This is a story of being a woman that I actually never even considered telling. I hadn’t realized the power in womanhood until, by accident, I stumbled upon it. One day, it was simply yet affectionately spoken into existence, rather than softly smothered by the eyes of older men with hawk-eyeing wives. I spent my teenage years misinterpreting this story. Instagram, magazines, music, advertising, boys, girls, men, and women had me believing it was all about tits, hips, lips, and ass. What a lie. What a big and horrible, shallow lie. I met this wonderful woman in twenty twenty two. She was around the same age as my mum. It was her birthday. This older man said she looked really good for her age. She told me about it. I thought it was a compliment. Then, in her anger and frustration, I knew she was beautiful no matter what. His intentions may have been good, but he was wrong. What a sentence. A million women around the world held hostage by the thought of a haunting youth. To be wise, wonderful, courageous, and to have lived however long you have lived, only to be softly smothered into the false yearning of looking younger. I remember her fiery. I wonder who invented these cringy and epically wrong belief systems.

I have been thinking, maybe even obsessing, over what one could do about all this.

I met Ester at a cafe we both worked at in twenty twenty one, and I met TJ in Bali in twenty twenty three.

Adoring conversations.

Big hearts.

Beautiful humans.

Intelligent minds.

Witty, kind, connected. Everything you could ever want in a person, especially in a friend.

Women overflowing.

Women in dresses, with pins in their hair.

A stack of CDs, a pile of clothes, telling each other how beautiful we look.

Twelve moons. Nearly four billion women on Earth. Ester and TJ tell me their thoughts, share pieces of their minds, and I wonder how it all comes together like it does.