I don’t know how to become that woman.
The one who is fearless.
Who feels great in her own skin.
The one who makes money all week
climbs mountains on weekends
and has time for family.
The one who irons her shirts
Pays her bills on time.
Does her taxes.
Washes her dishes.
Hems her pants.
And acts like a general well-rounded grown-up.
The one who won’t wobble in heels.
Brushes her eyebrows.
Waxes her legs.
And can lipstick her lips.
The one who will get her act together,
in time to make babies before her fertility shrivels up.
As in, get a car.
The one who can time travel
who is part of a community
who knows where she comes from
and where she is going
who speaks the languages of her ancestors
knows enough of their rituals to share them with the next generations
who has no time for racists or sexists or creeps
who won’t be assimilated or erased or exoticized.
The one who finds balance
i don’t know how to become that woman
except by being one who wanders too much
works to much
thinks too much
except by being one who, wanting
to grow up to write stories worth reading
but worried that she had nothing to say, decided
to try living first