Model Eve
Personal reflections on discovering womanhood
Womanhood.
I’ll admit, it is a topic I know almost nothing about save for the general science behind it, some academic facts, and a few things here and there on various philosophies relating to women in society. I know what women are concretely and how they are or have been perceived socially, historically, spiritually, etc. What it means to live as one, however, is still a mystery I’m discovering firsthand.
Three years ago, as a late teen, I discarded any and all ambitions of being male. Five years of identifying as transgender soon gave way to the shocking revelation that I was now, in fact, a young lady in the eyes of science, society, and government, and was expected to act as such. Since then, I’ve learned nothing except I know nothing about what it truly means to live and die in this world as a woman. I’ve searched for guidance and answers and have observed the manners of the women in my life. Yet, with each excursion into the study of womanhood, I have been left feeling more out of place than before.
Often, I find the nature of womanhood to be much like a work by Pollock—abstract, difficult to define, and yet captivating all the same.
Perhaps, at its core, womanhood is an art form. To master and hone one’s femininity, maybe—that strange mystical quality in every woman said to bloom naturally, like a flower men desire to take as their own, yet must be tended to for it to bear fruit. But what use is it to only master the art of the feminine when the art of the masculine is equally as beautiful and enticing? Are we not supposed to strive for balance in this life in preparation for the next?
Maybe womanhood is a journey into motherhood and marriage—a winding road beginning with the seemingly endless wait-then-pursuit of Mr. Right and Family, made manifest in the bridal chamber and at the welcoming of Baby One, and ultimately fulfilled when one’s brood finally ventures out into the world in search of their own lifelong loves. A noble pursuit certainly. But what use is such a quest to me when I am dedicated to celibacy for the sake of Our Lord?
Perhaps womanhood is a performance? No…I’m done performing.
Across the way, a young man eagerly calls, “Hey, Ms. Kasimir!” I look up hazily like a baby still learning its name. Nowadays, I’m getting used to being “ma’am,” “miss,” and “the-young-lady-looking-for-a-copy-of-so-and-so.” In my mid-teens, I would’ve squirmed and scorned such words, but now I’ve come to accept them and respond to their summonings with a sort of glassy-eyed recognition. In truth, I don’t know where the fog-laden factory of my thoughts ends and the young woman begins.
Maybe there’s no difference at all.
I remember, in the hellish days before I found God, I used to dream of being an angel. Somehow, the grand, metaphysical concept of angelhood was easier for my muddled mind to grasp than the abstractness and sea-like fluidity of womanhood. To be an angel—formless, sexless, pure, cloaked in divine grace, free from the bickering of human life and the objectification of men—seemed a far better deal than forever wondering what sort of ideal I was supposed to live up to once I entered womanhood if any at all. Even now, it sounds better. Often, I feel like a foreigner on this planet, struggling to understand customs I was not built for.
Over coffee and tears, armchair sages have instructed me to “just be myself.” Ironically, following such guidance has led to the greatest influx of complaints, even from the purported sages themselves. “You’re being too serious,” they say. “You’re not embracing your femininity enough.” “You need to accept you’re a woman.” “Stop trying to act like you’re something that you’re not!”
I always listen to their complaints in kind, rarely bothering to explain myself. I then file each into the winding taxonomy of my mind, before going back to staring down womanhood like an ancient puzzle I’m wholly unsure of how to solve.
Perhaps womanhood is something completely undefinable, in terms of quality and essence. Maybe it’s something wild and free—unbridled by this Earth and all of its low-frequency distinctions and expectations—and to unlock its full potential, a girl must be willing to plunge into its transcendent depths, baptized in the chaotic, divine, sensual waters, to reborn as a woman…
Or maybe I’m just overthinking things again.
I probably am.
Why can’t I just be a human? Is that not well enough?
“Yes, you are a human, J.S., but you can’t just reject the fact that you’re a woman and—”
We live in an age where questions are seen as attacks…
I don’t know what it is to step into womanhood. I don’t know how to embrace it or wear it with flourish. I wouldn’t even know where to start. I say this without shame but with a matter-of-fact simplicity. Perhaps my mind is more equipped to understand the near-surrealist theories of quantum physics than the fine-grain nuances of what it means to operate in this universe as a woman until death whisks me away to Eternity.
Or maybe there are no rules to womanhood at all. Perhaps trying to understand and follow the imaginary lines and boundaries designed by the world is one big waste of time.
Maybe just being a servant of God is enough.
Only time will tell…
Until this post I was not aware of your gender. But I had the impression that you were more likely male and female. I hope that is not a negative revelation.
The only reason I mention it is that it now occurs to me that you may derive some benefit from reading the life story of Rosaria Champagne Butterfield if you have not already. (I have only heard her testimony - approximately one hour - on the Focus on the Family radio program.)