Unsafe Girl Quotes

Starting over can be the scariest thing in the entire world, whether it’s leaving a lover, a school, a team, a friend or anything else that feels like a core part of our identity but when your gut is telling you that something here isn’t right or feels unsafe, I really want you to listen and trust in that voice.

Being tame is what we're taught: ... put the crayons back, stay in line, don't talk too loud, keep your knees together, nice girls don't... As you might know, nice girls DO, and they like to feel wild and alive. Being tame feels safe, being wild, unsafe. Yet safety is an illusion anyway. We are not in control. No matter how dry and tame and nice we live, we will die. And we will suffer along the way. Living wild is its own reward.

Even though I may feel unsafe and unacceptable, I am accepted in Christ.

Finish it if you choose only remember, my girl, that one may read at forty what is unsafe at twenty, and that we never can be too careful what food we give that precious yet perilous thing called imagination.

The house felt different. Unsafe, unknown, too many possibilities existing all at once. Too many voices whispered back at me from the walls.

I read about a little girl who had to navigate an unsafe world, a world without boundaries. This child was left alone most of the time—if not physically, emotionally. And then every once in a while, it would hit me that that child was me.

We know how unsafe the world is for us. We are like cliffs staring down at a raging sea, battered by winds and salt and spray and unable to wrench ourselves away from the supposed inevitability of it all. But though we may recede under the relentless thrashing, still we stand tall. The world and all its angry currents cannot break us, no matter how hard it tries. Still, this erosion of the spirit is a bitter pill to swallow.

A girl yesterday during my program asked me a question; Sir, Why is this world an Unsafe place? And i had confusion not clarity... No answers

After all, she’d found it so unsafe to be a girl that she’d pretended to be a boy,

I want my girls to know who they are and have strong family connections. I want them to be educated. I want them to travel the world. I want them to be able to support themselves, and if they choose to be in a long-term relationship, it will be based on their strengths, not their weaknesses. And I know that in order for them to get there, it is important that I take more than a surface glance at how I ended up in my unhealthy and unsafe relationship with their father. Only then will I ever have any hope of keeping my history from repeating itself in their future.

Through the Malala Fund, I decided to advocate for the education of Syrian refugees in Jordan. I went to the Syrian border and witnessed scores of refugees fleeing into Jordan. They had walked through the desert to get there with just the clothes on their backs. Many children had no shoes. I broke down and cried as I witnessed their suffering. In the refugee settlements most of the children were not going to school. Sometimes there was no school. Sometimes it was unsafe to walk to school. And sometimes children were working instead of being educated because their father had been killed. I saw many children on the roadside in this hot, hot weather, asking for work, such as carrying heavy stones, in order to feed their families. I just felt such pain in my heart. What is their sin, what have they done that they’ve had to migrate? Why are these innocent children suffering such hardship? Why are they deprived of school and a peaceful environment?

Over the years I've come to expect being groped in gay bars. Complaining about this unwanted touching is often deemed sex-negative, un-queer or even homophobic. Touching in gay bars is often seen as an acceptable form of cruising. [...] I've also witnessed gay men grabbing women's breasts many times on the dance floor. When asked to stop, some have replied 'Don't worry I'm gay! I'm not into girls!" Not being into girls, however, is sometimes less about sexual preference and more about disdain. Is grabbing women's breasts a way to make women feel unsafe and therefore keep them out of gay bars?

As a little kid, an unnamed fear would often overtake me. It wasn’t a fear of anything tangible—tigers, burglars, homelessness—and it couldn’t be solved by usual means like hugging my mother or turning on Nickelodeon shows. The feeling was cold and resided just below my stomach. It made everything around me seem unreal and unsafe.

All that talk about my being just a girl, it being unsafe—imagine, you truly meant it!” “What, did you think I was just being severe?” “Yes, of course,” she replied with a shrug. “For the first year I knew you, perhaps two—I thought you were put on this earth simply to vex me.” His eyebrows lifted. “And after two years?” “Oh, then I figured out the truth,” she said as they walked out of the room. “I was put on this earth to vex you.

It took me almost two thousand miles in the woods to see I had to do some hard work that wasn’t simply walking—that I needed to begin respecting my own body’s boundaries. I had to draw clear lines. Ones that were sound in my mind and therefore impermeable, and would always, no matter where I walked, protect me. Moving forward, I wanted rules. First—when I felt unsafe I’d leave, immediately. The first time, not the tenth time. Not after a hundred red flags smacked in wind violently, clear as trail signs pointing the way to SNAKES. Not after I’d been bitten—the violation. If I wasn’t interested, I would reject the man blatantly.

Amy was mentally packing for a midnight flight to the mail coach to Dover (plan C), when Jane’s gentle voice cut through the listing of ovine pedigrees. "Such a pity about the tapestries," was all she said. Her voice was pitched low but somehow it carried over both the shouting men. Amy glanced sharply at Jane, and was rewarded by a swift kick to the ankle. Had that been a ‘say something now!’ kick, or a ‘be quiet and sit still’ kick? Amy kicked back in inquiry. Jane put her foot down hard over Amy’s. Amy decided that could be interpreted as either ‘be quiet and sit still’ or ‘please stop kicking me now!' Aunt Prudence had snapped out of her reverie with what was nearly an audible click. "Tapestries?" she inquired eagerly. "Why, yes, Mama," Jane replied demurely. "I had hoped that while Amy and I were in France we might be granted access to the tapestries at the Tuilleries." Jane’s quiet words sent the table into a state of electric expectancy. Forks hovered over plates in mid-air; wineglasses tilted halfway to open mouths; little Ned paused in the act of slipping a pea down the back of Agnes’s dress. Even Miss Gwen stopped glaring long enough to eye Jane with what looked more like speculation than rancour. "Not the Gobelins series of Daphne and Apollo!" cried Aunt Prudence. "But, of course, Aunt Prudence," Amy plunged in. Amy just barely restrained herself from turning and flinging her arms around her cousin. Aunt Prudence had spent long hours lamenting that she had never taken the time before the war to copy the pattern of the tapestries that hung in the Tuilleries Palace. "Jane and I had hoped to sketch them for you, hadn’t we, Jane?" "We had," Jane affirmed, her graceful neck dipping in assent. "Yet if Papa feels that France remains unsafe, we shall bow to his greater wisdom." At the other end of the table, Aunt Prudence was wavering. Literally. Torn between her trust in her husband and her burning desire for needlepoint patterns, she swayed a bit in her chair, the feather in her small silk turban quivering with her agitation. "It surely can’t be as unsafe as that, can it, Bertrand?" She leant across the table to peer at her husband through eyes gone nearsighted from long hours over her embroidery frame. "After all, if dear Edouard is willing to take responsibility for the girls…" "Edouard will take very good care of us, I’m sure, Aunt Prudence! If you’ll just read his letter, you’ll see – ouch!" Jane had kicked her again.

It didn’t matter what it was—you needed to understand it all. You liked knowing about things. What they did. How they worked. What would happen next. You thought if you knew enough, nothing would ever catch you off guard. You liked things mapped out, predictable, safe. But that’s not the nature of who we are. Life, particularly for women like us, doesn’t come with a road map. Nor do the people in our lives. Even as a child, this seemed to confound you. You needed to be able to put people in neat little boxes, to label them as friend or foe, safe or unsafe. Because then you’d know what to expect, and how to protect yourself. But with Rhanna that didn’t work. She was your mother, and she wasn’t, living under the same roof, but absent in all the ways that matter to a little girl.

While helping the girl escape an unsafe environment was my priority, a part of me hoped it might lead to my freedom, too. I imagined her telling whomever she confided in about seeing someone in the attic of the house across the road flashing a light.

I'm the bad guy. The undead. The demon. The evil thing lurking in The Woods, making it unsafe for young girls to wander. And actually it was better this way because now I never had to worry about bad guys ever again. I'm the bad guy. And the odds of there being two bad guys in The Woods at one time were pretty slim, I think.

I remember all of it,' she said. 'I remember everything from the moment we met in your church to the night at the Valory Arch. I'm sorry it took me so long.' 'It doesn't matter,' Jacks said flippantly, still smiling crookedly as he dropped the apple in his hand. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud. 'Evangeline. Back away from him,' called a smoky voice through the trees. It was vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place it until Chaos carefully stepped closer. 'He's not safe right now.' 'I'm never safe,' Jacks said. Then with a smirk toward his old friend, he added, 'Playing the hero doesn't suit you, Castor.' 'At least I don't give up just because I fail.' 'I'm not giving up,' Jacks drawled. 'I'm giving the girl what she wants.' His fingers moved down her jaw to Evangeline's chin. For a second, time seemed to slow as he carefully lifted her chin in a way that made her think of only one thing: kissing. Evangeline felt suddenly sober. 'Isn't this what you want?' Jacks whispered.

Stay unfit for leadership While we may not have a science of leadership, we have developed a finely honed science of non-leadership. It is embodied in the training of women we have seen so far. Train girls to feel unsafe, live in fear, stay at home, shrink, judge themselves and their bodies, make girls feel wrong, inferior, immoral and dirty; don’t let girls speak, reason, question, have an opinion, argue, debate; teach them modesty, to wait and follow; make girls suppress their emotions, seek only approval, always please others perfectly, especially men, never say no, avoid conflict, never negotiate, and never initiate action, and then bundle all this behaviour and spray it with morality. This training would make anyone unfit for leadership. No wonder only 5 per cent of CEOs of Fortune 500 companies are women. Studies show that confidence matters more than competence in influencing and selling ideas to others. And women are less likely to ask for a big job or assignment; it is risky and immodest to shine or want to shine.

but we knew enough already to understand why it was only Jana who was invited. She was the only elder Duggar girl who was blond, and everybody knew that Mr. Gothard liked blond girls. We’d joke about it, calling Jana one of “Gothard’s Girls.” It didn’t occur to me at all how strange, unsafe, and unwise it was.

Between fatherlessness and sexual abuse, my entire frame of reference for people God made male was built on the experience of their doing. One man’s absence taught me men were incapable of loving. Only in short, sporadic flashes of affection would they be able to do what they’d said they’d do. Made up of an inconsistent spine straightened out by everything else but their own flesh and blood, I refused to believe men could stand for truth, ever. The other man was not a real one at all, but while becoming a man, he decided to act out his urges on a child. A girl child whose first introduction to male affection wouldn’t be her daddy’s hug but another male’s lusts. The consequence being that a man’s touch sounded like everything unsafe. Sexual abuse, for me, turned male intimacy into an undignified practice of the male ego, to which I would only be a body to conquer and not a person to love.2 I didn’t know it with the same amount of assurance yet but all the while, another man was loving me, always.