Whenever I look at a woman, I find beauty in every single one of them.
Every woman who passes by me — I notice her. The smile on her face, the tension on her forehead, the wrinkles that seem to carry stories within them, the tiredness that quietly sits in her eyes. It feels as if I can see everything.
As if I can see how, somewhere along the way, she forgot herself.
Maybe she doesn’t even remember who she once was. That she had a childhood too. That she once had dreams, desires, and a life she wanted for herself.
We often avoid looking back, because it hurts. And so, we convince ourselves that this is life now — that we exist not for ourselves, but for our families, for our children.
I think men might go through this too. But women, perhaps more deeply. Because they are expected to place their families above themselves, always. And if they don’t, they are judged — called a bad woman, a bad mother, a bad wife.
Men may pause their work at times, but the responsibility of the home is rarely placed on them in the same way. Women carry everything. And somewhere in that process, they let go of their past selves.
They forget the life they once had.
It’s painful to think about this — that even in their final moments, when death stands close and their last breaths remain, perhaps women are not afraid of dying. Maybe they are simply lost… revisiting the fragments of their past.
Remembering a time when they were children too.
Someone’s beloved daughter. Someone’s sister. Someone’s friend.
A time when they had dreams of their own.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Jonathan Cooper On Unsplash
