The first time a girl realizes she is being watched, she is too young to understand what it means. She notices the way her mother adjusts her dress before she steps outside, the way her older cousin warns her to be careful but never quite says of what. She feels it in the way men glance at her when she walks past, in the way women whisper warnings disguised as advice.
She does not know it yet, but she is being prepared. Groomed into a set of rules she never agreed to follow, handed an unspoken book of contradictions written long before she was born.
All day, every day, therapist, mother, maid.
Even before she understands the weight of it, she is being shaped into something more than just herself. She is taught to nurture, to comfort, to adjust. To make herself small when needed, to expand only in the spaces where she is allowed. The world molds her into roles she never signed up for, and yet, she is expected to perform them flawlessly.
Be Desirable, but not too much
The world tells her to be beautiful. Not just any beauty, but the kind that is effortless, the kind that draws attention without demanding it. She must be appealing but in a way that does not seem deliberate. If she dresses too plainly, she is ignored. If she dresses too boldly, she is asking for it. A girl’s beauty must be a secret everyone is in on but her.
She watches the way women are spoken about. The ones who are deemed too much—too bold, too sexy, too confident—are shamed for flaunting their desirability. They are whispers behind hands, smirks in the dark, warnings in hushed voices: Don’t be like her.
And yet, she learns that to be completely undesirable is just as dangerous. If she does not meet the invisible standard, she is pitied or dismissed. She is the girl who is “not like the others,” but not in the way that wins admiration. If men do not look at her, she is meant to feel like she has failed.
So she learns the art of balance. Enough makeup to look fresh but not too much to seem vain. Enough curves to be noticed but not enough to be vulgar. Enough presence to be appreciated but not enough to demand space.
But no one tells her that the line keeps moving. That what is “too much” today may be “not enough” tomorrow.
Just an appendage, live to attend him—she is expected to be something pleasing, something ornamental, something designed for admiration but never for autonomy. She is asked to be effortless beauty, but behind that effortlessness is an exhausting, thankless labor.
be pure, but not naive
She grows up on stories of purity. In fairytales, the princess is untouched, waiting to be chosen. She is kind but never foolish, desired but never desiring. She has no past, only a future that belongs to someone else.
So a girl learns to be careful. To walk home with keys between her fingers. To avoid the wrong kind of attention. To stay away from the shadows. But at the same time, she must never be so innocent that she does not understand the world.
How many times have we been told that being a girl means you must be delicate, fragile, and small? But then also told to be strong, independent, and resilient? They want us to be everything and nothing at once
Rupi Kaur
The contradiction is sharp. She must guard herself, yet never seem too closed off. If she trusts too easily, she is foolish. If she hesitates too much, she is difficult. If she doesn’t know, she is childish. If she knows too much, she is jaded.
And when something bad happens—when she is harassed, catcalled, followed—she is asked if she saw the warning signs. As if knowing the rules meant she should have known better. As if the rules ever really kept her safe.
24/7, baby machine, so he can live out his picket fence dreams.
Her worth, in the end, is measured by what she can give. How well she can nurture, how much she can withstand, how perfectly she can transition from innocence to experience without ever seeming too willing, too resistant, too difficult.
be experienced, but not promiscuous
There is no guidebook for when a girl is expected to shift from innocence to experience. One day, she is told to protect herself; the next, she is expected to know how to be desirable, how to keep someone interested, how to be both intriguing and untouchable at the same time.
She watches how women are spoken about—the ones who are too free, too confident in their bodies. They are called reckless, wild, desperate. They are not respected, only consumed. Meanwhile, the ones who are cautious, who take their time, are mocked for being too rigid, too cold.
And so the girl is left in between, walking a path where there are no right answers.
If she waits, she is frigid. If she does not, she is easy. If she says yes too often, she is reckless. If she says no too much, she is unlovable. The number of hands that have traced her skin should be neither too few nor too many, but the perfect, undefined amount that satisfies society’s impossible standard.
And the worst part? That standard is different for everyone.
And for a moment, she wonders—what if she simply refused to play along? What if she did not concern herself with what others would think? What if she let herself love, or not love, on her own terms?
What if she stopped treating her body like something she owed to the world?
the hypocrisy of society
Society does not want a girl to belong to herself. It wants to own her, define her, shape her into something that is convenient. Something that is desirable but not disruptive. Something that can be admired without being questioned.
And yet, no matter what she does, there will always be criticism.
If she enjoys attention, she is conceited. If she avoids it, she is insecure. If she is comfortable with her sexuality, she is dangerous. If she is uncomfortable, she is a prude.
Society will always find a way to make a woman feel like she is failing at something.
And the truth is—these expectations were never about her. They were never about keeping her safe, never about making sure she was happy. They were about control. About making sure she was always second-guessing herself. About ensuring she was always bending, always compromising, always questioning if she was too much or too little.
breaking free
But what if she stopped?
What if she refused to measure her worth in how well she met impossible standards?
What if she decided that she did not exist to be looked at, judged, or owned?
What if she let herself be too much? Too loud, too wild, too soft, too strong—whatever she wanted to be, without worrying if it was right.
What if she stopped apologizing for the way she took up space?
A girl should be two things: who and what she wants.
Coco Chanel
It would not be easy. The world does not like women who refuse to play the game. But perhaps there is power in that refusal. Perhaps freedom is not in being perfect, but in realizing that perfection was never real to begin with.
So maybe the next time a girl hears the rules, she will choose to break them. Maybe she will decide that she does not need to be nymph first, then virgin, then something else entirely.
Maybe she will decide that she is simply herself.
A girl. A woman. Not a puzzle, not a performance. Not something to be solved or softened, but something whole and unbroken.
And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough.