I am Jane Doe.
The name they give a woman
when they don’t know who she was,
or perhaps they knew,
and simply didn’t care enough to remember.

I am Jane Doe
in every headline that says woman found,
when it should say
woman was someone’s daughter,
someone’s sister,
someone’s friend,
someone who laughed too loudly
and loved too deeply
and had plans for tomorrow.

I am Jane Doe
in the woman who walks faster after dark,
keys between her fingers,
phone held tight,
pretending she isn’t afraid.

I am Jane Doe
in the girl who learned too young
that a smile can be mistaken for permission,
that kindness can be mistaken for weakness,
that silence can be mistaken
for surrender.

But listen carefully.

We are not nameless.

We are the women who kept going.
The women who raised children
while breaking inside.
The women who rebuilt homes,
careers, hearts and lives
from the ashes of things
we never deserved.

We are the women
who were told to be quieter,
smaller, softer, prettier,
more forgiving,
less angry.

And still,
we grew teeth.

I am Jane Doe.
So are you.

The woman beside you.
The woman behind you.
The woman you passed this morning
who looked fine
because women have become experts
at carrying storms beneath their coats.

We are Jane Doe
because any one of us
could become a name on a page,
a photograph on a wall,
a candle in a window,
a question nobody should ever
have had to ask.

So don’t mistake our silence
for weakness.

Don’t mistake our kindness
for permission.

Don’t mistake our patience
for fear.

Because there are millions of us.

And we remember.

We remember every woman
whose name was forgotten.
Every voice that was ignored.
Every door that was locked.
Every warning that went unheard.
Every life reduced to
Jane Doe.

We will say their names.

We will say our own.

And if you still don’t know
who we are,

look around.

We are everywhere.

We are mothers.
We are daughters.
We are sisters.
We are wives.
We are friends.
We are strangers who will stand beside strangers
because we know what it means
to stand alone.

We are tired.

We are angry.

We are still here.

And we are no longer asking
to be heard.

I am Jane Doe.

You are Jane Doe.

We are Jane Doe.

And if you ever think
that makes us powerless,

you have made
the oldest mistake in history.

Don’t mess with us.

JH