The Woman I Am

A poem about learning to accept my womanhood

I used to dislike the word “woman”

when it was applied to me.

It sounded too formal,

too grown-up,

too proper,

and most of all,

too feminine.

Women were… well, womanly.

And I didn’t see myself that way.

---

As a child, people would tell me

they were praying for the woman I would become.

That she would be the woman

God wanted me to be.

In my mind, I pictured

a blonde-haired version of my mother

with red lipstick

and a feminine laugh.

I’m not like that, I thought.

---

There was a time back in second grade

I was seven years old.

It was our Christmas gift exchange at school,

and our class was divided

into boys and girls.

One of the presents in the girls’ group

was wrapped in pink

with the label

“for a girly girl.”

All the other girls

said they wanted that one.

Not me.

I hope I don’t get that one.

I’m not a “girly girl,” I thought.

---

A little over a year later

I decided I wanted

to be called by a boy’s name.

It was 2012,

before trans went mainstream

and I had never heard of it before.

Yet something in me felt

I didn’t want to be a girl.

Boys did more interesting things

than girls did.

They played sports

instead of dolls

and talked about video games

instead of boy bands.

“God made you a girl,” people told me.

Why did God make me a girl? I wondered.

---

At our grandma’s house,

my sister and I played with Barbies.

But mainly I found

that I preferred the Lego.

Not the new “girly Lego”

but the good old-fashioned stuff

from long before I was born.

Just putting the bricks together,

sorting them by shape and pattern,

building something out of these

small plastic pieces.

And when we got a new Playmobil set,

I delighted in assembling it

more so than playing with it.

Another of my favourite toys

was a snap circuits set

for building circuits

such as those found in electronics.

That was a “boy thing,” wasn’t it? I thought.

---

My fondest childhood memories

are not the ones of painting

or crafting

or playing dress-up.

Though I did all those things,

there was something else I loved more.

Running through a wide-open field

with twigs in my hair

and grass stains on my jeans,

climbing every tree I could

until my hands were sticky with sap,

maneuvering my way through

a thickly grown forest,

the branches leaving my legs covered in scratches,

this was my passion.

Though mosquitoes would sting me,

and sting me they did,

I persevered.

I was a brave explorer

unafraid

of dirt and grime.

Why care about Disney princesses

and painted nails

when there was THIS,

out here in the wild? I wondered.

---

When I was ten,

I attended a certain summer camp

for the first time.

It was a wonderful experience,

so much so that I went back every summer

for the next six years.

But one thing in particular stands out

as something I did not like.

Every evening we would play an outdoor game

either in the field or across the whole camp;

this was my favourite activity there.

But one day,

instead of doing a big game for all the campers,

only the boys got to do that

while the girls had a…

spa night?

All the girls cheered when it was announced.

All except me, it seemed.

It was dreadfully boring

and there was no way

I was letting someone

put some weird gunk on my face

or whatever else the others were doing.

I picked candle wax off the tablecloth instead.

Why can’t I go play with the boys? I wondered.

---

Then junior high came

and the gap between boys and girls

widened further.

My school “friends”

were all girls

yet I never felt

like I was one of them.

Boys were stupid

and girls were silly

and then…

there was me.

Why is the world like this? I questioned.

---

I felt like an imposter

trying to be some other version of myself.

I became convinced

I had to keep up with fashion trends

for others to like me.

So I begged my parents

to take me to the “cool stores”

when we visited a big mall

despite the fact that I hate shopping.

This is what teenage girls do, after all, I thought.

---

It took a long time

for me to learn to be myself.

But after years of trying and failing to “fit in,”

I realized how stupid that is.

If God truly loves me

even given all my sins and faults

then I can too.

I learned to not care

about what others say

and in high school,

things were better.

---

“I’m an adult,” I would say

after my eighteenth birthday.

Yet the word “woman”

still sounded foreign

and wrong.

Like something I wasn’t

even though I was one.

---

The last time I ever wore a dress

was in December of 2021

for the Christmas banquet

in my first year of college.

I had already gotten rid of

all the skirts and dresses

I had previously owned.

I never had a grad dress,

nor did I ever want one.

I didn’t want to go to the event.

But others insisted.

“You can borrow a dress!” they said.

So I did.

---

Clad in a simple green dress patterned with flowers

I went.

My long hair was curled for the first and last time

not because I wanted it so

but because a friend offered to do it

and I didn’t want to let her down.

It all felt so fake.

I felt fake.

This isn’t me, I thought.

---

I got my hair cut short in August of the next year.

From the longest it ever was

to shorter than I’d ever had it before

except when I was a baby.

It felt so freeing.

Getting rid of the extra weight I carried,

not that my hair was ever thick,

these dead cells I didn’t need

no longer getting in my way.

I don’t think I’ll ever go back.

---

I still disliked the word “woman”

when it was applied to me.

It sounded too formal,

too grown-up,

too proper,

and most of all,

too feminine.

Women were… well, womanly.

And I didn’t see myself that way.

---

It took a while

for me to become comfortable

with the word “woman.”

But eventually, I did.

---

I’ve never worn makeup

or gotten my ears pierced

or cared much about my appearance.

I don’t listen to boy bands

or watch chick flicks

or dream of marrying a prince.

But I am still a woman.

---

I like taking things apart

and putting them back together

and figuring out how stuff works.

I fantasize about epic quests

with fearsome creatures and daring swordfights;

these are the stories I love.

But I am still a woman.

---

I think about the Roman Empire a lot.

I’ll take a math or science test

over writing a literary analysis essay any day.

Doing things like getting a makeover

or going on a shopping spree

sound like torture to me.

But I am still a woman.

---

Like everyone else,

I am a complex individual.

I cannot be reduced

to mere stereotypes.

I roll my eyes at

most romance moments in movies

though I couldn't help but nearly sob

my eyes out

at the proposal scene in Ever After

both times I’ve seen it.

I read some books

that are more popular with a male audience

and some other books

that are more popular with a female audience.

But none of this changes

the facts of who I am.

---

I don’t want to go out for coffee and chat

like many women do.

I’d rather do something

while spending time with those I love.

I’m not afraid of getting my hands dirty

or breaking a fingernail.

The thought of talking about feelings

makes me feel sick;

let’s stick to the facts, please.

That is the woman I am.

---

I am a woman

and nothing in this world

is ever going to change that.

I may not act like most women do

or share their interests,

but women are not a monolith.

We are all different,

some more so than others,

yet some things unite us all.

One’s personality

or preferred style of clothing

is not what makes them male or female;

I wish the world

would understand that.

---

It’s okay to be atypical.

You don’t have to adhere to

arbitrary standards and societal expectations

regarding what men and women

should be like.

I am no less of a woman than the most

feminine woman out there

and that is a beautiful thing.

This is the woman I am.