Fall in love, in the literal sense of the word. Afraid of the plummet we, women, avoid the midair feeling.
These emotions are too hard to regulate and these days a semblance of control is everything. We’re matriarchs in power positions, conference rooms, and kitchens. Capes and blazers adorn us.
I’ve got news for you: You aren’t Wonder Woman. She has murdered accidentally, led her comrades astray, and even tried to take on every super villain in the world at once to no avail. Her hunger for marshal law consumed her sensibility. She’s even voiced regret.
Haven’t you been there? Placing a smile a on your face whilst your world is crumbling, building a wall where defense doesn’t belong?
Even the Amazonian DC superhero had her flawed moments.
These moments are to blame for the discarding of susceptibility. Our submission is severed in our darkest hours, rescinding to a place where it could never surface. How many times have we seen our mothers struggle via the faults of their men? Where are the lovers who’ve broken us over and over again? Who will help us eradicate the memories of loss, wanting, and hope?
How are we to trust the world with our hearts when it’s proven that it’s irresponsible and relentless?
No one “falls” anymore. We’re more like to stand, sit, or drift in love.
I’ve sacrificed smiles, lack of anxiety, and orgasms for a façade. I was self-conscious about perception; I didn’t want any brother thinking he’d have all of me. I didn’t want anyone coming to the conclusion that without partnership I’d be nothing.
If you left, I’d be okay.
Don’t you see that I’m resilient?
I don’t need a man, I just happened to have one right now.
And I’m not alone.
It’s something WE’RE learning to discard. Women are so caught up on being independent and fierce that we forget our emotions are our most valuable facet.
I remember meeting a really great guy after a show. (I used to perform spoken word regularly.) We exchanged numbers outside of the venue and, with the most gorgeous set of eyes I’ve ever seen, he winked and said he’d call me later.
We had three long and amazing conversations. He’d come across a magazine spread that I’d done an interview in and was fascinated by my answers. We talked about my beginnings and my growth parallel to his budding writing career. Exchanging dreams became our favorite pastime.
On the fourth or the fifth call I asked, “What’s your main aspiration? I’ve heard a list of them, but what’s priority?”
I could hear him smiling through the phone, “To have a wife and children and be able to provide for them. That’s priority.”
The superwoman inside of me roared. We’d spent hours boasting our callings and goals. At 21, in the prime of my career, I wasn’t thinking about a family.
He questioned my silence, “Isn’t that one of your priority aspirations? Don’t you want that someday?”
My vulnerability tugged. A vision of a little girl with my nose and ears, writing a journal, sat in my dream backyard.
I wanted to tell him.
“No, my career is everything right now. Family is far off for me. I’m thinking about that book deal and that salary. I’ll be touring the world.” I laughed.
He asked again, “But you do want a family one day right?”
The little girl danced between my eyes and slowly faded, retracting back to the place she came from.
“Oh.” He said.
The next time I spoke to Mr. Wonderful he didn’t seem like himself. Our banter was awkward and he’d excused himself before an hour arrived on the cellphone’s timer. A few days later, I received a text:
“I like you, but the conversation from the other night sort of irked me. I’m looking for commitment and it seems like that’s the furthest thing from your mind. I was trying to get you to open up, but I don’t think you’re willing yet. For future reference, you can have a budding career and a family. It’s possible. Good luck, hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I didn’t agree with his entire text, but there was a truth to it that haunted me. Deep down I wanted a family; a huge house with a writing office where my husband and children could interrupt me often, a lover who I could trade bibliophilic notions with, and a stability that was unwavering.
The reason I couldn’t tell him that was because I didn’t want to give it all away. Too often I’d laid my truth unto someone who either couldn’t handle it or wanted nothing to do with it at all. Even though he’d opened up in that moment I was convinced that when I told my side, he’d run.
Or say all the right things…
…and leave anyway.
I’m a feminist, a leader, and a potent writer; but I still hunger. I want to marry the man I’m with someday. I’d like to have little brown boys that resemble him and spark a fire in the other sex, as he did for me. I want to be able to lie in his arms without thinking about where we will be tomorrow or ten years from now. I just want to think about the present.
I can now admit this. I’m still working on some of the aspects, but my journey to complete openness is an ongoing struggle. We’re all out to be superwoman–never shattered, never scorned. We want to be triumphant and glorious with the ability to say that we did it all alone.
Humanity beckons a partner. We all deserve someone who will help us face our qualms and fears. Even the greatest reservation of all: vulnerability.
*This article was originally published on Madame Noire.