I'm 78, and I Learned How Dangerous Being Beautiful Could Be

At 78, Evelyn from New Orleans looks back on a life where being beautiful meant being a target—and nobody warned her.
When she was young, the attention felt flattering. Doors opened, men smiled, compliments followed her everywhere. She thought it was a gift.
At 17, walking home in a sundress, a man in a car followed her for blocks saying crude things, getting louder and more aggressive. When she told her mother, she was told, "You should've worn something different."
As she got older, it happened more. Men at bus stops who turned angry when she didn't smile back. Groups at diners rating her out loud, then following her to the parking lot. Hands that lingered where they shouldn't.
At 22, her boss started making comments about her appearance. One day he cornered her in the supply closet, kissed her neck, said he knew she wanted it. She froze, pushed him away. She thought about reporting it—but nobody called it harassment back then. So she quit and blamed herself.
Men thought her beauty was an invitation. That she owed them something. When she didn't comply, she was a tease, a bitch, stuck up.
If she was friendly, she led them on. If she wasn't, she was cold. If she dressed nicely, she asked for it. If she dressed plainly, she wasted her looks. There was no safe way to exist.
Marriage didn't help. At a work party, her husband's drunk colleague pulled her close, said crude things. She felt dirty, like she'd caused it.
When her body changed after having children, men said she'd let herself go. A man at the grocery store said, "What happened to you? You used to be something."
Evelyn learned to manage it all. Which streets to avoid, keys between her fingers, scanning parking lots. She learned to read every room—where were the exits? Who was watching? Who looked like a threat?
She dressed differently—looser clothes, less makeup. Not because she wanted to, but hoping it would help. It didn't.
Beauty stopped being a gift. It became something to manage, something that made her unsafe.
She lost spontaneity, ease, freedom. Never traveled alone, never went to concerts by herself, never took jobs with late nights. Everything filtered through safety.
At 70, when the attention finally stopped, she felt relief. She could walk in peace, exist without being evaluated or touched.
She was finally free. But angry about all the years lost to fear.
Evelyn's regret isn't that she was beautiful—it's that nobody protected her when beauty made her a target. That she was told to change instead of men being told to change.
She lost her innocence slowly—every unwanted touch, every time she was blamed for someone else's behavior.
A powerful reflection on how being seen as beautiful can come with a dangerous cost.