Upon watching my best friend turn twenty-two this month it’s become undeniably rooted within my inner workings that the state of being woman is dug deep within layers and layers of onion peeling.
I mean that figuratively and literally. And with the removing of each of these layers, we reach closer and closer to the ‘ourselves’ that we are within ourselves.
Let’s just say, that girl in that photo isn’t the same girl I was at eighteen. It’s taken years of constant revealing – years of seeing myself and acknowledging the messy but moving on unscathed to get to the possibility of here and now. And in the here and now, I’ve come to understand that infinity and beyond-ing is for big girls only and big girls don’t cry. Because being woman is an artistry specially crafted not for the faint hearted.
Art, in and of itself is unmoved by anything else going on around it. Like the Mona Lisa, it is still and always remains and stays as beautiful as it was intended to be, whether there’s a busy crowd shrouding it in a fabulous gallery or it’s hung in the hallway of some abandoned building. Art still remains art. In this way, it proves itself to be timeless.
Sharing life with my friend over the years has taught me that there is so much left to conquer and so many more victories behind us already. I’ve wandered through the weeds of thought surrounding the point at which I will also need to cross the bridge of forever twenty-one into unchartered twenty-two and onwards. I see that the state of being woman requires us to make sacrifices over that bridge, to work hard then harder, to push to crawl, to walk then run, to jump and maybe eventually even fly – all the while maintaining a smooth and unweathered appearance on the outside. Because it seems, as women, our job is to make it look easy – even if it stings like the prick of a thousand needles. To me that’s what makes me woman – a woman, phenomenally.