m a runner — stopping wasn’t an option. Still, I was changed. Running was never a safe place again. It became wide turns, constant scanning, and a quiet hum of fear underneath every mile.
And while I still believe that when it’s my time, it’s my time, I also believe in doing what I can to prolong my life as a runner. I no longer believe bad things only happen in movies. I err on the side of caution now — because I want to run again tomorrow.
So why did I choose a path today that I normally avoid?
Why take a greenway in a town I don’t know, with my family waiting for me to return?
Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted a break from the traffic lights. Maybe I wanted to stop being “the woman in charge” and just be a runner again — someone chasing peace and serenity.
But peace is not what I found.
The greenway was quiet — too quiet. Light foot traffic. Long stretches alone. Every corner felt like a trap. Every shadow felt like a threat. Every man I passed triggered that instinctive dread: Do not keep going. Do not run past him. Turn around. Go back.
On the few occasions I encountered another female, I felt a wave of relief — each one out walking a big, protective‑looking dog. Their presence made me feel safer. But when I came across a man alone, the fear crept in. The dread. The instinct to stop. The voice saying, Do not keep going. Do not run past him. Turn around. Go back. And still, I kept telling myself I was being insane.
As you see, nothing bad happened to me — I am here writing this post about my stupid fear of running away from my own run and trying to outrun shadows.
Out of fear, I only spent four miles on the greenway — two miles out and two miles back — and I was genuinely grateful to return to the downtown traffic, the stoplights, and even the stale beer smell lingering from the night before.
I did manage to finish my 7‑mile run today and walk away to write this post, but it wasn’t peaceful, it wasn’t quiet, and it definitely wasn’t without fear. It was the kind of running fear many women know all too well — and my fear today.
And while I often think this is a “female runner problem,” I know that’s naive. Fear doesn’t discriminate. Anyone can feel unsafe out there. In my most vulnerable state, I ask you to share your story of the fear you feel while out running.
Every Damn Mile 