For Eliza Fletcher

Along with women across the country, my heart ached as I saw Eliza Fletcher's story unfold in Memphis. Many of those women are runners like me. Mothers like me. Many are Memphians, like I once was. A decade ago, I also ran Central Avenue, whose well-lit, heavily trafficked boundaries weren't enough to keep Eliza safe.  

Women should be able to run. Walk to our car in a parking lot. Live alone. Wear what we want. Leave a relationship.

Women should be able to experience life without a thought of men senselessly, selfishly harming us. But we can't.

Fresh from the womb, our fate is sealed: We are the target and the trophy. Endowed with weapons we didn't ask for and can't control. The mere existence of breasts and a vagina wield power over men that maniacal dictators can only dream of. 

There will always be a man out there who is both spellbound and repulsed by us. We have to be on guard.

As a woman who has lived alone more than not, in small Appalachian towns and major metropolitan areas, I've learned how to take care of myself — resenting it every step of the way.

In my 30s, living alone in Memphis, I was on high alert each time I walked 30 feet from the carport to my front door at night. When a male neighbor I didn't know approached me in the dark during a power outage, I had to be unfriendly to him, not knowing his intentions. When I discovered a man outside my bedroom window at 4 a.m., I was afraid to sleep in my own home.

None of that is fair.

In my small West Virginia city, I don't feel comfortable running on the rail trail because women have been assaulted there. When I crossed paths with a man acting strangely a few steps from my home, I was concerned that now he knows where I live. I worry if one dog, my German Shepherd, will be enough to keep me and my kids safe once my aging pit bull passes away. After Eliza's murder, I began looking for a women's self-defense class so I can learn how to escape a choke hold.

None of this is fair.

In a social media post Eliza Fletcher confessed her "sins" of motherhood, and it haunts me. She said she hopes to learn to be less rigid, to let things go. It's no surprise that a marathon runner would describe herself that way. That level of athleticism requires supreme discipline. If I had known her I would've said, I get it. But you know what? Your discipline is a gift. It makes you a wonderful teacher, a dedicated friend, a conscientious mother. Give yourself grace — you're doing better than you think.

Like any good mother, Eliza gave her best. Like every mom who knows what's good for her, she made time for herself, through running. Like any working mother with a mile-long to-do list, she had an unforgiving schedule, so she ran at dawn. Eliza should've gone home to her young sons that morning after her run. Should've felt the frenzy of getting her kids and herself ready for the day. Should've come home from work to two little boys wound up from a day at school, ready to dump all those big feelings on mom. Should've felt the pressure of cooking dinner, cleaning up, more big feelings, more To Do's, and Don't forget quality time! Should've felt the relief of her head hitting the pillow, quickly followed by thoughts of whether she'd gotten it all right that day.

Eliza should've gone home to the painful, beautiful chaos of being everything to everyone: a woman and a mother. A stranger felt entitled to take that from her. He wanted to destroy her power in order to feel his own. Except he has none. Like all men who harm women, he is weak. Emotionally fragile. Seeking anything to fill the void in his soul, which has been rotting since he was a young child beginning his criminal path.

It's not as simple as blaming her murderer's "innate evil." Men who are capable of atrocities are hurt people. What happened in their childhood? Who hurt them? In the midst of tragedy, most of us lack the emotional fortitude to view this with a clinician's eye. In the present, we choose to focus on the senseless loss of a life. Here is an occasion of righteous anger. 

My heart aches. I'm not alone. Women all over the world are thinking about Eliza. Running for her. I run for her too, through dusk in Morgantown, mace in hand.

Being a woman is inherently unfair. Eliza Fletcher paid the ultimate price for it. In her memory and in spite of the monsters, may we live in our power, believe our worth, and guard our safety.