What a Handyman Taught Me About Fear
What a Normal Night in Maui Taught Me About Being a Woman
The other day, while staying in a beautiful condo in Maui, a generous gift from a friend, I had a brief but unsettling experience that’s lingered with me longer than I expected.
The place itself was idyllic. Floor-to-ceiling windows, warm breezes drifting in from the lanai, and the hush of waves just beyond the palms. I felt lucky, restored even. It’s the kind of environment that asks you to exhale, to stop bracing for anything.
The washing machine, however, had other plans. When the handyman came by the first time, he was courteous and efficient. He nodded a hello, tinkered with the machine, and left quietly. I barely thought about it. There wasn’t much opportunity for engagement as I was working with a client on zoom.
But when the machine continued to act up, a second visit was scheduled. I was told he’d come by again that evening. As the sun dipped below the horizon and twilight set in, I was on the lanai, glass of wine in hand, listening to the rustle of leaves and feeling grateful. Just as I turned to step inside, there he was—a dark silhouette in the doorway. I startled. I gasped. He immediately apologized, “It’s me, the handyman,” he moved towards the washing machine with a little chuckle, I laughed and smiled and made my way back outside to take a phone call..
Letting myself melt back into that Maui calm, enjoying an update from my daughter on the mainland. When I came back in, still on the phone, he was just wrapping up. But this time, instead of leaving, he lingered.
He smiled, made small talk, and then began to ask questions: What’s your name? Where are you from? How long are you staying?
And just like that, the atmosphere shifted. My body knew it before my mind could fully process it. The easy breeze I’d been breathing disappeared. I nodded politely, offered a few vague answers, apologized for being on a call, and moved away as quickly and graciously as I could.
Maybe to some, that moment would seem harmless. And maybe it was. But what followed was hours of tension—checking locks, peering out the windows, listening for unfamiliar sounds. That tiny exchange had punctured something. I was no longer just a woman on vacation; I was a woman alone. And now someone else knew that.
I should also say that my friend has known this handyman for years, and by all accounts, he’s trustworthy. This wasn’t really about him. It was about what has become a woman’s default response to being alone with a man she doesn’t know—guarded, cautious, always alert.
Later, I shared the story with a local friend. She laughed, kindly, and said, “That’s just talking story. It’s what people do here. Everyone’s friendly. Nobody’s in a rush. People just like to connect.”
And I get that. I do. In fact, I crave it. There’s something beautiful about the slowness of life here. The way people genuinely want to know who you are, not just what you do. It’s soulful. It’s human.
But the truth is, I don’t live in that world. I live in one where women, especially those who live alone, travel alone, walk alone, must always calculate. We assess risk in every interaction, no matter how mundane. It’s not paranoia; it’s survival. Decades of personal experience, and centuries of collective trauma, have wired us this way.
And that makes me sad. Because I want to be the woman who talks story. Who welcomes conversation, who doesn’t flinch when someone lingers too long or asks one too many questions. I want to live in a world where friendliness is just that—and not a potential red flag.
Instead, I found myself thinking: Thank God I told him I’m from L.A. Maybe that explains the edge in my voice. Maybe that gives him some context for my coolness, my guardedness.
But why should I have to explain it? Why should I feel guilty for feeling uneasy? Why do I have to apologize for instincts that might, one day, save me?
There’s a tension between two realities: the generous spirit of this island and the hyper-vigilance I carry everywhere I go. The first invites you to relax, the second won’t let you. And that dissonance is exhausting.
I long for a world where “talking story” feels safe again. Where slow moments, casual chatter, and human connection don’t come at the cost of internal alarm bells. Where women can be curious and open without needing to be alert. Where we can believe that someone asking, “Where are you from?” really just wants to know, and nothing more.
Until then, I’ll keep locking the doors. I’ll keep smiling politely while drawing invisible boundaries. I’ll keep trusting my gut—even when it makes me feel rude. Because kindness doesn’t mean ignoring fear. And vigilance doesn’t make me broken. It just means I’ve been paying attention.
Everyone Has a Story—Now’s the Time to Tell Yours
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Everyone Has a Story—Now’s the Time to Tell Yours
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Thank you for sharing.
Men need to understand.
We all have women in our lives who are dear to us.
❤️
And I get creepy vibes just listening to you tell the tale. Lock that door.