I was waiting for a Lyft on a busy street one night outside of Brooklyn’s Prospect Park when I saw him. He was glorious. His muscular thighs flexed as he jogged toward me. The arms of his Boston College T-shirt were cut off, revealing large swaths of his torso. The music from his giant headphones blared so loudly, I could tell it was Drake from seven feet away. He swept past me like a gazelle, and as his short-shorts whiffed by my waist, I stifled an exclamation of “Daaamn, baby!” He continued up the sidewalk and hung a left, disappearing into the dimly lit park.

I usually love seeing my fellow runners out in their element—but this time, as BC shirt guy jogged off into the night, I felt rage begin to simmer, replacing my feelings of drive-by lust. To be clear, he did nothing wrong. (Besides blaring such down-tempo Drake tunes on a run. Don’t you have “Sicko Mode”?) I just always get angry when I see men enjoying a cool, freeing nighttime run. I get mad because I’m jealous. Women can’t run at night. Because that’s when the murderers come out.

Women exist in the world in an ever-present state of danger. And when we run, that danger is only amplified. So we’re often on the receiving end of a lot of running-safety advice. We’re told: Take a self-defense class. Carry pepper spray. Cover up, even when it’s hot out. Never listen to your music too loud. Have you seen those kitten-shaped keychains with the razor-sharp stabby spikes for ears? How about those stun guns with the cute floral patterns on them?



The implication is this: If you are not outfitted with the gadgets and combat expertise of a character on The Americans, you cannot go running. Sorry.



Why? Is it because violence against women is just an unchangeable rule of nature, like earthquakes? No, it’s stupider than that. Women who run must routinely field this kind of victim-blamey advice because of something humans created: toxic masculinity. We exist in a social culture that prioritizes toughness and aggression over compassion and care, and we shrug our shoulders at the life-or-death consequences of it all.

Toxic masculinity is what you get when a bottle of unpasteurized, full-fat maleness is left out on the counter to curdle. It’s what happens when traditional ideas of what it means to be a man—Strong! Violent! Powerful! Too tough to be bothered by pesky emotions!—are prioritized over pretty much everything else. It embraces violence and aggression as natural male traits, and smugly excuses these behaviors when they harm others (“boys will be boys,” anyone?). Toxic masculinity is so dominant in our culture, anyone who doesn’t identify as a windmill-high-fiving alpha male is bound to suffer.

“Toxic masculinity is what you get when a bottle of unpasteurized, full-fat maleness is left out on the counter to curdle.”

Now, of course, simply being masculine is perfectly fine. Manliness alone doesn’t hurt anybody, and I personally delight in its adorable presence. You want to juggle multiple fantasy football league memberships? Go for it. You want to insist that you’re actually 5-foot-11, not 5-9? No judgment here. You want to drink beer? You chug that Coors Light, bro! But when all this man-stuff is the only stuff you measure yourself by, it can turn sour.

In other words: There’s nothing wrong with drinking beer. It’s when you crush the can into someone else’s skull that we’ve got a toxic masculinity problem.

In a culture infected with toxic masculinity, women are more like furniture than people. Our presence is easy to ignore, until you need something. Our purpose is to comfort and please. And men feel they can treat the furniture however they like.

The best part of running is that it’s about freedom. It’s about feeling your legs pulse and your arms sweep. It’s about enjoying the wind in your hair and the earth beneath your feet. Frankly, it’s about leaving a trail of farts in your wake and not worrying about it. But toxic masculinity robs women of the complete freedom running is supposed to bring. Because when I’m out for a run, I’m worried about the potential actions of men at every moment. At best, I’m worried about some Steve elbowing past me, not respecting my space. At slightly worse, I’m worried about uninvited commentary. At actual worst, I’m worried about assault. I spend my entire (daylight) run synthesizing these threats. I’m not free. I’m in defense mode.

This is unfair to say the least. When I’m out running, the only dangers I should have to navigate should involve the natural world. I should just be concerned about being struck by lightning, maybe. Or falling into a crevasse. But instead of worrying about that stuff, I’m nervous that some under-socialized Steve will choose to do something that will ruin or perhaps end my life. What I wouldn’t give to fret over a crevasse instead!



Toxic masculinity doesn’t just hurt women. It gives men a raw deal, too. According to the American Psychiatric Association, toxic masculinity is connected to the fact that men are “overrepresented in prisons, and more likely to commit violent crime.” No surprise there—crushing beers into skulls often has legal ramifications. A new study published in the journal Sex Roles found that men are less likely to recycle because they don’t want to seem gay. For chrissakes, a simple Google search of “soap for men” brought me to a website featuring an army-green block of suds shaped like a . No offense to the Steves of the world but, my guys—y’all okay?

“Toxic masculinity doesn’t just hurt women. It gives men a raw deal, too.”

The good news about toxic masculinity being (literally) man-made is that it can be unmade. While I wish we could fatally smash it right now with one swift Buffy the Vampire Slayer kick to the neck, I understand we can’t turn this good ship S.S. Axe Body Spray around overnight. But I believe we can do it.

Here’s one way to start the process. The next time someone asks you those passive-aggressive questions about your running routine—are you sticking to the well-lit streets? Do you carry daisy-printed assault weapons?—redirect them. Thank them for their concern, and then suggest that their efforts might be better spent on the 50 percent of the population who are nearly 100 percent responsible for violent crime. Challenge your inquisitor to start offering the men in their life advice on how to process emotions, how to be respectful in public, how to foster healthy relationships, and how to shop for less violent soap.

And to the Steves out there, listen. I know that most of you are nice and good and compassionate. But that means that you need to fight toxic masculinity, too. How? By setting up the clutch assist for women, both on the running path and off. Look out for us. Listen to us. Use your position of power for good. Support us when we have these sometimes uncomfortable conversations. Or, better yet: Start some of these conversations yourself.

Maybe if we directed all our safety concern—trolling at men for once, the needle would start to move toward equality for all genders. And I could finally cut the sleeves off my T-shirt and go for a run at night.

The Runners Alliance is an initiative to help make running safer for women. Read more tips, strategies, and personal stories here.

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