To be a woman, to have a heart, and to hurt. Here's something I came across when I was flipping through an old notebook of mine. It was taken from a Nike Ad in a magazine:
Oh, you’re so emotional.
There you are all caught up in your emotions, wearing your heart on your sleeve, wearing your heart on every piece of clothing you own. You cry at the drop of a hat. You cry absolute buckets. You cry me a river.
You’re a woman (you can’t help it); you’re a girl (now, don’t get me wrong); you’re a woman and you’re so emotional about everything and
even at those times when you’re perfectly rational and perfectly capable, somebody somewhere will look at you and say (like it’s the worst thing in the world)
Oh you’re so emotional
And of course, that really makes you want to scream.
And then just as soon as you don’t weep, which is most of the time anyway, and you’re cool and calm and absolutely brilliant under pressure somebody somewhere will say you’re too cool and too calm and then, of course, you’re suddenly and forever called insensitive.
Ah, to be a woman.
Somewhere in the middle of all these assumptions and all these labels is the way you really are. You are kind (that’s why we have hearts). You are strong (or you wouldn’t have made it this far). You are fearless (or you would’ve hidden your heart long ago). And because you wear your heart so easily sometimes
you know how easily it is broken.
So through time, you have learned to protect it. You learn to take it for long walks. You learn to let it breathe deeply. You learn to treat it with respect.
And, through time, you have learned to move it and bend it and make it accountable, because the best way to keep a heart alive is to be unafraid to use it. And you are so very good at using it.
Your heart is beating. This means you are alive. Your body is moving. This means you cannot be stopped. The world and all its labels are calling you. You’d love to answer. But you’re moving so fast you can’t hear a thing.