Why Women Face The Unwanted Burden Of The Safety Tax

When I leave my friend’s apartment in South Delhi after dinner, I check my phone for the time — 11:15 p.m. Too late for the metro. A cab, maybe. But not just any cab — I’ll book one from an app I trust, share my live location with my parents, send a screenshot of the driver’s details to my mother, and keep my pepper spray within reach. By the time I finally get home, my fare has doubled, and my heart rate hasn’t quite returned to normal.

For women everywhere, safety is not just a feeling — it’s a cost. And one that quietly piles up over time.

 

 

 

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The Hidden Cost of Safety

The “safety tax” is what economists and feminists alike have begun calling the invisible premium women pay to protect themselves in a world built for men. It’s not a formal tax, but the price is real: extra cab fares, “safe” neighborhoods with higher rents, gym memberships chosen carefully, clothing decisions made to minimise attention. Each choice adds up to a lifelong expense born out of fear, not freedom.

In Mumbai, a woman might pay more to live closer to her office just to avoid the long commute home after dark. In Bengaluru, she might skip the last drink because public transport thins out by 9 p.m. In Delhi, she’ll think twice before walking alone — even on roads lined with CCTV cameras. Across cities and classes, this “tax” manifests differently but predictably: women adjusting, accommodating, and paying their way around unsafe systems.

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Safety as a Luxury

It’s a paradox that safety — a basic human right — often functions like a luxury service. There’s the premium women pay for late-night cabs, women-only hostels, and gated communities. The extra phone data for live location sharing. The mental cost of planning routes, second-guessing drivers, and staying hyperaware.

These costs are higher for women at the intersections of class, caste, or marginalisation. A domestic worker walking home at night faces dangers far beyond what a white-collar professional might. But both are trapped in the same calculus — how much is my safety worth tonight?

According to the ‘Riding the Justice Route’ report by Greenpeace India, 75% of women commuting in Delhi said they felt unsafe in public transport after dark. Yet, cities rarely account for women’s experiences in their urban design — fewer streetlights, poorly maintained footpaths, unsafe public toilets. Urban spaces are designed with the assumption of a default male user. Women’s safety is treated as an afterthought, not an integral feature.

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The Psychological Toll

But the safety tax isn’t just financial — it’s psychological. Every “text me when you reach” is a reminder that being a woman means being perpetually on guard. Every mental note — walk fast, hold your keys, avoid eye contact — chips away at one’s sense of normalcy.

For young women living alone in big cities, hypervigilance becomes routine. When I order a cab, I automatically check if there’s a child lock. It’s like my brain runs a background safety check every five minutes.”

This invisible labour — the constant self-monitoring — is another form of unpaid work women perform. It’s time, energy, and mental bandwidth diverted from simply living.

Safety By Design

Experts say the solution lies not in women paying more, but in cities paying attention. The burden of safety must shift from individual women to collective systems. That means better-lit streets, reliable public transport, gender-sensitive policing, and policies that recognise mobility as a gendered issue.

Technology has stepped in to fill the void — location-sharing features, emergency SOS buttons, women-only rides — but these are stopgaps, not solutions. When an app promises to make women feel safe, it’s basically monetising a failure of public infrastructure.

The Emotional Cost of Freedom

Every woman knows the mental math of safety. It starts young — deciding whether to wear jeans or loose pants, to stay late at a friend’s house or not, to speak up when followed or stay silent. It’s a calculation men rarely have to make.

And that’s what makes the safety tax so insidious — it’s not just about what women spend, but what they lose. Opportunities declined, friendships cut short, spontaneity stifled. The safety tax doesn’t just cost money; it costs mobility, ambition, and peace of mind.

As I lock my door that night, I let out a long breath — a tiny ritual of relief women everywhere perform. I have made it home safely. But I paid for it — in rupees, in vigilance, in the quiet exhaustion of having to always think about staying alive.

Until cities, systems, and societies start absorbing that cost instead, women will keep footing the bill for simply existing.

Image courtesy: Freepik

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