Sometimes I think it’s impossible to be a woman. Every day I get older and older, and I think eventually age will make it all clear to me. But it seems with each passing year the intricacies and expectations of womanhood tangle themselves up even further in my mind. When I was younger it seemed obvious: the best type of girl to be is one as far from girlhood as possible. I thought the route to respect could only exist on a path to embracing masculinity. With my biggest role model being my father, I thought that intelligence, independence, and stoicism were the only way to be taken seriously as a woman. Masculine traits were the only ones of value, and classically feminine traits were nothing but frivolous. I failed, for so long, to see the power in femininity and sometimes I find myself failing still.
For the first twenty years of my life, intelligence seemed like the only trait I had in my artillery. Some standards I wasn’t even fully aware of yet had spun me like clay and shaped me before I even knew what any of it meant. I read classic literature before I would ever be able to grasp the words’ full significance. I watched all the movies I saw as impressive, all written, starring, and directed by men. I collected my male mentors like fine jewels and respected them unequivocally. I did all of this and thought, truly and absolutely, that it would somehow exempt me from womanhood altogether. My homelife taught me that intelligence would always be enough. As a kid, I saw my male peers as nothing but a test, a competition to me. I felt a need to keep up with them, I felt a need for them to look at me with admiration and maybe even a little jealousy. I had something to prove to someone, I just didn’t know who or why. In the back of my mind I knew being desirable was the trait I was expected to be striving for; I was not blind to the behavior of those around me. As the days ticked by and childhood became adolescence, I learned that I was failing at it. I would not…could not get myself to fall into that facet of expectation and suddenly my intelligence wasn’t as impressive. My ongoing competition found its end as I realized I was the only one playing. I was never seen as a real threat because I was not seen as anything. Being seen seemed like the only proof that I existed at all.
And suddenly being beautiful was the all-consuming purpose of my life, the all-consuming purpose of a lot of women’s lives because it feels impossible to be taken seriously as anything else. I learned respect for women existed on a different plane from men. Suddenly we were separate beings entirely, a trait that might be admired in a man would bear no basis on whether or not it was admired in a woman. I twisted myself in knots to keep balance, to keep track of what I was meant to do, but it always felt like I was only capable of grazing men’s ankles. I never identified with my gender, in fact, I spent a large portion of my life running from it. I don’t know who I would be if I managed to think differently. If I saw the beauty of warmth, the strength of sensitivity, the power in humility and affection. But I didn’t. Even though I do now, even with everything I understand, these traits do not come naturally to me. I still cannot embrace them. While part of me would love to believe that the qualities I chased in my youth may not be due to outer influence, that they may just be inherent in me, I will never be sure. Everyone is shaped by what they were taught to believe is true and I will never know the version of me that exists outside of my environment. Nobody ever will, but that can be difficult to grapple with when my whole life has been dedicated to being a “good woman.” And being a “good woman” is being everything and nothing, feminine and masculine, a balancing act with a tightrope, ring of fire, and juggling show all in one.
Women are taught to be a series of contradictions. A woman should be smart, but not at the cost of her innocence or naivety. A woman should be independent, but she should still seek a man for protection. A woman should be beautiful, but God forbid she knows it. She should be warm, there for you, mysterious, free, kind, sexy, and on and on and on. Never too much. Never enough. Womanhood does not have a beginning, middle, or end. It exists only in an in-between. It is something you look to and chase and chase and chase, but it is a mirage. A crystal blue lake in the desert that moves further away the more you follow it.
I wish I could finish off with some inspiring, lengthy, and eloquent way to say that I now have it all figured out. I braved the tightrope, jumped through the ring of fire, and still managed to land on my feet, flawlessly juggling everything it means to be a woman. I didn’t. It’s hard enough just to be a person. I still frequently feel like I’ve been running an uphill battle with my identity, my values, and my insecurities. I am not convinced a finish line even exists. While that thought makes part of me want to give up and melt into a jaded all-suffering puddle right now, another part of me thinks I may finally understand an aspect of human suffering that not everyone has the comfort of knowing.
The beliefs society has built are outside of us and within us. The expectations people put on other people are relentless and tireless and the most we could ever do to dispel them is know and try and try and try to figure out where we stand without them. Sometimes that may be impossible. The outside world has a funny way of sneaking in, its foggy tendrils curling around who we are and altering us permanently. Choosing not to be naive to that, choosing to acknowledge the failings of yourself and those outside of your control may be the first step to unchaining yourself. I don’t have anything figured out. But I hope one day I can step off the tightrope, put the fire out, and stop juggling.