There was a time in my life when I didn’t value women friendships the way I do now. Maybe it was school. Maybe it was the way the world conditioned me. But I genuinely believed that being “one of the boys” was somehow cooler. That the approval of boys meant I was special. That if a man said, “You’re not like other girls,” I should wear that as a badge of honor.
I cringe at that now.
Because what does that even mean? That I’m not soft? That I don’t feel deeply? That I don’t cry at movies or love dressing up or talking about life’s tiny heartbreaks with a friend over tea?
Now, when someone says that, I take it as an insult. I am like other girls. I am like the girls who carry the world in their eyes and still show up smiling. I am like the girls who lift one another up, who remember birthdays, who heal with presence, who protect each other like a secret. I’m proud of that.
Women friendships have become my sanctuary. They are where I am heard without having to explain myself. Where emotions are not weaknesses. Where empathy is not performative it’s lived.
There is a quiet revolution in the way women hold space for one another. In our kitchens, in our texts at midnight, in the unspoken understanding of pain, rage, growth. I now see strength not in detachment or distance, but in intimacy, community, and care. Women taught me that.
And Sylvia Plath once wrote in her journal:
“There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.”
A simple line, yes, but behind it lies the truth of how women create rituals of care. How we pour love into routines and conversations, how we survive.
I carry that now.
I no longer try to prove I’m different. I take joy in being just like other girls complex, fierce, thoughtful, radiant. And if you’re reading this as someone who’s also grown out of internalized misogyny and into the warmth of sisterhood, I hope you know you’re not alone.
There’s a whole world of women waiting to cheer you on.
