For 20 years, I never had to think about it. I never once questioned the safety of the seat I chose at a restaurant, the stool I slid into at the bar, or the vinyl chair I sat in at the auto shop waiting for my car. My back to the door? It wasn’t even a thought. I had someone who watched my six — who instinctively positioned himself so I could just be. I was covered.

Protected.

But lately, I’ve been remembering a teaching from Malcolm X about never putting your back to the door. And it hit different this time. Maybe because I’ve started to notice how often I still do — out of habit. I’ve had the luxury of peace for so long that I forgot the instinct of being alert. That luxury is gone now.

No one really talks about the things you have to untrain your mind from when you’ve had a partner by your side. Or how deeply muscle memory can run when it’s been molded by years of trust, comfort, and presence.

Now, I find myself taking inventory.

As a single woman, sitting at a restaurant table alone. As a single woman, waiting at the bar for my drink. As a single woman, in the waiting room while my tires get rotated.

I scan the room. I feel the tension in my back when I realize the door is behind me — and I shift. I rotate. I take a corner chair, a barstool with visibility. I watch shadows move before people enter. I’m re-learning how to keep my eyes up, my back covered, and my energy guarded.

Because it’s not just about me anymore. I have littles to protect. I’m not just their safe space; I’m their shield.

In this world — in this climate — you never really know what’s coming through that door.

And that’s not paranoia. That’s presence.

It’s awareness. It’s survival. It’s what happens when the weight of protection falls on your shoulders, and you decide to carry it — not in fear, but in fierce, conscious love.

This is what life looks like, now. Not just turning toward the door, but facing forward — fully.