First and foremost, I wish a “Happy International Women’s Day” to everyone who identifies as a woman. I hope your day is full of love, honor, and empowerment. You deserve to feel encouraged and inspired today.

The past few weeks have left me little time to devote to writing for pleasure or self-fulfillment. Yet today, in honor of International Women’s Day, I felt the need to write about my conflicting feelings that emerge on days devoted to honoring women as a nonbinary person assigned female at birth. The following prose piece is a reflection of my experiences. If anyone can relate, I hope you recognize you are not alone, your feelings are valid, and you are lovely as you are.

“Woman”

On days like today, I struggle and rebel against my biology. I know how I am perceived and that, for many, the word “woman” comes with pride. I was given the word “woman” as a gift on my birthday, passed down as an inheritance by my mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. I will not deny that on my birth certificate, I am a woman. I also carry the fear that comes with this gift; to the man on a bicycle shouting lewd propositions as he follows me down the street, I am a woman. I sense the pride and respect of well-meaning teachers and friends and coworkers and fitness instructors who call me “queen,” “goddess,” and “boss bitch.” They want to reassure me that I am powerful…as a woman. 

But in my head and heart, I do not see myself as a woman.

I understand why some people do not wish me to deny the gift of “woman.” To reject my birthright, what some claim is my heralded purpose and glorious design, does seem wrong—sometimes. I see how blessed femininity can be, the creativity built into the fabric of a woman. I am overcome by the softness of skin that refuses to harden against the world. A world that deems such sacred flesh sinful and unworthy should be ashamed. I am humbled by trans women who hold the gift of “woman” as a cherished treasure, embodying the word in beauty and strength. Women are indeed so beautiful, and Womanhood in all its iterations should be celebrated. I admire, respect, honor, and uplift the women of this world, whether they are given “woman” by their parents or discover “woman” within themselves. 

And yet, too often, when faced with Womanhood, I find myself out of place. My gait does not sway like a wicker rocking chair, creaking a soft, inviting sigh. My hips are a rusted garden gate, banging shut, with a “no trespassing” sign hanging over my womb. The breasts that fed my children do not give themselves over to gravity like so many do. Pectorals that some might call overdeveloped because they developed first pull themselves up, turning my breasts into soldiers awaiting orders. It seems the masculinity in these muscles never left me, though they are hidden beneath the outer vestige of “goddess.”

Yes, I recognize the goddess in me. There is no denying her; her creativity is knit into the very fabric of my womb. She gave me the gift of my children and sustained them within me. Yet for this, she demands my allegiance, a monthly blood sacrifice to appease her insatiable appetite. I ache and mourn the tide of anger washing me in pain. Womanhood is pain, the goddess reminds me, and the god in me reminds me to bow in deference. His presence is tolerated so long as he never usurps the throne. He is a source of strength, self-restraint, and tireless work that supports the goddess in her endeavors. To some, that masculine presence in their soul may be nothing more than a helpmate to their femininity. But not to me. 

How can I kneel to only one half of my soul when I see it as two parts of a whole? Each is divine, powerful, beautiful, and worthy. Why should I be confined to the worship of only that which my external self projects? I am water and earth, fire and wind, mercy and judgment, and pain. Always pain. 

I do not think I will ever be free of Womanhood. Not the title, not the responsibility, not the ache. But I will not resign myself to deny the Manhood in me. I am both, and I am neither. I am me, and I am whole.