“Every 16 minutes, a woman is raped in India. But we still tell her not to go out late — instead of telling him not to rape.”

The Two Indias We Don’t Talk About

We live in a country where there is a great deal of discussion about growth. About being the world’s fastest-growing economy, the land of startups, satellites, space missions, and Shark Tank dreams. We take pride in posting when an India-origin CEO makes it big abroad. We beam when Miss World is crowned from our side of the planet. We proudly call ourselves “progressive”.

But progress, as we’ve been made to understand it, is a selective truth. It’s the truth of metros and malls, not buses at 9 pm. Of shiny Instagram reels and viral speeches, not hospital beds or empty police stations where FIRs were never filed. There’s another India- one we don’t want to talk about. Why? Because it is uncomfortable. Because it forces us to admit that, for all our progress, we’ve left our women behind.

You’ll see both Indians walking side by side on the same street. One with AirPods in, talking about equity portfolios. The other one holding her keys like a weapon, walking fast, her heartbeat faster. One is going to a co-working space. The other is calculating if it’s safer to take the main road or the side lane. And this isn’t just a problem in remote corners or underdeveloped towns- this is Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore, Kolkata. This is every city where women are both celebrated and failed.

What does it mean to live in a county where you can build a billion-dollar business but still carry pepper spray in your handbag? Where your achievements don’t protect you from lewd comments, groping, or stalking? Where the very same social that posts about “girl power” on Women’s Day will victim-blame a girl the next morning for staying out late? We don’t talk about this second India because it challenges the narrative we like. It questions the selfies we take with slogans like Beti Bachao, Beti Padhao. It asks why our daughters still walk with fear, why they text their friends when they get home safely, and why the word “safe” itself has become a luxury.

In this second India, freedom isn’t about dreams- it’s about risk management. Quite literally. Women learn early how to shrink themselves. Not too loud. Not too late. Not too confident. Not too visible. Every choice- from clothes to cab routes- comes with a mental checklist of threats.

We tend to say “things are better now.” But better from whom? A woman being allowed to work isn’t “liberation”- it’s the bare minimum. A woman being elected doesn’t mean the neighbourhood aunty won’t tell her daughter not to wear shorts. A woman being an astronaut doesn’t mean she won’t be harassed in a public space. One woman’s success doesn’t cancel out another woman’s trauma. And before we pat ourselves on the back for being “better than before,” maybe we should ask- Is fear still the default emotion for a girl walking home alone at night?

If the answer is yes, then no, we’re not there yet.

This second India exists in every uncomfortable silence during family dinners when someone says, “Girls these days…”

It exists in every school that teaches girls how not to get raped, instead of teaching boys how not to rape. It exists in every courtroom where survivors are questioned about what they wore, instead of what they endured. It exists and we see it. We just scroll past it. Because if we saw it- if we felt it- we’d have to do something. And sometimes, silence feels safer than change.

But that silence is costing us too much.

You cannot talk about progress in a country where half the population lives in fear. You cannot talk about growth when girls are told that walking home late is “asking for it”. You cannot speak of a shining future when you still haven’t made the present safe.

The two India's are real. And, until they merge-until safety is not a privilege but a right- we cannot truly claim to be moving forward.

FEAR: The First Thing a Girl Learns

It starts young.

Not with words like “danger” or “rape”- those come much later. It begins quietly. Gently. “Sit properly.” “Pull your skirt down.” “Don’t laugh so loudly, people are watching.” It comes in soft tones from people who love you. It doesn’t sound like fear yet- it sounds like care. Like concern.

But before you even realized it, fear has taken root. Not because something bad happened, but because the world keeps warning you that it could.

At first, it’s about sitting with your legs crossed, not playing too rough with the boys, being ‘ladylike’. It’s subtle. You start becoming aware of yourself, not in the way that makes you feel watched. Observed. Judged.

As you grow older, the warnings become louder and louder. “Come home before dark.” “Don’t talk to that uncle too much.” “Don’t go alone.” Suddenly, your freedom is conditional. It’s always followed by an invisible asterisk- if it’s safe, if you’re careful, if you’re not asking for it.

You lower your eyes when walking past a group of boys on the street. You avoid certain roads, even if they’re shorter. You keep your phone in your hand like a weapon, ready to fake a call or dial someone. You memorize license plates. You send “reached safely” texts like it’s a ritual. And you do all this without thinking, because by now, it’s second nature.

Fear isn’t something that comes from one bad experience- it’s been handed to us in pieces, over the years, shaped by stories of girls who trusted the wrong man, wore the wrong dress, or stayed out too late. We hear what happened to them, and we silently take notes.

I remember a friend telling me how she started wearing oversized hoodies in college because it made her feel less visible to the stares in class. Another friend once changed her bus route — even though it took longer — just to avoid a man who would sit too close every day. None of these things was dramatic. None made the news. But they stayed. These small decisions, born from fear, shaped how they lived.

We don’t even call it fear after a point. We call it being smart, being practical, “just in case.”

But would a boy have to think twice before wearing shorts in the summer? Would he be told to carry pepper spray? Would he be taught that his freedom is dangerous? Fear is stitched into our upbringing like an extra layer of skin. And we carry it everywhere — even when we laugh, dance, live fully — it’s still there in the background, like a warning tone we’ve learned to ignore but never silence.

What makes it worse is that even when something does happen, the first question is never “Are you okay?” It’s “Why were you there?” “What were you wearing?” “Did you provoke him?” And so, fear is reinforced with blame. We learn not only to be scared, but to feel guilty for anything bad that happens to us. To believe it’s our fault.

And that’s the most tragic part — fear doesn’t just limit us, it shames us too.

Parents mean well when they say, “Don’t go out late.” Teachers think they’re protecting us when they say “cover up.” But somewhere along the way, we stopped teaching boys to respect and started teaching girls to be afraid.

Imagine how different things would be if girls were raised to be fearless, not careful. If they were told, “You deserve to feel safe — always,” instead of “Be careful, it’s a bad world out there.” Imagine if the fear that we handed down like inheritance was replaced by strength, by awareness, by equality.

But right now, we’re not there yet.

Right now, girls still grow up learning how to navigate a world that sees them as potential victims first, and people second. They still learn that their safety depends on how quiet, how covered, how invisible they can be.

And until that changes, we’re not protecting our daughters — we’re just teaching them to survive.

A Society That Doubts Before It Believes

What’s worse than going through trauma? Being blamed for it.

When something as horrific as sexual assault happens, you’d expect the response to be support, empathy, and protection. But in many parts of India — and honestly, across the world — that’s not what a survivor receives. Instead, she walks into a courtroom of society, where everyone suddenly becomes a judge. The first response is not “Are you okay?” It’s “What were you wearing?” “Were you drunk?” “Why were you there?”

It's heartbreaking — and worse, it’s normalized.

These questions don’t just hurt; they shift the blame. They plant the idea that maybe, just maybe, she brought this on herself. As if assault is something women invite. As if men are some uncontrollable force who can’t be expected to know right from wrong, if a woman is wearing jeans or lipstick.

The damage of this mindset is far deeper than we realise.

It tells survivors: “We don’t believe you.” Or worse, “We believe you, but it was your fault.”

Even in their own homes, survivors are often told to stay silent. “Don’t tell anyone.” “Think of the family’s reputation.” “What will people say?” These lines are repeated with such seriousness that they sound like wisdom. But what they are is complicity. The message is clear: Your trauma is less important than our image.

And what about the girl’s truth? What about her mental health, her identity, her safety? Why is it that the person who was violated is the one expected to carry the shame?

In many cases, the survivor becomes the one who’s socially punished. She’s asked to leave school. She’s stared at in her neighbourhood. She’s whispered about in relatives’ phone calls. And the man? Sometimes, he goes back to work the next day. He moves on. Because even when women speak up, men are rarely held back.

And then we ask, “Why don’t more women report these crimes?”

Because we’ve made it painfully clear that coming forward means opening yourself up to more trauma, not less. It means being questioned, judged, doubted, and possibly even threatened. Imagine going through the worst experience of your life, only to have to prove that it was real. Only to have people dig into your past, your relationships, your clothes, and your social media. As if your dignity is something that can be debated.

The saddest part? This victim-blaming isn’t just coming from strangers or the media — it often comes from the very people a girl turns to first: her family, her teachers, her close friends. A girl once said, “When I told my parents what happened, my mother’s first reaction was, ‘Why didn’t you come home earlier?’ Not ‘Are you okay?’ Not ‘Let’s go to the police.’ Just… why didn’t I come home earlier? As if I had done something wrong.”

This mindset — that a woman is somehow responsible for being attacked — is deeply ingrained. And it's dangerous.

It teaches boys that if a woman is “too friendly,” if she flirts, if she drinks, then consent is optional. Her choices make her less deserving of respect. And it teaches girls that if something happens to them, they need to reflect on what they did wrong, instead of demanding accountability from the perpetrator.

We even see this reflected in the media. Headlines that read, “Woman raped after party,” instead of “Man rapes woman.” The language shifts the spotlight away from the criminal and subtly onto the victim. Even news reports participate in this quiet transfer of blame. It’s all part of a larger pattern. A refusal to acknowledge male responsibility. A comfort with making women the problem because it’s easier to ask women to stay home than it is to teach men not to harm. Easier to say “Don’t go out late” than to say “Raise your son better.”

But this system doesn’t just fail survivors. It fails everyone. It makes our cities, our classrooms, and our homes unsafe. It makes people believe that if they stay silent, life will be simpler. If they endure quietly, at least the shame won’t multiply. But it does. Silence doesn’t make it go away — it just lets it grow in the dark.

So what do we do?

We change the questions.

We stop asking, “Why was she there?” and start asking, “Why did he think he had the right?”

We stop telling women how to avoid getting assaulted and start teaching men how not to assault. We shift the narrative from suspicion to support. From shame to strength. Because believing survivors isn’t about blind faith — it’s about giving someone the space to be heard without judgment. It’s about creating a culture where women don’t hesitate to speak, because they know they’ll be met with care, not interrogation.

We also need to address the elephant in the room: the legal system. Yes, there are laws in place. Yes, things have improved since Nirbhaya. But the road to justice is still painfully long and often re-traumatizing. Court cases can stretch for years. Survivors are cross-examined like criminals. Their character becomes more important than the crime.

And all of this adds up to silence, to stigma, to more cases that go unreported.

If we want to create change, we need to start at the root. With education. With parenting. With conversations at dinner tables. We need to teach empathy as much as we teach math. Teach respect with the same seriousness as exams. We need fathers who talk to sons, not just daughters. We need mothers who say, “What happened to you is not your fault,” instead of “We should’ve been more careful.”

Because every time we doubt a survivor, we’re telling her she’s alone. That she has to carry the weight of what someone else did to her. And no one — no one—deserves that.

Justice Delayed is Justice Denied

And then there’s the system.

The one that promises justice, that claims to stand tall with the Constitution in one hand and morality in the other. But if you’ve lived in India long enough — especially as a woman — you know that system doesn’t always work the way it says it does. Justice here is not blind. It sees money, power, and gender very clearly. And for survivors of sexual violence, it sees everything except urgency.

We’ve seen the pattern so many times, it feels scripted. A brutal rape shocks the nation. The news channels run continuous coverage. People light candles. Politicians tweet statements. There are marches, trending hashtags, and late-night debates. Everyone says, “She will get justice.”

But then, the story slows down. Weeks pass. Then months. Then years.

The headlines change. The public moves on. And the only people still holding on are the survivor and her family, clinging not just to hope, but to the belief that the system won't abandon them.

Except, it often does.

The reality is, for every high-profile case that gets attention, there are thousands more that don’t even make it to the courtroom in time. Survivors are stuck navigating a maze of police stations that hesitate to file FIRs, of medical exams that are delayed or mishandled, of trials that drag on endlessly because the accused is influential, or the system is simply too slow.

Justice, in India, is not just about truth. It's about endurance.

A 19-year-old girl in a small town might have the courage to speak up — but then she’s expected to relive her trauma in a courtroom, where lawyers question her character, her memory, and her motives. She’s asked to recount everything, again and again. She sees her abuser sitting just meters away, sometimes even laughing. She’s cross-examined in public, in front of strangers, in a language that often feels more like interrogation than investigation.

And what happens after all that?

In many cases, nothing.

The conviction rates for rape cases in India remain shockingly low. Delays in forensic reports, absence of eyewitnesses, “lack of evidence” — the reasons vary, but the result is the same: the survivor walks out of court feeling like the one who lost, not the one who was wronged.

We must ask ourselves — what kind of justice system expects more proof from the victim than accountability from the accused? This is what “justice delayed” looks like. Not just in legal terms, but in emotional ones. Every postponed hearing, every adjourned date, every loophole used by the defense — it chips away at the survivor’s strength. It tells her, again and again, that her pain isn’t urgent. Her safety isn’t a priority. That what happened to her is just another file in a dusty cabinet.

In 2012, when Nirbhaya's case shook the country, we thought something had changed. New laws were passed. Fast-track courts were promised. There was national outrage, as there should have been. But over a decade later, what have we fixed?

The courtrooms are still backlogged. Survivors are still silenced. Victim-blaming hasn’t gone anywhere. And while the Delhi case led to convictions, it took seven years. Seven long, agonizing years for a family to get closure. Most others never do. What’s worse, sometimes the system isn’t just slow — it’s actively cruel.

There have been cases where survivors were jailed because their complaints were considered “false.” They were forced to marry their rapists as a “compromise.” Where police officers asked teenage girls if they had “enjoyed it.” These aren’t isolated stories — they’re a reflection of how deep the rot goes.

Even when survivors manage to speak up, to fight back, to demand justice, they’re often met with disbelief. Or worse, political pressure. In some regions, if the accused belongs to a powerful caste or political group, witnesses disappear. Evidence goes missing. The survivor is painted as “promiscuous,” “mentally unstable,” or “revengeful.”

Can we call it a justice system if it makes the survivor feel like the criminal?

This delay, this denial, this exhaustion — it’s what breaks people long before any verdict is announced. It's what turns brave women into silent ones. Because after a point, they’re not just fighting their rapist. They’re fighting the police, the courts, the system, society — everyone.

And it’s easy for the rest of us to forget.

It’s easy to scroll past another news story, another brutal headline, and say “What a shame,” before moving on with our day. But for the survivor, time stands still. Her life is frozen in that one moment, while the world keeps spinning.

She deserves better than a candle march.

She deserves a system that protects, believes, and acts fast. A system that doesn’t need media outrage to do its job. A system that treats rape not as a sensational story but as a horrific crime with real, long-term consequences.

Justice isn’t just about punishing the guilty. It’s about restoring dignity to the survivor. It’s about ensuring she’s not alone in the fight. That she’s not gaslit by those in power. That the trauma she carries isn’t dismissed as an inconvenience to court calendars.

We have enough laws. What we need now is will — political will, judicial will, societal will — to implement them.

We need fast-track courts that move fast. We need police reforms that prioritize survivor safety over procedural drama. We need sensitivity training that ensures no girl is ever asked, “Why were you wearing that?” in a police station. And we need media to report responsibly — not sensationalize, not objectify, not use graphic details for views.

But more than anything, we need to believe women when they say: This happened to me.

Because the truth is, justice delayed is not just justice denied — it’s justice stolen. It’s another slap on the face of someone who was already broken. And as long as this keeps happening, we’re not a progressive country. We’re a country that knows how to mourn, but not how to protect.

Until we change that, the system will keep failing the very people it claims to serve.

Progress Is More Than Headlines

We talk about progress a lot these days.

And it looks good on paper.

We celebrate when a woman becomes a CEO, when a female pilot flies a fighter jet, when a woman astronaut speaks from space, or when brands launch “feminist” ad campaigns. We post on Instagram every March, wear purple on Women’s Day, and proudly share quotes by Simone de Beauvoir or Malala.

But amid all this empowerment rhetoric, there’s a quieter, more painful truth: a woman still cannot walk home at night without looking over her shoulder.

What kind of progress is that?

Progress isn’t a woman on a billboard. It’s a woman walking down an empty street at midnight — and not being afraid. It’s her being able to laugh loudly at a bar, wear what she wants, go where she wants, speak how she wants — without worrying that someone will say she was “asking for it.”

We’ve become so good at celebrating exceptions that we’ve forgotten about everyday realities. For every woman who breaks a glass ceiling, hundreds are still being told not to laugh too loud, not to stay out too late, not to dream too big. We post viral videos of girls performing in small villages and say, “Wow, India is changing.” But that same girl is still being taught to say “no” to too much ambition, too much freedom, too much choice.

Yes, change is happening. But not fast enough. And not deep enough. Because real progress isn’t just about women achieving — it’s about them feeling safe while doing so. It’s about erasing fear, not just showcasing success. A country is not truly developed if its women need to calculate safety before every step they take.

When a woman is killed or assaulted, the first thing people say is, “This is not the India we are proud of.” But the truth is, it is also India. The same India that sent a spacecraft to the moon also failed to protect a girl walking home from work. The same society that claps when a woman becomes an IAS officer often tells her cousin to quit her job after marriage.

We live in two Indias. One that's dreaming big, and one that still punishes women for doing the same. And this isn’t about being pessimistic. It’s about being honest. Because without honesty, we cannot fix what’s broken.

If you look at how we talk about “empowered women,” it’s almost always about success — the job, the money, the awards. But what about emotional safety? What about respect in her own home? What about the freedom to say no to marriage, to motherhood, to tradition, without being shamed?

Real progress will come when a girl doesn’t have to choose between safety and independence. When she’s no longer told, “You’re strong for a woman,” but just, “You’re strong.” When a boy grows up knowing that crying isn’t weakness and that masculinity doesn’t mean dominance.

Real progress is when we stop glorifying the woman who “adjusts” and start respecting the one who refuses to.

We need to move beyond the posters and campaigns. Beyond token representation. Because celebrating a few women while ignoring many is not progress — it’s performance. It’s saying, “Look at how far we’ve come” without asking, “Why haven’t we gone further?”

Change isn’t about headlines. It’s about habits.

It's about how fathers speak to their daughters at dinner. How teachers talk about consent in classrooms. How friends step in when they see harassment instead of laughing it off. It’s about how bosses handle complaints, how parents raise sons, and how communities treat survivors.

Progress is built in private moments long before it shows up in public spaces.

We need to stop pretending that giving women opportunities is enough. We need to ask: Are they safe in those opportunities? Are they respected in those roles? Are they being heard when something goes wrong?

We cannot call ourselves progressive if we are still silencing women when they speak out. If we still measure their worth by how “decent” they dress or how “quiet” they are. If we still raise eyebrows when they say they don’t want kids, or don’t want marriage, or don’t want to forgive someone who hurt them.

So, where do we go from here?

We start with listening. Not defending, not explaining — just listening. When a woman says something made her uncomfortable, believe her. When someone shares their story, don’t look for holes in it. When a girl says she wants more from life than just being someone’s wife, support her.

We educate — not just in schools, but everywhere. We normalize conversations about boundaries, respect, consent, and equality from childhood. We stop acting like feminism is a threat to men, and start realizing that it’s a path to healthier, kinder, freer societies — for everyone. And we hold people accountable — not just legally, but socially. We stop laughing at sexist jokes. We stop voting for leaders who joke about women’s dignity. We stop defending celebrities who normalize assault in songs or movies. We stop protecting men just because they’re “good at their job.”

True progress doesn’t come quietly. It disrupts. It makes people uncomfortable. It questions old systems. But it also heals. It gives hope. It lets people be themselves without fear. Let’s aim for that India. One where a girl doesn’t have to be brave every single day just to exist.

One where success doesn’t come at the cost of safety. Where equality doesn’t need an explanation. Where justice is not a favor, but a right.

Because until we reach that place, we haven’t progressed. We’ve just decorated the surface of a deep, painful wound.

Progress is when we stop telling women, “Be careful,” and start telling men, “Be better.”

What Exactly NEEDS to Change?

We’ve read too many reports. Heard too many promises. Lit too many candles. And yet — here we are.

Another girl. Another name. Another protest.

So we need to stop asking, “How did this happen again?” and start asking, “What exactly needs to change?”

It’s not just laws and policies. It’s mindsets, conversations, reactions, silences — the things we ignore, laugh at, scroll past.

Because real change doesn’t start in Parliament. It starts in people.

1. Change begins at home, not in a workshop

Before a child learns what the Constitution says, they learn what their family believes. A boy who grows up hearing, “Don’t cry like a girl” or “You’re the man of the house” starts equating masculinity with control, silence, and dominance.

And a girl? She learns early to say, “Sorry,” even when it’s not her fault. She’s told to adjust, to cover up, to smile politely even when uncomfortable.

Let’s change this script.

Let boys cry. Let girls say no. Teach kids early that respect has no gender. That strength doesn’t come from power, but empathy. That love isn’t ownership.

Home is the first classroom. Make it a safe one.

2. Let’s talk about consent — like it’s normal

We teach kids how to multiply, how to write essays, and how to label maps. But we don’t teach them how to say no. Or how to hear it.

Consent isn’t this complicated, legal thing. It’s simple. It’s human.

It’s about asking before touching. Pausing when someone pulls away. Respecting silence. Understanding body language. Knowing that “maybe” isn’t “yes,” and “yes” said under pressure isn’t a yes.

Let’s stop acting like consent is only for adults. Start young. Talk about it often. Normalize it.

Because if we can teach a five-year-old to say “please” and “thank you,” we can teach them “no means no.”

3. Education isn’t just about degrees

Schools are filled with rules — no cheating, no fighting, no foul language. But what about respect? Empathy? Understanding boundaries.

Let’s teach respect alongside reading. Let’s make discussions around consent, gender equality, emotional safety, and healthy relationships a part of the curriculum, not just a one-time lecture. Because teaching kids to value others is just as important as teaching them to pass exams.

4. The media must stop feeding the wrong stories

Movies, music, social media — they shape minds more than we realize.

We grew up watching male leads stalk women until they say yes. We sing along to songs that glorify control and chase. We laugh at rape jokes in films and then act shocked at real-world violence.

That’s the problem.

We need stories that challenge this. That shows kindness as cool. That present consent as sexy. That doesn’t make a joke out of trauma.

Because representation matters. And if we keep romanticizing disrespect, we’re planting the wrong seeds.

5. Laws exist — but how they’re used matters more

We do have laws. But they’re often used to threaten, silence, or blame.

Victims are asked what they were wearing. Whether they screamed. Whether they’ve had sex before. They’re asked to prove they didn’t deserve what happened.

Meanwhile, powerful men get away with “just a mistake.” Survivors are told to forgive, to move on, and not to ruin someone’s life with an accusation.

We need legal systems that don’t just punish rapists, but protect survivors. They move fast, speak kindly, and listen without judgment. They don’t wait for media pressure to do their job.

Because justice delayed isn’t just denied — it’s disrespected.

6. Stop making women responsible for preventing violence

Let’s be honest: society’s response to rape is often to police women, not men.

“Don’t go out late.”

“Don’t wear this.”

“Don’t drink.”

“Don’t travel alone.”

But why should a girl have to change her life to stay safe, instead of men being taught not to violate her?

We need to flip the conversation.

Tell boys: Don’t touch without consent. Don’t joke about rape. Don’t turn silence into permission.

Safety should be everyone’s right, not a privilege only for the “careful.”

7. Believe survivors — without conditions

When someone says they’ve been hurt, our first reaction shouldn’t be to doubt them. But that’s what often happens.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a misunderstanding?”

“Why are you speaking up now?”

“He’s such a nice guy.”

We question the survivor. We protect the accused. We whisper behind our backs. We ask for “proof.”

But trauma doesn’t follow a script. Pain doesn’t always come with evidence. And silence isn’t consent — it’s survival.

So let’s stop playing detective. Start listening. Start believing.

Because every time we doubt a real survivor, we let a real predator walk free.

8. Empowerment isn’t just about jobs and education

We love celebrating women who succeed. The CEO. The IAS topper. The athlete.

But empowerment isn’t just about success — it’s about safety, choice, and voice.

Can she say no without being punished? Can she speak up without being silenced? Can she walk home without fear?

Until the answer is yes, we’re not truly empowered.

So instead of only clapping when a woman wins, let’s also stand by her when she struggles. When she’s violated, ignored, or dismissed. That’s when she needs empowerment the most.

9. Accountability — not just for strangers, but for friends

Change won’t just come from rallies and reforms. It’ll come from group chats, parties, and casual conversations.

Did your friend make a creepy comment? Call him out.

Did someone laugh at a rape joke? Say it’s not funny.

Did you see something shady happening at a party? Don’t look away.

We don’t need to be heroes. We just need to be decent humans.

Because every time we let it slide, we’re part of the problem.

10. Finally, stop waiting for change. Be the change.

We always say, “The system needs to fix this.”

But systems are made of people.

We are the system — the teachers, friends, brothers, sisters, neighbors, strangers. And we all have power in how we speak, what we laugh at, who we vote for, and what we normalize.

So don’t wait for another headline to feel helpless.

Do something. Say something. Be something better.

Because if even one girl walks a little safer because of what you taught your son, your brother, your friend — that’s not small.

That’s change.

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