I was the little girl of the house, but the weight of beauty was never something placed on me. I suppose it’s because I spent my childhood in and out of surgeries, reconstructing parts of my face. In that context, beauty wasn’t a goal—not even a topic of conversation. I don’t remember anyone talking to me about my wedding day, or white dresses, or the high heels that are supposedly what make you a woman.
My dad used to say that if I studied hard, I could achieve whatever I wanted. My mom, simpler and wiser, just wanted me to be happy. They raised me in a way where “being a woman” didn’t come with instructions. And now, looking back, it’s a strange but interesting way to raise a girl. They gave me space to be—without a script.
So now, when everyone is talking about femininity, moon cycles, men as providers and women as “receivers”… I get lost. I don’t really know where I fit. I don’t have the codes. I don’t know if I’m missing something or if I’m just a different version. I ask myself that quietly, not with guilt, but with the kind of curiosity that comes from growing up unshaped.
My relationship with beauty began late, so we’re in the honeymoon phase. Every day I look at myself in the mirror like I’ve just discovered someone new. I still don’t brush my hair, that hasn’t changed, but I have friends who’ve shown me how to play at being a woman without needing to win a prize.
I ask a lot of questions. I’ve never been ashamed of not knowing. I think that’s something I learned at home too: not knowing isn’t a flaw—it’s a door. And life, in its strange generosity, has surrounded me with all kinds of women. Some soft, some wild, some perfectly styled like dolls, others messy like me. But all of them with something valuable to share.
I don’t have clear answers about femininity. I’m still getting to know myself. No rush. No manual. And in that process, I’m starting to understand that maybe I don’t fit into what many expect from a woman. But that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me. It just means my story has a different shape.
I once read that the brain learns through repetition. What we hear over and over, we start to believe. And luckily, I grew up hearing that thinking was beautiful, and that happiness mattered. So even when I get tangled up sometimes, I have that foundation: I don’t need to look like anyone else to be worthy.
No one taught me how to be a woman.
And maybe that’s why I’ve had the luxury of inventing it.