Being a woman today is no less fraught than it was in the days of witch trials. The methods have changed, but the hostility remains. Instead of being burned at the stake, we are erased, silenced, and too often, murdered in our own homes.

 

As I sat down to write, I tried to put the female experience into words. I made a list – a long catalogue of cons, all external forces that make our very existence a debate. Then, in the interest of fairness, I forced myself to list some pros. They did not come easily at first.

Then I looked around the room.

 

My friends were beside me. Women who knew I'd been struggling and had checked in, made plans, shown up. Women who didn't care what state I arrived in, as long as I arrived. "Come as you are," they said. And I did.

 

Being a woman is like being a synapse – connections branching outward, linking me to the women in my life in ways both seen and unseen. I am made up of my mother, my sisters, my grandma, my friends, my cousins, my aunties, my colleagues. The best parts of me are theirs and the best parts of them are mine.

 

I have no problem with my womanhood. I inhabit it fully. Everything about me is womanly because I am a woman, and I am proud of that.

 

The best part of being a woman is other women. The worst part is the system built to keep us small.

 

This International Women's Day feels heavier than previous years. 2025 is a battleground, thick with anti-DEI rhetoric and ‘your body, my choice' hypocrisy. The election looms and we hold our breath, waiting to see whether we'll be dragged backwards or pushed forward into something better.

 

I seethe when people tell me to ‘calm down' or ‘not worry.' Must be nice, I think, to exist without being a political debate point. No one is questioning a man's right to bodily autonomy. Why would they? The two major party candidates are, predictably, white middle-aged men. A woman isn't even given the chance to lead. We all know what the optics are for women in power. We saw what happened to Kamala. They would never let a woman of colour be president, even if she were infinitely more capable than her orange counterpart.

 

I don't know if you can tell, but I'm angry. Angry that a biological fact means ignorant young men with microphones get to question whether a woman is fit to lead because they think PMS could launch a world war. Angry that a woman must be ten times more competent, more measured, more perfect than a man just to be seen as his equal. Angry that, in 2024, sixty-nine women were murdered by men who were supposed to love them. Angry that too many men hear that statistic and, in the next breath, cry ‘not all men', more outraged at being judged than at the lives lost.

 

And yet we persist. We build, we nurture, we create – not just life, but art, movements, change. The world bends under the weight of our resilience, yet we are told we are fragile. We are expected to endure pain silently, but when we speak, we are called shrill. We are the foundation, yet we are treated as decoration.

 

So yes. I am angry. But change doesn't come from rage.

 

It comes from persistence, from action, from refusing to be made small. It comes from the women before us who defied expectations and the ones standing beside us, pushing forward. It comes from the unwavering refusal to let this be our reality forever.

 

And so we vote, we fight, we refuse to be quiet. We lift each other up, amplify each other's voices, and demand more. Because we are not asking for permission. We never were.

 

This International Women's Day, I will hold the women in my life close. We will carve out space for each other, remind ourselves that our existence is not a compromise, and we will keep going.

 

We always have, and we always will.