Six years ago this week I was walking home alone on the upper east side just after 11 p.m. I had one headphone in, one out. My black purse was tucked in my right elbow. I held my phone in my left hand. I was about to cross 62nd Street going north when I felt a tug, then a yank. It all happened so fast. His nervous laughter echoed as we struggled. I turned and yelled — he pulled it away. Instinctively, I ran after him (in retrospect, I wouldn’t do this again). The scene, a blur. I simultaneously called 911 on speaker and sprinted across Second. Within seconds, he disappeared into the back seat of a black Altima. Moments later, the cops pulled up. I was ordered to get into the back seat as the sirens blasted. After a brief chase, they got away. I was in tears. Safe, but shaken. When we got to the station, the male officer looked at me and said “you shouldn’t have been walking alone.” After this, life changed. I took a self defense class. Dad bought me pepper spray. But the most notable shift was truly in how I run. After that day, I never ran again before 6 a.m. with headphones in. I stopped going down side streets. Began sticking to main avenues. My Garmin now sends notifications to my family. My old neighbor gave me a whistle that I still tuck occasionally into my back pocket. If I see someone on the same block as me in the distance, I cross immediately. I’m hyper aware. Vigilant. Like many women, I feel a sense of frustration in the wake of the devastating news about Eliza Fletcher that the thing that brings me so much peace also feels dangerous at times. That I wake up in the morning and debate whether or not I should get my act together and head out or wait a bit longer to lace up until it’s “safer.” I was encouraged to share my story and sentiments after seeing @aliontherun1 do the same yesterday. And like my friend, I don’t have the answers. But I know I do have a platform, and my wheels are turning on how we can come together here in New York and work progressively within the running community to cultivate support. Because the “solution” isn’t to tell women “you shouldn’t be alone.” Your voice matters. My voice matters. Together — never alone.