Oh To Be A Woman.
The clock read 2:59pm. I sat urgently tapping my foot, waiting for the day to finally be over. 3 o'clock hit, “Thank god,” I muttered to myself. As I slammed my laptop down, along with it came a snap. There it was…part of my beautiful, freshly done, long purple nail, staring back at me, broken. I let out a long sigh, dreading even the thought of having to get it redone. The day had been a trial in itself, forcing my way through it sick as a dog without a single complaint. My eyes watered yet again, as another wave of chills struck, followed by my dry cough scratching the back of my throat. Did I need to get them redone that second? No. But I couldn’t silence the little voice in the back of my head that continued mocking me, insisting that I couldn’t be seen in public with a broken nail. Some might call it dramatic, but in my brain, it equated to others perceiving me as lazy and not put-together. I grabbed my cough drops and my Advil, took a deep breath, and forced my way towards the nail salon. Oh, to be a woman…
The next morning, I felt a little bit better, ready to take on the work day. Some might say it was the ungodly amount of Advil coursing through my veins, but hey, a win was a win, and I was starting to feel a little more human again. Lunch time rolled around, and my stomach started to nudge at me, signaling it was hungry. Before I made my way to the kitchen, I decided to open up TikTok and treat myself with some good ole doom scrolling. The first video that popped up was a fitness influencer taking me through her version of “What I Eat In A Day.” As she maneuvered through every meal, I started to notice a pattern: minimal calories and minimal portions. Instantly, what followed was a subconscious comparison of how I was eating almost double the amount that she was. My brain started to question, “Am I eating too much?” Only dwelling on it for a second, I scrolled onto the next video. The emotion of relief relaxed the tension in my muscles, as I realized it wasn’t another food video. Instead, it was one of my fav influencers giving us the dirt on the Summer House Drama between West, Ciara, and Amanda (if you know, you know).
As I sat cackling to myself, watching the video, I started to pay attention to the appearance of the influencer herself. Something about her looked different. Better even. But what was it, what had she changed? Naturally, I spent the next 20 minutes stalking her entire page, trying to put my finger on it, until it clicked. She had lost a significant amount of weight within only a month or two. This video solidified my fear that not only was this a new trend for 2026, but the expectation for women would only continue to grow, that beauty is centered around being a size 2, restrictive eating, excessive fitness, and, for some, the use of GLP-1s.
“Don’t compare yourself to others.” “Every body is different.” “Different diets work for different people.”
All things women are constantly told.
But how, as a woman, can you remind yourself that, when society’s new “trend” seems to reinforce the opposite, with comments actively praising it? I sat there uneasy, trying to remind myself that to be beautiful was to feel strong, to fuel my body. Yet there it was again, the little voice in the back of my head screaming louder at me, making sure I was obsessing over making “healthy” meals because summer was right around the corner and I needed to be “bikini ready.” I looked around the kitchen in quiet defeat, grabbed an apple, and continued on with my Thursday. Oh, to be a woman…
FINALLY, Friday night trickled in, and it was time to go out with my entire friend group.
Of course, my first thought was, "What the hell do I wear?” I began my quest into my closet, searching for anything that would catch my eye. What started off as a simple scan quickly shifted into anger as I ripped through hangers, tossing tops left and right while trying to figure out what fit the vibe for the night. Obviously, I couldn’t be seen wearing something I had already worn before. Eventually, I had journeyed over to the mirror with the few options in hand that I had settled for and began trying each outfit on. “You look too bloated in that top.” ”Your legs look too muscular in those pants.” That shirt is too revealing, people will call you a slut.” The thoughts ran endlessly through my head as I examined every inch of myself in the mirror. So there I sat amongst my pile of clothes, feeling helpless in a task that should be so simple, yet seemed impossibly agonizing to complete. I settled for a basic black top and blue jeans, unofficially known as the Boston Uniform.
I made my way to my vanity, examining the bare canvas that reflected in the mirror as my eyes immediately searched for the imperfections I would soon cover up. I reached for my concealer as I began to coat every blemish and dark spot that needed to be hidden. Next came my eyelashes, repeatedly layering them with my $40 mascara until the illusion of bigger and brighter eyes finally came to life. My gaze then shifted to my lips, which had already been filled a handful of times. “Do they need anything…?” Before my thought had finished forming, I found myself already reaching for my lip liner. It couldn’t hurt to make them look a little more fuller.
As if my makeup hadn’t already drained my energy, my hair was still waiting. I took my curling wand and ran it through my curtain bangs, making sure each piece swooped perfectly to frame my face at just the right angle. A sense of calm started to settle in now that I was done getting ready…until a sharp pain curled through my stomach. Of course, none other than Mother Nature’s revenge, period cramps. Perfect timing! Already late for the pregame, I grabbed a tampon and stormed out the door.
I was excited to see my friends and kick off the start of my weekend. But there I stood, clutching my stomach, as though shards of glass were tearing through me. Internally, I was suffering, but externally, not a single person would’ve known. I existed with a bright smile on my face, continuing to meet the expectations of what others had of me. I knew that one wrong expression of pain could be enough for someone to perceive me as negative or a debby downer. A few minutes of silence might be taken as boredom, or a resting bitch face. I kept greeting people as they came in, forcing myself into the persona of being outgoing and social. Not too social, though, because I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself. Not too outgoing, because confidence could come off as cocky. Not too friendly with men, because I didn’t want it to be taken the wrong way. Not too friendly with certain women, because I didn’t want to be seen as taking sides in the unspoken drama that lingered underneath the surface.
Oh, to be a woman…
The real question I ask myself is: when did this all begin? Is it the new norm of sharing every part of our lives on social media? Is it an expectation set by men? Or is it us women, too? Maybe it’s society as a whole. Or has it always been like this? All I know is that somewhere along the way, women were placed under a microscope, expected to carefully control how we act, look, and carry ourselves, both physically and emotionally. And I’m so fucking tired of it if I’m being honest. I’m not sure where we go from here. Maybe it’s not about fixing it, but slightly loosening our grip on the false reality we call perfection. Maybe it starts from offering ourselves a little more grace and learning to tune out the noise that constantly tells us there’s something wrong with us. Maybe one day, hopefully, just being will be enough. Oh, to be a woman…