Salt-N-Pepa were yelling truth through my headphones when this essay started writing itself in my head.
“If I wanna take a guy home with me tonight, it’s none of your business!”
I wasn’t just listening—I was lip-syncing, stomping around my home like a woman possessed. That song doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t play nice. It kicks down the door and makes space for a woman to say, I belong to no one but me.
And as I sang those words loud enough for the neighbors to hear, I realized: this is it. This is the whole damn point.
Women get practically nothing in this world—not full safety, not full respect, not equal rights. But if we don’t even get our own bodies? Then what do we have left?
I’m not totally hopeless. I wish I could say I believe the patriarchy will collapse in my lifetime, but I don’t know. Maybe it will—and if it does, I’ll probably cry and pee myself out of pure joy. But until then, I want to be crystal clear about one thing:
A woman’s body belongs to her. No one else.
Let me say it louder:
I’m a grown-ass woman, and what I do with my body is none of your fucking business.
Objectified at Birth
From the moment we’re born, people start telling us who we are based on how we look.
“She’s so pretty.”
“Look at those eyelashes!”
“You’ve got a little heartbreaker on your hands!”
Compliments before we can walk, before we can speak—and they’re always about our appearance. Pretty. Cute. Beautiful.
Have you ever heard someone walk up to a baby boy and say, “He’s so handsome, he’s gonna break hearts”? Not really. Boys are strong. Boys are tough. Boys are smart. Girls are pretty.
And so it begins—this quiet but constant training that tells us our worth lives on the outside. That we are here to be looked at. That our bodies are not just our own, but for others to comment on, rate, touch, control.
By the time we’re old enough to notice, it’s everywhere.
Dress codes. Street harassment. Politicians making choices about our reproductive rights.
Our bodies have been claimed by everyone but us.
And that is terrifying. That is infuriating.
Silenced in Real Life
It’s not just politics. It’s not just headlines. It’s in my friend groups. Especially with my guy friends.
I try to speak—talked over.
Try to share—told to shut the fuck up.
Try to exist—mocked, ignored, laughed at.
And when I yell—because sometimes that’s the only way to be heard—I’m called dramatic. Crazy. “Too much.”
What am I even doing there, then? What’s the point of friendship if I’m just background noise?
I try to explain patriarchy. I try to talk about gender and fairness and equity. But I’m treated like I’m making it all up. Like I’m the problem. Like I’m speaking a language they’ve already decided not to understand.
It’s isolating.
It’s exhausting.
It’s one of the reasons I’ve wanted to die.
Not the only reason—but a big one. Because when the world constantly erases you, it’s hard to feel like you matter. Like you belong.
And then there’s the confusion. Am I here to be pretty or respected? Do I have to choose?
Add autism to the mix—undiagnosed until 32—and people still act like they know me better than I know myself. “You don’t seem autistic.” “Are you sure?” Yes. I’m fucking sure. I’ve spent years untangling this. I’m still learning. We all are. But people don’t even try.
And still—here I am.
Saying it out loud anyway.
The Power They Can’t Take
For everything this world tries to strip from us—our voices, our safety, our sanity—it still hasn’t found a way to take the one thing that lives deep in our bones: our power.
It’s not the kind of power written into law.
It’s older than that.
Wilder. Quieter. Unshakeable.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
If reincarnation is real, I’d come back as a woman again. Every time.
Because even though this world tries to make it seem like being a woman is a disadvantage, there’s something we carry that can’t be touched. A generational fire. A knowing. A legacy.
I think of all the women who weren’t allowed to speak. Who weren’t allowed to choose. Who weren’t allowed to dream—and still, somehow, they survived.
They fought. They wrote. They whispered truths. They lit the path. And now I’m here—pissed off, alive, and writing this.
Sometimes I think about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and it all clicks. She holds the power of every girl before her. She fights because they fought. That’s what womanhood is to me.
Yes, I’m tired.
Yes, I’m angry.
But I am not alone.
Hope That’s Bigger Than Us
I don’t know if I’ll live to see the day women have full autonomy.
But I hope someone does.
I hope some girl grows up in a world where her voice is not just tolerated, but expected.
Where she doesn’t have to choose between being pretty and being respected.
Where her body is hers and hers alone.
Where no one tells her she’s “too much” for daring to take up space.
Where she’s free to be loud.
To be weird.
To be whole.
That world may feel far away.
But hope is power, too.
Sometimes it’s just the decision to keep going.
To write. To scream. To speak anyway.
Because even if they don’t listen—
We’re still here.
And I’ll keep blasting Salt-N-Pepa, stomping through my house, saying it as loud as I need to:
“It’s none of your business.”
My body. My rules. My life.
Try and take that from me—and see how loud I can be.