“What is it like being a woman and living in your own body?” she asks me.
“It’s like never being enough,” I reply.
Too much. Too little. I’m too fat, too thin, too quiet, too loud, too soft, too intense, too complicated, too tired. Always “too” and never “enough.” It means being afraid I’m a burden. Apologizing when I cry. Justifying myself when I laugh too loudly. Looking in the mirror not to see myself, but to correct myself. It means being asked “Who’s taking care of the kids?” whenever I dare to dream. Feeling guilty for wanting something more than just being a mother. Carrying pain with a smile in the corner of my mouth, as if I’m not allowed to disturb others with it.
It’s being mocked when I raise my voice. Or ignored when I say things gently. Learning to smile while something breaks inside me. Knowing how to wear stilettos and heavy hearts. Moving forward even when there’s no ground beneath my feet. Being made of elastic, so I don’t break.
Being a woman means carrying a whole forest of lives I once wanted but never lived. Nurturing the world in my womb and, sometimes, feeling it burn me from within.
It’s being asked to be beautiful—but not too much. Smart—but not intimidating. Ambitious—but within limits. A perfect mother. A supportive wife. A woman who doesn’t ask for too much. But gives everything.
Being a woman is also power. One I’ve learned in silence. On knees scraped by prayer. From the absence of gentleness and from an “I love you” that never came. It means being reborn a thousand times, without applause. And still… not giving up. Not on my voice. Not on my dreams. Not on myself.