But I’m definitely a lost one.
I’ve gotten so entwined in the idea of being equal that I’ve lost sight of being me.
Every man I bring close into my life, I find myself eventually treating as a competitor.
And I won’t even get started on how I massacre my self-worth when I share my world with a woman.
I don’t want to wage this war. I don’t have a competitive code in my DNA. My heart can’t endure it.
Until it comes to the person with whom I share my life. It’s not that I want to win. I simply need to be seen as a cohort and colleague, not a student.
You starting a blog? So will I.
You learning to cook? Me too
Becoming fluent in Spanish? Lo mismo.
And you know what?
It’s exhausting. I’m barely crawling out of bed with the weight and heft of it.
Worst? I bring every second of it on myself.
That’s not feminism. That’s self-defeating bullshit.
Feminism does not mean being the same. That’s being a middle-school girl.
I don’t have to play guitar to be equal to my partner. I don’t have to be as strong of a writer. I don’t have to have as much money in the bank.
What I do have to be is better.
Better me. Not another version of them.
Not fitting in and re-informing every heinous stereotype of the the nightmare over-sensitive woman.
Asking for help, coming for instruction from someone who has had the luxury of education and experience is not weakness. It feels vulnerable but in that is the potential for growth. That’s empowerment.
Treating a person as their own and not holding them accountable for reparations for every mid-deed I’ve encountered before we met.
Let them make their own mistakes. I’ll be making mine, to be sure. That’s equality and respect.
I know there’s peace on the other side. I can see it. The warmth of the light peaking is warming my fingers.
I have words to give. And love. And compassion. And curiosity. And listening. And a willingness to work. That’s what I have.
I don’t have to be the same.
I don’t have to be better than.
I can be a little lost.
In the end, I know where I am.