When I was younger, especially in school, I thought being “one of the boys” was cooler. I believed boys’ approval made me special, and when a man told me, “You’re not like other girls,” I wore it like a badge of honor. I cringe at that now. What was that supposed to mean? That I’m hard? That I feel less? That I don’t cry at movies, love dressing up, or talk through life’s tiny heartbreaks with a friend over tea? Now, when someone says it, I take it as an insult. I am like other girls. I’m like the girls who carry the world in their eyes and still show up smiling, who lift each other up, remember birthdays, heal each other just by being there, and protect each other like a secret. I’m proud of that.
My friendships with women have become my sanctuary. With them I’m heard without having to explain myself, my emotions are welcome, and empathy is something people live. Women hold space for each other in a quiet, revolutionary way: in our kitchens, in midnight texts, in the way we understand each other’s pain, rage, and growth without saying much. Women taught me that strength lives in intimacy, community, and care. In The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath wrote, “There must be quite a few things a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.” It’s a simple line, and to me it says something true about how women make rituals of care, how we pour love into routines and conversations, and how we survive. I carry that with me now.
I’ve stopped trying to prove I’m different. I’m happy being like other girls: complicated, fierce, and thoughtful. If you’ve also grown out of internalized misogyny and into the warmth of sisterhood, I hope you know you’re in good company. There’s a whole world of women waiting to cheer you on.
