‘You run at night?
Alone?
Aren’t you scared?
Do you run with a knife?’
Yes, yes, yes—and sometimes.
Running has always been my escape. What started as a simple way to escape the monotony of being inside became my passion. But while the daytime sun brings heat and unwanted gazes, it’s the night that offers the real freedom I crave. Running at night isn’t just about exercise; it’s about reclaiming a space where, for a few fleeting moments, the world feels like mine, and no one is there to interrupt it.
Something is intoxicating about it. The darkness mutes the world around me until it’s just me, my breath, and the rhythmic thumping of my feet against the path. But each time I lace my shoes and hug my mum goodbye, a thought lingers: tonight could be the night that she will describe to the police what I was wearing, and what time I left home—just like the families of Eliza Fletcher, Eurydice Dixon, Jill Meagher, Aiia Maasarwe, and Janine Balding, who were all murdered in public spaces, most of them at night, by men.
Every time I leave, I carry that nagging reminder: this world wasn’t designed for women to move freely, especially after dark. I find myself running through a mental checklist, one I’ve repeated so often that I’ve lost count: is my hair in a bun to prevent it from being easily grabbed? Are my keys in a place where they can’t be taken from my grip and used against me? Am I wearing tight, high-waisted pants that are harder to remove? These precautions are second nature now, woven into the fabric of every run, just like the routes I choose and the pace I set.
I swap my favourite playlist for hyper-awareness, tuning into the sounds around me—footsteps, cars slowing down, whistles. But why should the onus fall on me to adjust my behaviour?
Even with all the precautions, I’m never truly alone. The weight of warnings—news stories, concerned friends, and casual comments like “Be careful out there”—clings to me. The irony isn’t lost on me. Running—meant to empower and free—often becomes a negotiation between the joy it brings and the risks I take each night. But I keep running. I refuse to let fear confine me, even though it lingers like a shadow.
Running at night feels like rebellion. With every step, I push against societal expectations and the ingrained fear women know all too well. It’s a silent protest—an insistence that I, too, deserve to move freely in this world.
Margaret Carlotto, 37, a CrossFit enthusiast and devoted runner, expressed a sentiment familiar to many women who navigate this tension. “CrossFit challenges me physically, but running? It’s my mental escape—my time alone,” she said, her eyes lighting up at the thought. “But as much as I love running, I just can’t do it at night. The risk always outweighs the reward.” She sighed when she says this – the soft look in her eyes betraying a frustration many women know too well. “Running should be about joy, not survival.”
For men, running at night is simple. They think about distance, pace, or what song to play next. I envy men, for whom a nighttime run is just that—a run. For us, it’s an act of calculated risk—a series of decisions involving planning escape routes, eyeing every passerby, and navigating a world that sees us as prey.
I spoke with a NSW Police Constable based in Sutherland, who has seen firsthand the concerns that loom over women, day and night. “We’re aware of a rise in assaults, particularly against individuals alone in dark, isolated areas,” he explained. While he acknowledged that the risk of non-domestic violence against women is statistically lower, the fear women experience is very real. ‘I hear it all the time—from women reporting being followed or harassed. It’s not always the crime rate; it’s the constant fear.’ His advice mirrors what women are already doing—stick to well-lit areas, carry a phone, and if possible, learn self-defence.
And yet, the focus remains on what women can do to protect themselves. The instructions we hear from the media, our families, and police echo through time, passed down like survival rites—reminders that the darkness doesn’t belong to women, but to the shadows of what could happen.
In 2023, Professor Nicole Kalms from Monash University’s XYX Lab led research on women’s safety in public spaces across Victoria and New South Wales. One key project, the YourGround initiative, encouraged women to mark specific locations on a map where they felt safe or unsafe. This crowd-sourced data became part of broader efforts, such as New South Wales’ $30 million Safer Cities program, aimed at improving public safety. NSW Women’s Safety Commissioner, Hannah Tonkin, said that this map represented a crucial step forward in understanding the environments where women feel most vulnerable.
The need for such initiatives is stark. Their research revealed that 59 per cent of women feel unsafe in public spaces after dark, compared to just 32 per cent of men, and 74 per cent of women said they would walk more frequently if they felt safer. It was also found that poor lighting was a top concern for women, and a major factor in deciding whether or not to exercise, particularly during the darker months of winter.
Professor Kalms stressed that the type of lighting also matters. Bright, harsh lights make a space feel unsettling, while sensor-activated lights unintentionally draw attention to someone walking or running alone. Lighting specific sections of large public spaces and limiting illumination to certain hours was favoured by many women and has since been effectively implemented at Melbourne’s Royal Botanic Gardens, where the Tan running track is now lit from dusk until midnight. The addition of lighting has led to a significant rise in the number of runners and walkers who now feel safer while using the path.
Yet, in all these warnings, there is a deafening silence where the real message should be. Why aren’t men taught and told to leave women alone, to respect their space, to let them breathe without fear? It’s a chilling truth: the burden of safety will always fall on the woman, haunted by the knowledge that danger might lurk behind any bush, down any ally, while the world remains eerily quiet on the responsibility of those who would cause such harm.
But why do we still accept fear as part of our routine?
A USA 2020 survey by RUNGRL, though focused on American women, highlights issues that are all too familiar to women in Australia. According to their survey, 90 per cent of women experienced unwanted attention while running, with 24 per cent saying it happens often– meaning 9 out of 10 women faced harassment while just trying to run. Even more unsettling, 33 per cent reported being followed, and 5 per cent were physically assaulted or touched without consent. These experiences reflect the challenges female runners face globally, showing that the issue of safety while exercising is widespread and deeply ingrained.
It’s not just about running—it’s about everything that comes with simply existing in public as a woman.
But the answer isn’t in women perfecting their vigilance or mastering self-defence. The solution lies in dismantling the system that places this burden on us in the first place. As I reflect on my nightly runs, Margaret’s words linger, alongside the voices of countless women who have spoken out in surveys and interviews, all echoing a shared experience. This conversation about our safety at night—whether we’re running, walking, or simply existing in public—is only just beginning. And in every whispered caution, every act of defiance, I see the same resilience: women demanding better, refusing to let fear define our lives.
And the real victory will be when we no longer must run with fear.