It starts when you’re five and your neighbor runs by and pulls on your pigtails while you’re playing in the yard. It’s not a big deal, just a little annoying, so you ignore it like the grownups told you to do. After all, boys will be boys, and he didn’t mean anything by it. He was probably just trying to get your attention.

When you’re eight years old, a boy at school pushes you down on the playground. You skin your knee and it bleeds so you cry. You’re brought to the nurse, and as she cleans out your cut you tell her what happened. She smiles at you as she puts on some Neosporin, “Boys like to play rough,” she says, “they don’t know their own strength. After a lollipop and a smiley face band aid you’re inclined to believe her. After all, boys will be boys, and he didn’t do anything that a band aid couldn’t fix.

Three years later you’re eleven and in gym class, and you hear a boy yelling at his friend across the field: “You throw like a girl,” he shouts with a laugh. You roll your eyes because you know he’s being stupid; lots of girls throw just as well as boys, and some girls throw even better. But, you don’t say anything because by now you’ve learned that boys will be boys; they like to show off for their friends, and even though it’s rude they’re not hurting anybody.

Suddenly, you’re thirteen and you’re walking to class when a boy comes running down the hall and snaps your bra strap. You tell your friend what happened when you sit down at your desk. You’re obviously upset, but she doesn’t seem to care because it probably means he likes you and he just wants you to notice. So you shrug off the feeling of his touch that made your skin crawl and tell yourself again that boys will be boys, and he was probably just playing, so you better just ignore it.

Then when you’re sixteen you’re standing at your locker, and the captain of the football team slaps your ass as he walks by. You turn around and tell him to keep his hands to himself, but all he does is smirk. “Don’t be such a prude,” shouts his friend as they’re leaving, and everybody laughs making you feel ashamed. Well, maybe they’re right, you’re just being dramatic, and anyway you don’t want the whole school to think that you’re a prude. You take a deep breath to steady your nerves and keep the tears from spilling over. “Boys will be boys,” you mutter to yourself as you gather your books and head off to class.

Suddenly you’re eighteen at your first college party. You're surrounded by strangers and feeling nervous and awkward. You’re standing alone and not really sure what to do when a boy comes over and offers you a cup. You don’t really drink, but one can’t hurt right? And anyway this guy is cute and he’s smiling at you. So you accept the drink and you take your first sip, and it tastes like a mixture of fruit punch and gasoline, but you sip it because you don’t want to seem rude, and before long you’re feeling a lot more relaxed. It’s two hours later and you’re five drinks in. The boy from before has his hand on your back. You’re trying your hardest to focus on his face, but it’s dark and everything is so confusing. Then he leans in and kisses you softly, his hand sliding down to the top of your thigh. You kiss him back and the butterflies in your stomach are sedate from the alcohol coursing through your veins. He pulls away and two of him swim in and out of focus, and you don’t know for the life of you which one is real. His arm wraps around you and he leads you away from the party, up the stairs and into a room with a bed. You collapse onto the bed, feeling drunker by the minute, knowing that your consciousness is slipping away. There is the click of a lock and he’s standing above you, you see him reach for his belt buckle and you’re too drunk and terrified to move or speak. The edges of your vision are growing darker by the second, and he keeps getting closer, but there’s nothing you can do.

You wake up the next morning somewhere you don’t recognize, sleeping next to a boy that you don’t know at all. As quietly as you can you get up and put your clothes on, running from the house the moment you’re out the door. When you’re far enough away you collapse, shaking, knowing and hating what happened after you passed out.

You feel hurt and ashamed, like everything's your fault because boys will be boys and you shouldn’t have been drinking.

Boys will be boys and you didn’t say no.

Boys will be boys and he didn’t mean anything by it.

Boys will be boys and they like to play rough.

Boys will be boys and he was probably showing off for his friends.

Boys will be boys and maybe he was just playing.

Boys will be boys and you’re just being dramatic.

Boys will be boys, and they do what they want whenever they want with whoever they want because they are boys and that’s just how things are.

This story I’ve told is one that comes true all too often. One in five women in the United States will be sexually assaulted at some point in their lifetime. That is twenty percent of our mothers, friends, sisters, aunts, and daughters, and it needs to end. We walk through life every day and just ignore all the rudeness and sexism that are the warning signs. It’s time that we stop telling girls to keep their heads down, and not to wear what they want, and not talk back because it’s just too dangerous. Instead we need to stop letting sexual assault be the norm and teach our boys to be men that give women the respect that they deserve. So educate your kids, siblings, students, and friends. Show them how to treat people as people rather than their gender. Teach them to be kind and respectful and loyal so that maybe one day women can walk down the street without hearing catcalls, and go to a party without fearing that every guy there is looking to take advantage of them. The best thing we can do is to turn all of the abuse and disrespect into love, kindness, and support. It is all any of us as women, as a community, as a nation, as a world, as humans can hope to accomplish.