When I was a little girl I saw the world as a beautiful metropolis.
With towering green trees and fluffy white clouds, the Earth would smile in my wake.
Every petal, every beetle, every street, was a scale model of my imagination.
I would construct crowns out of leaves, and houses out of twigs.
Lick dew off of grass and make snow angels in fertilizer.
I was an eager kid who couldn’t help but take it all in.
But I am older now.
The bright teal blues and emerald greens that once shone around my pupils have become gray and monochrome.
My caterpillar eyebrows have been painstakingly plucked, and the garden of hair that grew on my legs has been mowed away.
Cheeks that once held red sunburns are now covered with paint.
Dark circles have sprouted under my eyes, as reminders of stress and sleepless nights. These too have been painted over.
I am a broken version of the free-spirited child I once was—concealed with makeup and smiles.
I am no longer a little girl.
I am a young woman.
And a pessimistic one at that, who dwells on what-ifs and could-nots.
Yet, this unmistakable part of my identity is the thing that brings me the most joy.
Girlhood.
A term that defines the lives of half the population.
That encapsulates the feeling of laughing with your friends, screaming to music, trying on old dresses in the middle of the night, and decorating your body with makeup and jewelry.
There are times I wish I could become invisible, and stop having the feeling of being judged by other girls, or sensing the hungering stares of men that are much too old to be looking at me like that.
Most of the time, it is impossible to talk about such struggles.
After all, I have been hardwired to believe that these experiences are normal.
People don’t see the tears I’ve silently shed in the middle of the night, or the times I’ve shown up wishing I was a different version of myself.
They don’t see the mornings my body hurts too much to get out of bed, or the hours I’ve spent covering up every imperfection on my face.
Sometimes I feel like I would trade the world to not be a woman—if even for a day.
But then again, my gender is a part of me.
It is what people see when they look at my face, it is how people describe me to their friends, and it is the thing that shapes who I will become.
It is the feeling of shame when I got my first period, and the pride I’ll feel when I become a mother.
It is maddening and surprising, terrifying and liberating.
It is who I am, and I embrace it unapologetically.
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