I live with the most soft spoken and timid girl ever. I have never heard her voice go above a certain decibel, and she’s caring and nurturing. She makes me tea when I have a bad day, and she hugs me when I complain about the said day. She says please, and thank you. She cuts fresh fruit for me sometimes, and yes, it’s her love language but the way she holds the mango while she peels it often amazes me. Her grip so firm, the pulp has dents in it, juice dripping down her palms. 

My sister has been financially independent since she was 23. She is a hardworking girl. She is my father’s eldest child, he is certain she will carry the family name to great heights. She wears the weight of being the first born like a badge of honour. Hustle to provide, hustle to prove. She is the most resilient, committed and strong human I have ever met. Sometimes she’s so far from all the stereotypical feminine characteristics in my head that I forget she is a woman. But the way she holds flowers is a gentle reminder. Her pinky finger slightly away from the rest, the tall stems placed perfectly on the forearm of her left hand, bent precisely at an angle that allows you to see her face clearly while she can still smell the freshness of the bouquet. So effortless, so feminine, so perfect. 

My friend is dating an asshole. He is annoying, ill-mannered, politically incorrect and obsessive. When we go out for an occasional drink, he talks over everyone. He says we don’t need feminism because women have already been emancipated. She holds his arm as an attempt to nudge him to behave himself. Every few minutes she clutches onto his bicep in sheer embarrassment. 

My 5’2 colleague has the daintiest figure. Her fingers are long and skinny, her voice shrill and her lips plump and full. She holds her cigarette with her index finger and her thumb like a ruthless Russian hitman smoking in an American parking lot. So aggressive and laddish.

My professor is a witty woman. She makes jokes in class to create an environment that feels nice and safe. She takes off her glasses when she talks about politics. She rumbles about rightist parties and grunts about the budget cuts in the country’s education system. She holds on to the glasses carelessly as she talks and tosses them on the table in disappointment or maybe disdain. She takes two deep breaths, puts them back on and continues to teach about the elaboration likelihood model.

My mother holds me tight. Whenever I visit home, she makes sure she is holding me every chance she gets. Her hand is either caressing my hair, massaging my head, rubbing my foot, patting my back, pulling my ear or just tightly holding onto my hand. As if I am sand from the beach slipping out of her hold. 

Womanhood is a paradox.

Women are a paradox. They are never one simple thing. They never do one certain thing. They are a little bit of this and a lot of that. They hold so many characters and skills and experiences and traits. They are selfless and selfish, divinely feminine and innately masculine, soft and resilient, loud and intimate, empowered and scared, forever somewhere between holding on and letting go.

I wonder, standing at the precipice of womanhood; is being a woman enough to teach me how to hold all these characters and skills and experiences and traits. 

Or are my hands too small?