a day without a woman

A year ago on this day, International Women's Day (last year hailed as "A Day Without A Woman") I wrote and shared my first real piece. Reading it back now, I'm prouder than ever of these words, and they still ring so loud and true. It's a work in progress, but I'm even more sure of who I am and what it means to be a woman than I was when I wrote these words just one year ago. And the beautiful truth is, I'm not alone. So many other women are discovering who they are. What they're worth. So many of us are standing up to say, Me Too. Enough Already. Time's Up.

So I wanted to share these words again. They still feel as raw and vulnerable as they did 12 months ago, but as I read them again today they also feel more grounded in truth than ever before.

. . .

A day without a woman

Means we all cease to exist.

Like Russian dolls, we all came from a woman who came from a woman

Who came from a woman who came from a woman.

And I feel that today. I get to be a woman because my mother paved the way

And all of my mothers and sisters and their mothers and sisters before them.

I get to be a woman. A privilege and a curse.

Women were not my thing growing up.

Girls, too clique-y,

A sister, non-existent.

And teachers — threatened by me, and me by them.

I know now it’s because we innately understood each other.

I know what’s inside you. I know what you’re capable of.

Is there room enough for both of us?

Safer to fall in line with the comforts of a man’s world.

Those teachers I adored and I craved their praise.

Because if a man appreciates me, then I’m of value.

And it feels good to be liked.

Feels good to be wanted.

Good to be of value in a man’s world.

Slowly but surely, this stops making sense.

I find myself shaving my legs thinking,

Who am I really doing this for?

I make up a boyfriend so you’ll leave me alone wondering,

Why do you respect a fake man more than me?

I prepare myself before entering the elevator alone with you knowing,

This will not be a safe space for me.

And I go home and laugh and brush these things off

Because it’s just part of life.

Are we really okay with that?

Why does that have to be my reality?

How is it possible to become numb to these things?

The anesthetic is wearing off.

I replay old conversations and realize you were rarely listening.

I relive old situations and realize you weren’t allowed to touch me like that.

I remember all the times I’ve just laughed, silently allowing this behavior.

Yes, the anesthetic is wearing off and I am awake and I am a woman.

When do we arrive here?

When our bodies start bleeding and changing and opening up?

When we make love for the first time?

When we’re paid well for the first time?

When we speak up for the first time?

For me, I arrived when I could look my sisters in the eyes and see that they are me.

There is room enough for all of us.

The gorgeous women around me inspire me every day.

We dream about what’s possible.

We write, we sing, we teach, we lead.

We try our best to set our boundaries.

We’re learning to say, “This is not okay.”

We boldly claim what we want and we go out and get it.

We take back our power, baby step at a time.

We show up. We speak out.

We ask difficult questions, and expect intelligent answers.

My body has always understood what it means to be female.

But today, I am defining and redefining what it means to be a woman.

feeling a little bit vulnerable, and a lotta bit empowered