I wore a Hollister skirt with blue and orange flowers and an oversized zipper that I had gotten on sale from Marshall’s. It was paired with white vans and a heather gray H&M t-shirt that fit loosely. I fiddled with the barrette that held the front piece of my untamed hair back from my eyes.

My father and younger brother walked slightly ahead of me on the city street, engaged in a disagreement over the Patriots’ starting roster or some Boston-related sports thing. I looked at the spring flowers blossoming in the windowsills of apartments and imagined what my windowsill might look like one day.

As we passed a group of men indulging in a smoke break, I watched as one of them looked from my shoes to my skirt and eventually to my eyes. He smirked and gave a nod in my direction. I first looked around to see if the gesture was intended for me — it was. Then I looked again to see if anyone had noticed — they hadn’t.

I was 13 years old.

Ashamed, I never told my brother or dad what had happened just outside of their peripheral vision. As I lay awake that night replaying the small encounter, which I now remember as the first of many, I felt so angry. Strangely, almost all of my anger was directed at the stupid flowery skirt. I never wanted to touch that worthless piece of fabric again. I wanted to see it burn. Despite being in perfect condition, the skirt would forever be stained in my mind.

As time went on and I grew older, the pile of my outfits that I was ready to set on fire only grew larger. The light-wash Levi’s jeans that an older classmate grabbed the back pocket of; the yellow bikini top an old man at the beach had commented on; the black satin homecoming dress that communicated the wrong message; the white tank top with red hearts that caused my drink to be roofied and even my oldest pair of oversized running shorts that I had worn since middle school — I wanted to watch them all burn.

I walked away after a man had insisted on giving me a handshake in broad daylight and then refused to let go until after I smiled and pulled away repeatedly. I looked down at my favorite red sundress with tiny blue flower petals that cut just above my knees. I couldn’t believe it was stained just as the others had been. I couldn’t believe that I gave him a polite smile and laughed.

Later that night, I called my mom and told her casually what had happened earlier — passing it off as a strange, maybe even funny occurrence.

“You have to learn how to not be as nice. If you want this stuff to stop happening, you have to find a way to seem meaner,” she told me over the phone.

I focused on maintaining my composure and steadying my voice, despite feeling the tears welling up in my eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” I responded.

Logically, I understand that it’s not the outfit I wear or the reaction I give. I know there’s very little I can do to prevent this from happening to myself or other girls. I’m sure my mom knows this as well. After all, she’s told me her horror stories that mirror mine and those of most of my friends.

The sad truth is that she just wants to be able to offer her daughter a solution. So, she tells me to be meaner. My solution is to mentally set my tainted wardrobe on fire. As women, we continuously search for ways to fix a cultural problem that is none of our doing.

We carry pepper spray. We share our locations with each other. We walk in groups to parties. We don’t accept open drinks. We train in self-defense. We do what we can to prevent and cope with the reality of being a woman.

The truth is that I’m not sure where the solution lies. I’m not entirely confident there’s one to be found. But we owe it to ourselves and our daughters to keep trying.

This begins with talking about our experiences. We have to share our stories. Keeping our experiences and emotions buried only enables men to continue with this problematic behavior. Having hard conversations with brothers, sisters, boyfriends, parents and classmates about what is happening is the first step towards improving conditions. This is a call to conversation.