A woman learns early to vary her walking route. To run at different times. To avoid a pattern.

To not enter the woods alone, to stay away from stairwells, to look both ways even when she’s not crossing the street.

A woman learns early about predators. Stay away from that strange man. Don’t talk to Veronica’s dad. There’s something off about the neighbor.

A woman learns early to steer herself away from the creepy uncle. To not engage.

We learn to be on the lookout. We learn to be on high alert. We learn quickly that when words are uttered under someone’s breath, and we are the only person who hears them, no one will believe us if we make the words public. We are doubted because no one else heard, and “it’s just not his character.” No one saw it happen. Our story is invalid without proof. We are not believable. We are making things up. For attention. For money. For revenge. For sh*ts and giggles, apparently.

We learn quickly which science teacher is the pervert. We know what to wear on the days we have industrial arts class or social studies.

We learn that raping us is often deemed a minor offense. Certainly not a punishable one.

We learn to be the first to move out of the way when a man is coming. When a man needs room, we make room without thinking about it.

Oh, lots of men will roll their eyes and say “not all men,” and this is “not all women’s experience,” and while that is indeed true that it’s not all men, I can unequivocally say, without any doubt in my mind, that every woman has a story. Every. Single. Woman. Has. A. Story. About a man. About men. And guess what? Most of us have more than one story.

A woman learns through a lifetime of watching, of waiting, throughout history, that rape, assault, and abuse are not punished enough. Or at all.

We learn early to compete for the male gaze. To hope for a passing grade. To be considered exceptional, or pretty. To have our looks validated.

We learn wet T-shirt contests are “fun.”

We learn beauty pageants are “ambition.”

We learn, if we are hired, it’s often viewed as just a “DEI” initiative.

We learn to laugh along with sexist jokes. Dumb blonde. Lady driver. Not good at math. Can’t parallel park.

A woman learns early about judgement. On beauty. On body. And because we are judged, we learn to judge each other, every day. All the time. We too issue and exhibit contempt. On choices. About motherhood. About non-motherhood. About breast feeding. About non-breast-feeding. About make-up. About no make-up. About hair. About eyelashes, for chrissake.

We learn early our periods are disgusting. A curse. A burden. The pain isn’t real. Don’t talk about it.

We learn that birthing a child without pain medication makes us champs. Heroes. Warriors. Clap, clap, clap.

If we require an epidural or a c-section, we must be weak. Boo. Easy way out. Thumbs down.

We learn losing weight quickly after the baby arrives garners respect and praise. She’s amazing!

We learn emotional or physical struggle after the baby arrives garners…disdain. She’s undisciplined!

We learn to gobble up breadcrumbs of attention. From our partners. From our own children. A mountain of gifts under the tree, after weeks of spending and decorating, but our own stocking hangs empty. Or, we get a robe.

We learn that the house and the toilets and the clothes and the counters and the dishes don’t clean themselves.

We learn to not want because wanting is a headache. We learn passive acceptance of our fate. To settle. To apologize for others. To make excuses.

We learn to put others first. We learn to “carve out” time for ourselves, but only if everyone else’s needs are met.

We learn advocating for equal pay or a promotion or full respect in the workplace labels us b*tches. Unapproachable.

We are told to smile more.

Some of us learn early that religion is organized patriarchy. It’s purity for daughters, but not for sons. It’s giving our bodies to God. We are mothers before we are women. We are second.

We learn, through products and a multi-billion dollar industry that an aging woman is bad. A youthful woman is good. Anti-wrinkle, gray hair coverage, age spot lasers, lip fillers, under eye treatments. To stay relevant, we must stay fresh.

We learn that regardless of who, how, or what we are, improvement will always be pushed on us. We’ll be encouraged to change in some way. Who, how, and what we are never seems to be enough. Or, rather, good enough. Not even for ourselves.

We learn about how our rights can rise and fall with the changing of the guard, the old men in charge, that our body autonomy is a debate between men who legislate rules and laws.

From our own mothers, God bless them, we learn to not complain. To quietly endure our physical changes. That’s why no one knows a goddamn thing about menopause.

We learn too early about “too.”

Too thin. Too fat. Too loud. Too quiet. Too bossy. Too selfish. Too trusting. Too insecure. Too confident. Too much. Too little.

Is this a battle cry? Yes.

Am I screaming into the abyss? Also, yes.

Are the blanket statements I’ve made true enough to make you catch your breath, make you feel uncomfortable, make you think about it for a second?

A woman learns early all the ways systemic patriarchy denies her own pursuit of happiness.

If you want women to smile more, why not give us something to smile about?

Until then, men aren’t lonely enough.

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