I write for the women who cannot write. The ones who were not blessed with an education because of money, or denied one because of their gender. The ones who have words ready to pour from their heart onto the page, but don’t know how or where to begin.
I write for the women who are being silenced. The ones who are being threatened if they dare to speak their truth. The ones who have already been wronged, imprisoned, and beaten, for breaking the rules and sharing their stories. And the ones who we cannot hear, but we know they are there; because we feel their pain and rage and their screams at night, as if they were our own.
I write for the women who have been discriminated. All the women who have ever been paid less than a man for doing the same job, pushed out of work when they got pregnant, and treated differently because they have a vagina.
I write for the women who have been judged. For choosing a career over childbirth, or for choosing to do both. For staying single, because they haven’t met someone who makes them not want to be single. For the women who have chosen abortion over motherhood, because they’re just not ready for that yet, or they know this isn’t what they came here to do. The women who have said no to the life their parents wanted for them, so they can pave their own path and live a life that makes them feel alive.
I write for the women who have learned to hate themselves. The women of colour who have learned to hate their dark skin, and their curly hair. The women who have been taught the size in the back of their jeans defines their worth. And the women who will physically harm themselves, because the pain and poison injected in their heart is all-consuming.
I write for the women who have ever been harassed or harmed. The women who have been catcalled, flashed, and groped. The women who have been abused, raped, and trafficked. All the women who have been used and exploited for twisted pleasure, power, and money, at the hands of evil men at war with good.
I write for the women who are tired of playing these old games. Tired of competing with other women, or tearing their sisters down. Fed up of being taught a man by your side and a ring on your finger and a baby on the hip is the ultimate prize. Sick of the white men dictating how we dress, act, and think; and their old boys club.
I write for the women who are blissfully unaware. The women who are yet to realise they are living in a world where men create the invisible rules, and try to control us like puppets on a string. The women who believe they are treated fairly and as true equals, in a world that continues to fail to recognise that women are human beings.
I write for the women who are waking up. The women who are questioning the way things are and saying this does not work for me. The women who are breaking free, creating their own rules, and daring to live a life that is for them, instead of everybody else. The women who say hell no and fuck yes and give themselves permission to change their mind. The women who are returning home to themselves, to their gifts, their voice, and their power; everything they’ve been disconnected from, out of fear of their other-worldly strength and their divine feminine magic.
I write for the women who are not ready to hear what I have to say, and for the women who have been searching for this their entire lives. I write for you and for her and for she and for me.
I write for the women.