On Alarms, Politeness, and Other Survival Skills

On being alert without being afraid

Years ago, I read The Gift of Fear. I’ve read it again since. More than once, actually, because some books aren’t finished with you after the first reading. They sit quietly on the shelf and wait.

The premise is simple: fear is not hysteria or imagination. Most of the time, it’s information. It’s your brain noticing patterns faster than your conscious mind can sort them out and letting you know—often without words—that something doesn’t line up.

What caught my attention right away was the author himself. He writes about growing up in an abusive home and how that experience sharpened his ability to read people and situations. Not because he wanted that skill, but because he needed it. I recognized that. My own childhood wasn’t as extreme, but it left me with the same unintended result: heightened awareness and an internal radar that never fully switches off.

One section of the book lays out what he calls pre-incident indicators—ordinary behaviors people use before they do something harmful. Not dramatic warning signs. Just charm, excessive friendliness, unsolicited help, pushing past a “no,” or insisting on trust before it’s earned.

Reading that list stopped me cold.

I realized that several of those tactics had been used on me over the years—and that I hadn’t fallen for them. At the time, I assumed that was because I was rude. Or stubborn. Or not particularly accommodating.

It turns out that being anything other than a rude, stubborn woman is often how one becomes a victim.

My first year in the Navy, I lived off base with two friends while attending electronics training. The neighborhood wasn’t great. One evening, I stopped at a corner grocery and came out carrying two bags and my purse. A group of men were lounging on motorcycles at the curb, looking bored and entertained at the same time.

One of them asked if I wanted help carrying my bags.

I said no, thank you.

He smiled and followed with, “Don’t you trust me?” His friends watched closely. My stomach dropped—not dramatically, just enough to matter.

I looked him in the eye and told him that he was probably very trustworthy, but I didn’t know him, so I would decline his offer.

He studied me for a moment, nodded once, and stepped back.

Nothing happened. Which is exactly why it mattered.

Years later, in California, I was grocery shopping with my son, who was about five. We’d reached the car, and I was opening the trunk when a man approached and offered help. I said no, thank you. He pressed. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of bags.”

I said no again.

He kept coming closer.

I shouted, “NO. NO. NO.”

My son came around the car to see what was happening. People turned to look. The man walked away.

At the time, I didn’t think of this as intuition or strength. I thought I was difficult. Embarrassing. The kind of woman who makes scenes in parking lots. Years later, reading that book, I understood what had happened: my body had refused to cooperate with politeness.

That refusal has stayed with me.

I don’t trust people who are overly friendly too quickly. I don’t trust people who talk too much. That eager warmth, that instant familiarity—it makes me uneasy. Not because it’s always dangerous, but because it often wants something.

After we moved out of Houston, I started looking for a new general practitioner. My doctor there had been excellent. The first new doctor didn’t listen at all. The second one listened carefully. He explained everything. Possibly more than everything.

And then he hugged me at the beginning of every appointment.

No other professional does that. Not doctors. Not lawyers. Not anyone who understands boundaries. Professionals keep a distance in professional spaces. This man didn’t.

My internal alarms went off immediately.

Once I understood what bothered me, the decision wasn’t difficult.

I switched doctors.

The Gift of Fear didn’t make me suspicious. It didn’t make me fearful. It gave me permission—to trust the quiet internal “no,” to disappoint strangers, to be labeled rude or unfriendly in exchange for being safe.

Danger rarely announces itself. It usually smiles. It offers help. It insists you’re being unreasonable.

And sometimes, the most sensible thing you can do is say no, pick up your bags, and walk away.