As we grow older, our perception of what being a woman means, evolves. All the way into the things we notice, what our comforts become, what we look for in other women and also in men too. We were never told of the continued strain of our identity— too contradictory, paradoxical in nature. How do we look away, once we’ve seen things that make us feel all too much? I’ve never truly had the luxury to love without reservations, without boundaries or walls between the thing I love and I.
Bearing the weight of knowing who you are and who you want to be seems easy enough, but how much can we be? I’ve noticed that within women, there is no line or barrier, but to everyone else— within our careers, our education, and our romantic relationships, there are clear cut groups which we all need to be sorted into.
Are you the bossy bitch, or the motherly girlfriend? Or maybe you’re known for sleeping your way to the top, or the girl who cares about academics and forgets about her looks. All these clichés, stigmas and stereotypes consume us, and we forget that we can be everything. Why can’t you be the girl who takes care of the way she looks, but also is fiercely academic and a workaholic? Or the girl who can be the perfect girlfriend, but also a party animal who loves leaving a trail of broken hearts. Can you be slightly ditzy and dopey, but keep an intelligence within you that parallels no one else?
We can be all the people we want to be and live all the lives we want to live. Could we truly feel all the variations of mental and physical possible within our lives, or like Sylvia Palth— believe that can never be. Womanhood sits between two worlds, where we are forced to feel as if we have to pick one. We often don’t feel at home in life, but what I’ve found is that when womanhood feels unbearable, seeing refuge in being a woman is what saves us. We pretend to be cynics and deny ourselves so much, because we’re terrified of wanting something we may never be able to get.
We are part of everything we’ve read, felt, experiences and the people we’ve met. How much complexity will ever be enough, and should we even hold the hope that we can ever hope to be understood for who we are- without all the reservations, judgment and expectations we bear the weight of? Are we homesick to feel understood?