Sarah Everard was 33. She walked home alone from a friends house at night. She was murdered by a Metropolitan Police Officer.

“Walking home alone at night.” That part of the sentence sends a chill down my spine.

I think of every time I’ve walked home alone at night. Every time I chose the freshness of midnight air over an expensive taxi ride. Every time I needed to cool down after an argument and walked, alone, into the purplish black night. All nights were fearful, although some were less terrifying than others.

On a perfect night, the streets are empty, not a soul to bother me or to walk just close enough behind me to make my skin crawl. Sometimes there are men in alleyways or street corners and I can always feel their eyes on me.

On particularly bad nights though, cars would follow me to my apartment, calling out the whole time. I prayed that they didn’t memorize the building number. I prayed they wouldn’t come back.

You get used to never feeling safe and you learn to adapt. I’ve never carried pepper spray, a knife or a special button to press to call for help. It felt more natural to keep my hands in a fist around my keys. That way I didn’t really have to change anything about my life to keep myself safe. I didn’t have to buy special gadgets or anything. All I had to do was keep my keys in my fist, my eyes on the ground and frequently glance over my shoulder.

I always got home safe. And every time I did, I thanked God for it. Later I cursed my stubbornness and cursed the idea that this was something I needed to fear: walking. Walking home alone shouldn’t be a source of contention. I want to go from place A to place B without fearing for my life.

Some of my friends would never walk at night, even together. Sometimes we pay for taxis we wish we didn’t have to take. Sometimes, and it pains me every time, we ask a male friend to walk with us.

I don’t want to need protecting. I want to live the same life my male counterparts are afforded, where it’s not such a gamble to simply move. To exist in the hours that feel so male dominated. I want to walk past midnight diners and feel the magical sense of a world that comes alive after dusk. I want to do all these things without worrying about my safety, or if I would be blamed if something happened. Didn’t she know better than to walk home alone at night?

I can feel the ease to assign blame. I’m used to explanations about how women could avoid being murdered by men if they only changed a few small behaviors. When we don’t change those behaviors, like dressing more modestly, taking a cab, avoiding drinks or being polite, we’re blamed for whatever ensues. The cause and effect relationship puts the responsibility on women, instead of on the person who commits the violent crime. The narrative becomes about her. Didn’t she know better? Why wouldn’t she get a cab? Call a friend?

I always know it’s a risk, but the reality hits me more when I read stories like Sarah Everard’s. It reminds me that this can happen anywhere, at any time. These crimes happen to women on every continent. It reminds me that the outside world, especially at night, is a dangerous place to be.

It didn’t matter that she was covered from head to toe. It didn’t matter that she called her boyfriend for 15 minutes right before she disappeared. It didn’t matter that she was in an area with an extremely low crime rate. It didn’t matter that the man who did this was a police officer, the person supposed to “protect” others.

All that mattered was that being a woman, anywhere in the world, dressed in any way, means to be at constant risk of attack. But I’m sick of rearranging my life to preserve the basic right to not be assaulted.

I don’t have the solution. But I know it starts with putting blame on the perpetrator. Sarah Everard was not murdered because she was walking home alone. She was murdered because a man decided to kidnap and then kill her. If it wasn’t her, it would have been a different woman. We cannot keep pretending we can prevent our own murders; the burden should not be on us. If we want to create a world that is safe for women to exist, it means deconstructing the victim-blaming narrative and reconstructing one where the blame is on the murderers and rapists.

And then maybe, we can enjoy a walk alone at night.