When am I a woman?

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We grow up as girls and turn into women. Like a butterfly emerging from it’s cocoon we all of a sudden reach an age in which we wear tailored trousers, a crisp white shirt that we somehow manage to never spill our perfectly green, lush salad lunch down. Sitting poised with coffee in hand and structured blazer sat confidently across our shoulders that are held up by perfect posture. A slick ponytail of glossy hair that doesn’t malt like a ragdoll cat after running a brush through it. Flawless skin, bright eyes, white teeth and a hairless body that if you sat on silk you’d slip straight off because we have obviously managed to somehow still possess the skin of a child who has never known what a growing pain or breakout is yet. A flourishing career with a work-life balance that would look like a montage out of a romantic Friday night movie with how seamlessly and effortless life is in those heels that make your legs look like a giraffe in skinny jeans. This woman wears lacy underwear on the daily, barely has a period and when it comes she gets a little tickle in her ovaries with a splash of blood on the smallest tampon in existence. 

Are you that woman? 

Nah, me neither. She doesn’t have time for the monstrous cramps or cravings. The day two period that feels like a shark has feasted on your womb and left you with internal bleeding for you to then birth into your big comfy pants, because they are the only ones that fit your little bloated belly without feeling like the material is sawing you in half.

I’m pretty much still a child compared to that persona I imagined I’d be as an adult. Yes some people do have that level of perfection, control and discipline. Myself? I’m still figuring out what woman I would like to grow into. I thought it was her, turns out… I’m nowhere near that human. It is an ever-changing horizon as I race against myself most mornings scrambling out the door in paint and ink stained jeans, a jumper that is more bobbly than my hair product draw full of loose hair bobbles and curby grips I fling off at the end of the night. All with the promise that I’ll organise that drawer… One day.  Toothpaste dried onto my lip and sniffing my armpit to see if I remembered to put deodorant on whilst I assembled my belongings for the day ahead like The Avengers. 

Skipping down the stairs and revising my OCD check list as I try not to trip over my own feet eager for another shift in a career I could only dream of. At least I’ve got that part down. 

My hair gets flung up in a half hazard attempt of a “stylish” messy bun, it usually just turns out to be a top-knot with flyaway strands of disobedient baby hairs. They have the maturity of my sense of stability. Fleeing from any form of structure or security. I don odd socks most days and call it an achievement when I manage to match those socks I got off my mum for Christmas in a monogamous relationship. In my head they’ve just went on a break and the separated socks just needed that time apart to assess that they really did belong as a pair.

 It’s the little things.  I bought some plants that for once in my life I haven’t neglected to the point of accidental plant slaughter and eat breakfast everyday. I sometimes take a notion to write in a journal which leaves me feeling almost Lovecraftian with my secret little notes of dark, funny, strange and wonderful thoughts jotted down in almost illegible handwriting. Good luck to the future aliens and generations, trying to decipher those notes of days in the life of a modern-day ‘woman’. 

I still have a lingering sense of wanderlust ‘girl’ inside of me. The one who has big eyes and looks at the world with hope and naive love. The girl whose mouth waters at the first sip of a slush puppy and still gets amused when her tongue turns blue, which of course she shows it with pride to whoever will humour her. The girl who takes her shoes and socks off to feel the cold sea wash her feet. To still love the smell of outside after it rains. I hope I never lose her as I become more woman. More adult and more established within myself. 

The new ways I touch myself, accept myself and feel at peace with the parts of myself I used to torture and curse. She is the woman in me. She is my force, my awakening and my nurturer. Woman looks different to everyone. It feels different to everyone. To be Woman is to be empowered by your being. To become the woman you have always wanted, you just need to look in the mirror because she is her. And that little girl inside of you looking up at the woman you are. She aspires to be you. It has been a give and take with this child you hold so precious in your nostalgia. You have learnt more from her, than she will from you.  She is accepting of that because she got to grow up to be the woman you are now. She exists without judgment. Every move you have made has brought you closer to who you want and need to be as a woman. You as a girl, a she, a her have made decisions that will replace fear with ferocity and doubt with dedication . There is no room for regret or self-sabotage anymore. That embracing warmth of acceptance within your womanly body is a freedom only you can indulge in. So indulge! Much like the Vicar of Dibley in that chocolate fountain. 

You are you. You are woman. And it is the most beautiful thing you will ever experience.  


Robyn @ TEWP x

@sprouttheyobyn xx

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