Diary of a Gen Z Student: Being a young woman in Ireland - and those terrifying moments

I am a young woman. And that scares me sometimes. 

I think I speak for so many women when I say that. 

I often feel vulnerable walking through Dublin on my own. 

Like I’ve got something that someone might want. 

But I just don’t know who that someone is. 

That vulnerability is a disturbing experience.

The fear experienced by women across this country is shameful. It’s something that we carry around, in everything we do. 

That fear develops so young. Too young. 

Most girls are lucky if they make it to secondary school before they first experience being objectified, or sexualised. 

I certainly didn’t get to secondary school before that. 

It’s remarks made to you as you walk in a school uniform to Irish class. It’s unwanted, aggressive hands. And for some women, it’s far, far worse. 

Every woman has a story. 

Those experiences cling to the air around you. It’s like this heavy fog that you’re constantly navigating. 

You see the world through that fog. And it taints so much of your life.

You relive those experiences. 

Like when I was walking through Dublin City at night a few months ago. 

As I walked down a quiet street, I passed a man cycling a bike. 

He was at least 30, and at least 6 feet tall. He looked at me and said, "Can I fuck you?" And my stomach dropped. I started speed walking, hoping that he would just keep cycling. 

But I looked over my shoulder a few seconds later, to realise that he had turned his bike around and was following me. He had this terrifying grin on his face. 

I remember seeing it so clearly under the light of a street lamp. I ran. 

By the time I got to a crowded street, he had stopped following me. So I just kept walking, crying. I still wonder what I would have been able to do, if he had caught up with me. What might have happened. 

That familiar feeling of having something that someone might want.

Moments like that terrify me, and make me think about what being a woman in Ireland means for me. 

I worry about how I’ll be treated when I enter the workplace. I worry about how I’ll be treated when I eventually decide to have kids. 

I worry about the safety of my friends, sisters, mother. 

In Ireland, we’ve repealed the eighth, legalized divorce, criminalized coercive control, closed the Mother and Baby homes. 

But there’s still so much to do before women will feel safe, respected and equal in this country.

That so many brilliant women have been lost to violence in this country is a terrible indictment on our society. 

As I’m writing this, I can feel myself getting emotional. 

Because those women could be any of us, at any time. Ashling Murphy’s name is on my mind so often. 

A young, vibrant woman. I think of her every time I go for a walk or run on my own. 

And every time I walk past the CHQ in Dublin, I think of Urantsetseg Tserendorj. A mother was murdered while walking home to her two children. 

Words fail to articulate the horror of what those women suffered. 

Those tragedies, and a long history of violence perpetrated against women, has shaped the shared consciousness of so many women. And we do share it. 

When the violence is so strikingly gendered, women cannot help but share that immense fear.

I have sat with so many friends, talking about that fear. 

Describing taking one earphone out when we are walking alone, so we can hear if someone is walking behind us. 

How we hold a key in our hand walking through Dublin City at night, just in case we need to defend ourselves. 

How we only feel safe to get a taxi that we order through an app, so that our location is tracked. 

How we wait for every girl to send a text into the group chat, saying that they got home safely after a night out. 

Experiences that are unique to women. 

It’s no small thing that my dad will collect me from the train station late at night, but not need to worry about my brother making that same five-minute walk home from the station. 

No precaution feels too much when you’re trying to get home safely.

And that’s all we want. To know that we’ll get home safely. To feel safe. 

Because, right now, our fear is warranted. Vulnerability is all too familiar; it’s a visceral experience. 

It is real. It is a part of the experience of women. And that needs to change.

• If you've been affected by these issues, please see our helplines page for organisations and resources that can provide help and support.