i love women

because every version of me has been shaped by them

all my life, i never looked up to a man. not out of bitterness. just a quiet, instinctual pull in another direction. my admiration has always belonged to women. not the glossy, perfect kind, but the real ones. the tired ones. the tender ones. the ones who carry ten things in their arms and still find room for you. i wanted to be just like them. i still do.

some of my safest memories are sewn into the folds of moments most people would forget. but they live in me. like the time i had an infected piercing and was writhing in pain, tears streaking down my face, as three male doctors hovered, confused, clumsy, sterile. they tugged and twisted and tried to numb it, but i screamed louder each time. then a woman nurse walked in.

she said nothing at first. just placed a warm hand on my shoulder and knelt beside me. she met my eyes. her hands were firm but kind, and in a few swift, practiced movements, the earring was gone. pain, yes, but softened somehow by the way she held space for it. she didn’t treat me like a problem to fix. she treated me like someone in pain. someone worth comforting. and i cried harder. not from pain, but from how safe she made me feel.

maybe it started earlier, with my mother. she was both anchor and lighthouse. always steady, always searching the dark for danger. not because she wanted to be both mom and dad, but because she had to be. my father was often there, physically. but emotionally, he floated at the edges, unreachable. she stepped into the gaps he left behind. not loudly, but consistently. with grocery lists, emergency contacts, perfectly packed school lunches, quiet sacrifices.

from her, i learned that love is not loud declarations or grand gestures. it’s a practice. it’s remembering what you like on your toast. it’s staying awake until you come home. it’s holding everything together while pretending it’s easy. she was my first example of a woman who gave even when empty. who stayed even when tired. who turned absence into structure.

and because of her, i learned to love women. not the idea of them. not some filtered, aesthetic version. but the full-bodied reality. i love the way women exist in spaces. how they look out for each other in bookshops and grocery aisles and long lines for coffee. how they whisper “your tag’s out” or “you’ve got lipstick on your teeth” without embarrassment. how they make room; physically, emotionally and energetically. even when the room wasn’t made for them.

i love women who cry in public restrooms and women who carry tissues in their bags just in case. women who laugh too loudly at the wrong time. women who apologize too much, then catch themselves and stop. women who remember your dog’s name, who compliment your earrings, who notice when your voice goes quiet halfway through a sentence. women who fix your necklace mid-story. who offer gum in waiting rooms. who say “let me know when you get home” like it’s second nature.

i feel safe around women. not always. not everywhere. but more often than not, in a way that doesn’t need explaining. it’s a safety that doesn’t shout. it hums. like warm lamplight after a harsh day. like taking off tight shoes. like exhaling without realising you were holding your breath.

and maybe that safety feels rare because the world asks so much from us. it asks us to be everything, all at once. soft but not fragile. confident but not arrogant. sexy but not asking for it. maternal but not dependent. assertive but polite. we are expected to bleed quietly. to love loudly. to give endlessly. to want less. to need nothing. we’re told to shrink ourselves for comfort. to smile when interrupted. to say sorry when we take up space. and when we do manage to succeed, to shine, to be proud, we’re told we’re too much.

men are taught to seek what they want. women are taught to become what others want. and even when we meet the standard, the rules change. even when we excel, we’re doubted. even when we rest, we’re called lazy. we are stretched thin, yet told to look effortless. to care for others, but not inconvenience them. to endure quietly, beautifully, invisibly.

and yet. through all of this, we still find each other. across rooms, across lifetimes. women still make space for other women. with just a glance that says, “i know.” with a nod that feels like safety. a stranger fixing your strap. a friend who texts “just thinking of you.” women understand grief that lives in the spine. how to carry sorrow without spilling it. how to show up smiling even when your ribs are full of splinters. we know how to live as contradiction. as both the healer and the wound. both the fire and the shelter.

we keep showing up. we show up tired. we show up scared. we show up with shaky hands and full hearts. we keep loving, even when it hurts.

even the women who don’t seem soft. the ones who cross their arms when you enter the room. who glare instead of smile. i love them too. not from a place of naïve optimism, but from recognition. i know what it is to be cold as a form of protection. to freeze instead of flee. their silence doesn’t scare me. their sharpness doesn’t offend me. it tells me they’ve been through something. it tells me they built their armor piece by piece. i don’t take it personally. some women survive the world by softening. others survive by hardening. both are brave. both are valid.

i crave friendships with women that feel like warm kitchens and quiet loyalty. not loud declarations. not conditional warmth. but the kind of care that lingers. that shows up without being asked. the kind you feel in someone staying on the phone while you walk home at night. in someone noticing when your voice dips, when your laugh isn’t real. i admire women who’ve been broken and came back softer. who choose kindness anyway.

there are times when comparison sneaks in. we’re human. some days, i feel behind. in beauty. in strength. in becoming. but i’ve never looked at another woman and seen a threat. i see her light and feel relief. like, thank god someone else made it through. someone else understands the pressure. the exhaustion. the invisible math of how much space we’re allowed to take up.

i am who i am because i never hated women like taylor swift or greta thunberg. i didn’t flinch when they were loud or ambitious or took up space. i didn’t roll my eyes when they cried or asked for more. i let myself admire them instead of resenting them. maybe that’s why i grew into someone who believes softness and strength can coexist. someone who cheers when women win. someone who still thinks being like a girl is a compliment.

i cannot imagine a world without women. without their late-night texts and knowing glances. their playlists and passed-down recipes. their warnings, their advice, their affection. their rage. their joy. their rooms filled with plants. their rooms filled with silence. the way they touch your arm when something matters. the way they love without needing credit.

it would be a world stripped of music, of moonlight, of meaning. without their laughter, their grief, their knowing, their care. without group chats and shared playlists and someone saying “i brought you this because i thought of you.” without hair braiding and recipe sharing and random acts of softness. it’s unthinkable. it would be like a song without melody. a day without sky.

i could never hate women.
even the ones who don’t love me back.
even the ones who turn away.
we are made of the same ache. the same memory. the same miracle.
loving women: loudly, fiercely, gently, has never taken anything from me.
it has only ever felt like coming home.

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