The Cost of Staying Calm

When news broke in January that 37-year-old American Renee Good had been killed by a federal agent, many women felt a kind of immediate, physical shock. This shock was followed by something much more familiar: the bodily knowledge of how quickly an encounter can become dangerous and what may depend on the seconds that follow. Breathe. Don’t make it worse. Stay calm.

Calmness, as is so often the case, becomes the thing to hold on to.

For many women, remaining calm is neither an instinct nor a personality trait. It’s a skill honed throughout life, cultivated in the countless moments when authority seems unpredictable and security fragile. From childhood, women are taught – explicitly and implicitly – that composure is a virtue and that emotional expression risks being labeled as hysteria, instability or irrationality.

The “crazy” woman has long been used to discredit women’s pain, undermine credibility, and justify the dismissal of experiences. Calm, on the other hand, is rewarded: at home, at work, in public, in moments of conflict. Women learn that to be taken seriously, to avoid escalation, to protect themselves and others, they must remain calm, even when circumstances are unfair, frightening or violent.

This expectation is far from neutral. It is deeply gendered and historically applied.

Calmness becomes a survival strategy, controlling women’s emotions as strictly as their bodies. In particularly precarious situations – domestic violence, immigration enforcement or encounters with law enforcement – ​​remaining calm is less a matter of peace of mind than of calculating risk. Women know that raising their voice, crying, panicking or resisting can be used against them. For those who face government authority — especially women of color, immigrants, and mothers — calm is armor. It’s a way to remain legible, non-threatening, and alive in systems never designed for women’s safety.

In communities shaped by federal law enforcement, restraint, calm and de-escalation are a way of life. Today, as the federal presence expands to more cities in the wake of high-profile incidents, women across the country are learning what others have long known: Calm can protect, even if it comes at a personal cost. But remaining calm does not mean remaining silent or inactive.

Charm I spoke with women from communities familiar with federal law enforcement — and those who have encountered it recently — about what they saw and felt, and what needs to change.

Angelina, student, El Paso

On June 11, I went to the federal courthouse. A friend and I brought posters and joined a group already protesting outside. Inside the building they didn’t allow check-ins, flags or signs, so my friend and I decided to stay outside.

What we didn’t know at the time was that people were being held inside. When we walked to the other side of the building, we saw families crying and screaming. We approached a woman sitting, leaning on the sidewalk, with her daughter. She was crying so much that she was hyperventilating. His daughter, who couldn’t have been more than 10 years old, explained to us in Spanish that her stepfather had just been arrested and was now being deported.

It was heartbreaking to see someone so young explain such a reality. You could tell she wanted to cry too, but instead she consoled her mother. It was incredibly difficult to witness without becoming emotional. As we continued to walk along the side of the building, we saw ICE trucks and agents loading detainees and walking through a small garage.

At that time, the presence of ICE was not as severe as it is today. I’m scared now, especially because I wear a hijabi and I know I don’t “look American” to them.

At first, it looked like raids on farm workers, warehouses and downtown Los Angeles. Now it’s all the people who sell flowers, the Elote man, the gardeners, the people who drive certain trucks. If you look brown, you’re being questioned.