What Was She Wearing? Why Are We Still Asking?

I have a daughter and a son.

I want them both to grow up believing the world is full of possibilities. I want them to be curious, confident, kind and unafraid to pursue whatever makes them happy.

I want them to have opportunities that aren’t determined by their sex. I want them to be respected for their intelligence, their character and their choices. I want them to understand that their bodies belong to them, that their voices matter and that nobody has the right to make them feel otherwise.

But there is something that troubles me.

As a mother, I already know there are conversations I am more likely to have with my daughter than with my son.

Conversations about walking home alone. About watching her drink. About whether somebody might misinterpret her friendliness. About what she wears, where she goes and how she responds when somebody makes her uncomfortable.

And I find myself wondering why.

Why, in a society that speaks so enthusiastically about equality, are we still preparing girls to navigate dangers that we should be working much harder to eliminate?

Today is International Day of the Girl.

And rather than simply celebrating how wonderful girls are, perhaps we ought to ask ourselves what sort of world we’re actually handing over to them.

Because telling girls they can be anything they want is a rather hollow promise if we cannot also promise to take their safety, dignity and freedom seriously.

What was she wearing?

There are questions that should have disappeared from our vocabulary a long time ago.

This is one of them.

When a woman reports sexual assault, why does the conversation so often drift towards her clothes, her behaviour, her alcohol consumption or the decisions she made before somebody violated her boundaries?

What was she wearing?

Had she been drinking?

Why did she go home with him?

Why didn’t she say something sooner?

Why was she out so late?

Notice how quickly the attention moves away from the person responsible for the assault and towards the woman who experienced it.

Suddenly, she is expected to explain herself.

Her judgement is examined. Her credibility is questioned. Her clothing becomes evidence in a trial that seems to have begun before anybody has even listened to her.

And what message does that send to our daughters?

That their safety depends upon making every decision perfectly?

That if something terrible happens, society will first examine what they might have done differently?

Let’s be absolutely clear.

A short skirt is not consent. A revealing top is not consent. Flirting is not consent. Being drunk is not consent. And being naked is not consent.

That final point matters enormously to me as a naturist.

I live in a community where the human body is understood as something natural, not an invitation, a commodity or a spectacle.

Naturism is how we live. It is not a sexual proposition.

A woman’s body does not become public property because somebody can see it.

Her dignity does not diminish with the amount of clothing she wears.

And her right to bodily autonomy does not disappear because somebody else decides to interpret her appearance sexually.

I sometimes wonder whether society would be a kinder place if we spent less time teaching girls to manage other people’s assumptions and more time teaching everybody to respect boundaries.

Because clothing does not cause sexual assault.

The person who commits it is responsible.

And until we can say that without immediately adding a qualification, we have a serious problem.

Why didn’t she just leave?

Here’s another question that makes me uncomfortable.

When a woman experiences domestic abuse, somebody will almost inevitably ask why she stayed.

As though leaving an abusive relationship were as straightforward as putting on a coat and walking out of the front door.

As though fear, financial dependence, children, isolation, coercive control and threats were minor inconveniences rather than potentially overwhelming barriers.

As though the woman experiencing abuse had somehow failed a test of common sense.

But abuse is rarely as simple as the question suggests.

It can begin gradually.

A little criticism disguised as concern. A friendship discouraged. Money controlled.

Confidence eroded. A partner who insists they know best, who becomes angry when challenged, who makes somebody feel responsible for their moods and behaviour.

Not every abusive relationship involves physical violence.

And not every woman experiencing abuse recognises what is happening immediately.

Sometimes the person who once made her feel safe becomes the person she fears most.

Sometimes leaving can increase the danger.

Sometimes she has spent so long being told she is worthless that believing she deserves something better becomes a struggle in itself.

According to the Office for National Statistics, an estimated 2.2 million women experienced domestic abuse in England and Wales during the year ending March 2025.

That’s not a handful of exceptional circumstances.

That is a devastating number of individual lives affected by fear, control and harm.

And yet we continue asking women why they didn’t leave, rather than concentrating our attention on the people who made staying unbearable and leaving frightening.

I don’t want my daughter growing up in a world where women are expected to become experts in recognising abuse simply because society has failed to prevent so much of it.

I want her to recognise unhealthy behaviour, certainly.

But I also want my son to understand that love is not ownership, jealousy is not affection, control is not protection and intimidation is never an acceptable way to resolve a disagreement.

But there’s something profoundly wrong with a society that celebrates women’s resilience while failing to prevent so much of the harm that makes resilience necessary.

We praise survivors for their courage.

We admire women who rebuild their lives.

We celebrate those who find the strength to speak publicly about what happened to them.

And they deserve that recognition.

But surely the greater achievement would be creating a society in which fewer women needed that courage in the first place.

Why are girls still paying the price?

International Day of the Girl asks us to look beyond our own homes and communities.

And when we do, the picture becomes even more troubling.

UNICEF estimates that around 12 million girls are married before their eighteenth birthday every year.

Twelve million.

Girls whose childhoods may be interrupted by marriage, pregnancy, domestic responsibilities and the loss of opportunities that other children take for granted.

Girls who should be studying, playing, exploring their interests, making friendships and discovering who they want to become.

Instead, many face decisions made by adults about their futures, their bodies and their lives.

Child marriage is not simply a question of tradition.

It is a question of rights, opportunity, safety and power.

Education can transform a girl’s future. So can access to healthcare, economic independence and the freedom to make informed decisions about her own life.

But those opportunities mean very little if she has no meaningful control over the choices that shape her future.

It is easy to read international statistics and imagine these problems belong somewhere else.

Somewhere distant.

Somewhere unfamiliar.

But the underlying question is remarkably close to home.

Who gets to decide what happens to a girl’s body and future?

Whether we’re discussing child marriage, sexual violence, coercive relationships or everyday discrimination, the importance of autonomy keeps returning.

A girl is not somebody else’s possession.

She is not a family’s bargaining chip.

She is not a future wife before she is recognised as a person.

And she should never have to earn the right to be treated with dignity.

Stop telling girls to be careful. Start teaching responsibility.

Now, before somebody decides I’ve suggested we should abandon every sensible safety precaution, I haven’t.

Of course I want my children to understand risk.

Of course I want them to make informed decisions and look after themselves.

But there’s a difference between teaching sensible awareness and making girls feel responsible for preventing other people’s wrongdoing.

And I think we sometimes confuse the two.

We tell girls not to walk alone.

Not to drink too much.

Not to wear something too revealing.

Not to be too friendly.

Not to be too trusting.

Not to upset somebody who might become aggressive.

Not to send the wrong signals.

And eventually, without intending to, we create a rather exhausting list of responsibilities for simply existing as a young woman.

Meanwhile, are we giving boys an equally serious education about consent, respect and personal responsibility?

Are we teaching them that rejection is not humiliation?

That persistence is not romantic when somebody has said no?

That another person’s boundaries are not challenges to overcome?

That a woman can be friendly without being interested, confident without being available and naked without inviting sexual attention?

I hope so.

Because this is not about blaming boys or men collectively.

It is about raising children who understand that equality carries responsibilities for everybody.

My son deserves to grow up free from damaging expectations about masculinity, dominance and entitlement.

My daughter deserves to grow up free from the expectation that she must constantly anticipate and manage somebody else’s behaviour.

Neither should be taught that power comes from controlling another person.

Both should understand that respect is demonstrated through actions, not simply declared as a personal value.

And both should know that consent is fundamental to healthy relationships.

Not complicated.

Not negotiable.

Not something to be assumed.

Equality must mean more than good intentions

We have become rather good at talking about equality.

There are campaigns, conferences, awareness days, pledges, posters and carefully worded statements.

Organisations celebrate women.

Businesses advertise their commitment to inclusion.

Community groups tell us that everybody matters.

And those commitments can be worthwhile.

But I think we have reached a point where we need to ask a more demanding question.

What actually changes?

Are women being heard when they raise concerns?

Are they represented in decisions that affect them?

Are opportunities genuinely open to them?

Are complaints taken seriously?

Do policies protect people’s dignity in practice, or do they simply look reassuring on a website?

Because equality isn’t demonstrated by how enthusiastically an organisation celebrates women once a year.

It is demonstrated by how women are treated on an ordinary Tuesday when nobody is watching.

It is demonstrated in the decisions made behind closed doors, the opportunities offered, the language used and the willingness to challenge behaviour that undermines somebody’s dignity.

And it is demonstrated by whether people with responsibility are prepared to be accountable.

That matters in every community, including naturism.

At Naturism Wales, we say Every Body Matters.

Those words must be more than a slogan.

They should shape how we welcome people, how we protect their autonomy, how we listen to their experiences and how we ensure they have meaningful opportunities to contribute.

Women should never be treated as a marketing strategy, a membership target or a decorative addition to somebody else’s organisation.

They are individuals with their own experiences, abilities, ambitions and voices.

And if we genuinely believe in equality, we must make room for those voices to influence what happens next.

Equality is not a numbers game

I’ve noticed that conversations about women in organisations sometimes become rather obsessed with percentages.

How many women have joined?

How many appear in promotional material?

How many attend events?

How many hold particular positions?

Numbers can reveal important inequalities, and we shouldn’t dismiss them.

But numbers alone cannot tell us whether women feel respected, safe or empowered.

An organisation could increase its female membership considerably without changing the culture that made women feel excluded in the first place.

It could put women at the front of every promotional campaign while leaving the important decisions to somebody else.

It could celebrate women’s confidence while failing to listen when they explain what undermines it.

That isn’t meaningful equality.

It’s presentation.

Real progress requires something less glamorous and rather more demanding.

Listening.

Sharing responsibility.

Challenging assumptions.

Providing genuine opportunities.

Taking concerns seriously.

And recognising that women are not one enormous group with identical experiences, opinions and needs.

Some are mothers. Some aren’t.

Some are confident. Some are finding their confidence.

Some want to lead. Others want to participate without carrying the responsibility of leadership.

Some have experienced discrimination or violence. Others haven’t.

Their differences matter.

And equality means respecting their individuality rather than expecting them all to fit somebody else’s idea of what a woman should be.

I don’t want my daughter to grow up being brave about things she should never have to endure

Perhaps that’s what all of this comes down to for me.

Motherhood has a funny way of changing how you look at the world.

You can spend years accepting things as unfortunate facts of life, only to look at your own child and suddenly realise how unacceptable those facts really are.

I don’t want my daughter to be praised for enduring harassment.

I want her not to experience it.

I don’t want her to have to demonstrate extraordinary courage to report abuse.

I want her to be believed, treated fairly and supported through a proper process.

I don’t want her to feel grateful simply because somebody respects her boundaries.

Respect should be the starting point, not an exceptional act of generosity.

I don’t want her opportunities restricted by assumptions about what girls are supposed to be good at.

And I don’t want her to spend her adult life explaining why her appearance, her clothing or her body should have absolutely no bearing on whether she deserves dignity.

I want those things to be understood long before she has to explain them.

And I want exactly the same fundamental freedoms for my son.

The freedom to develop his character without harmful stereotypes.

The responsibility to respect others.

The opportunity to build relationships based on kindness, honesty and equality.

Because raising girls who believe in their worth is important.

But raising boys who recognise and respect that worth is equally important.

And neither effort will be enough unless the adults, institutions and communities around them demonstrate those values themselves.

International Day of the Girl should be a celebration.

It should recognise the intelligence, creativity, determination and potential of girls everywhere.

But it should also make us uncomfortable.

Because celebration without reflection risks becoming another pleasant annual ritual.

Another poster.

Another slogan.

Another opportunity to congratulate ourselves on progress while overlooking how much remains unfinished.

Girls don’t need endless speeches about how powerful they are.

They need education, protection, opportunity, autonomy and justice.

They need adults who take responsibility for building a better society rather than simply teaching them how to survive the one we’ve already created.

And perhaps most importantly, they need to see those values practised consistently, not just promised.

We cannot keep telling girls they can become anything while expecting them to accept treatment that no human being should have to endure.

So today, rather than simply telling our daughters how extraordinary they are, perhaps we should ask what we are prepared to change for them.

Because the measure of equality is not how loudly we celebrate it.

It is how reliably people experience it.

And until we change that, how can we possibly look our daughters in the eye and tell them they are equal?