Not That Woman

I was always enamored by Mary Kay ladies and the women at church potlucks. They were always pressed and perfumed, powdered and primped- like Lucy & Desi’s neighbors had walked out of the screen. Even then, they were a bit old-fashioned. But that Doris Day, Barbie aesthetic was powerful. It was reinforced by the Girl Scout Den Mother, who smelled like Aqua Net and Pine-Sol. The tidiest, prettiest ladies were the most listened to. They could walk for days in high heels and A-line skirts, then wash dishes in frilly aprons without breaking stride.

Even in middle school, the magazines told us what to wear, how to fix our hair, and which trends to obey if we wanted to be cool. Even then, I felt the slip of snake oil being sold. I just didn’t know how to name it yet.

Now? Now we’re pissed off, tired- and tired of being pissed off.

They told us in school we were “gifted” or “too much,” but still made sure we knew the top of the feminine to-do list was finding “The One.” It was never presented like we had a choice.

We were never taught that our pleasure mattered. We weren’t taught to hold boundaries. We weren’t taught what desire even felt like outside of what someone else wanted from us.

You fit in your girly lane and rode it hard- right up until you were picked.

What a load of bullshit.

Sexuality wasn’t discussed, let alone explored.

Self-pleasure? HA. I didn’t even say the ‘m’ word.

Moist.

We tried to ask for help when we felt safe. But we’re not supposed to talk about our periods—even though they show up for a quarter of our lives. One week a month. Every month. For decades. That’s a whole second job. How many times have you seen the commercials with blue liquid used? That was for YOUR comfort.

The wound from birth is the size of a dinner plate. It should come with a serious hospital stay. But we get pills that give men boners and regrow hair—while women die in despair, spiraling out until we can’t care for the ones who rely on us.

And now that we know? Now that we see it? We’re livid. Absolutely livid.

The prettiest girls always had everything. The attention, the love, the ease. Nothing was too difficult for the pretty. We still have that, in too many ways. I ended up with disordered eating- but hey, I’m a size 6 in jeans. Was it worth it? How the hell would I know now? My brain still tries to care, even as my AuDHD wiring screams in rebellion.

In school, the artsy teacher was always the weirdo. She dressed how she wanted, maybe wasn’t married, maybe had too many cats or plants. Being yourself wasn’t quirky. It was shunned. I was the dork in Sears and JCPenney clothes, because my stepmother wouldn't buy me mall outfits.

Never complain. Never cry out in pain. Never ask for more than you’re given. You had a special class for periods—and commercials weren’t even allowed to use red liquid. Because it was “gross.”

Gross? Try living with it.

Women’s pain is dismissed. Our brains? Never even studied. Autism standards? Designed for boys. They never bothered. Never asked the right questions. Never cared what the answers would reveal.

Now we hunt through medical journals, trying to assemble a diagnosis from the wreckage. We piece it together with scraps we were told to hide, while our hormones shift again, dragging old deficiencies into the spotlight. And we’re stuck- relearning how to function in a body and mindt hat feel more like sabotage than self. Desperate for answers. Expected to show our work. Forced to revalidate our pain daily.

Even with a diagnosis, treatment isn’t automatic. It’s not understood. And it sure as hell isn’t guaranteed to help. And still- they’re not trying. Not hard enough. Not for us.

We are too far down the hierarchy of care. An angry simmer on the back burner, just waiting for the reaction that sends us spilling out across the floor- a danger, a mess, a fury they can’t control.

Even our children look up and name it before we do. Diagnosis brings reactions like, “We knew, didn’t you?” and “That’s why I am this way, Mom.”

We carry so much rage. So much tension and stored electricity. But to express it? To release it into the world? That takes something we’ve barely got left.

It’s terrifying- putting yourself out there. Especially for women. Even more for the neurodivergent among us. We weren’t just built for a world that demanded the impossible- we were given the wrong instruction manual in a language no one thought to translate.

And when you finally realize that? It knocks the wind out of you. You thought you were self-actualized. You thought you were awake. But the truth? It leaves a hole in your chest so wide you can hear the wind whistle through it.

I Will Never Be That Woman

I will never be the woman

who gets her nails done every ten days.

My hands are workers’ hands—

built for movement,

flexibility,

precision.

I will never wear stilettos,

pumps, or Jimmy Choos.

I move slowly,

placing each step with intention,

so it can hold my weight

and the weight I choose to bear

for others.

I will never paint my face

well enough

to draw the gaze of strangers

with symmetry and shine.

My emotions live in my expressions.

They shift too often

to ever stay still.

I will never glide across stages,

cheered for my form,

showered in praise

like a prize.

I’ve spent my life

trekking through the brush of empathy-

clearing trauma like overgrowth,

with nothing but this body

and my mind.

I will never be

the Most Interesting Person in the Room.

There are no flashbulbs for women like me.

But I receive the room-

every crack, every shadow.

My mind is built to absorb,

my heart tuned to find

the ones holding pain.

And I am content

to hold the wall-

knowing the power it takes

to carry the structure

that holds all their joy.

This is part of a larger work-in-progress. If it hits something in you, share it. Empire of the Unchosen is built on truth we’re not supposed to say out loud.

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