What it means to be a woman...and also 30.

Twelve days ago, I turned 30; it was a "milestone" birthday, and I had an amazing day. My husband, family, and friends did a stellar job of making me feel special and loved on the mark of my third decade on this planet. I am ever-so-grateful for their displays of support and love.

That said, I must confess that the weeks leading up to the big 3-0 were wrought with emotion and dread. My husband would ask me repeatedly, "are you freaking out about turning 30?" I knew the answer was yes, but I couldn't articulate why. 

It wasn't until a week ago that I realized exactly why I was dreading this particular birthday.

I was having an otherwise insignificant weekday when I found out that a friend and colleague was pregnant with her first child-- a child she and her husband have worked and prayed dearly for. And while my attitude, facial expressions, and demeanor played the part of overjoyed and supportive, my heart ached in my chest.

And as soon as the moment was over, I tried to reconcile while my heart did not fall in line with the rest of my body. Why did I feel hurt or sad or what at her absolutely wonderful news; why did I lapse into reflexive fake happiness than authentic happiness?

I've been chewing on this ever since. 

And it hit me yesterday- much with the help of my sister- exactly why I found myself feeling anything other than happy for my friend. And the answer is that it all comes down to the hard reality of being a woman in this world, and all of the subtle pressures that come along with that designation.

We live in a world that suggests that a woman's path should look something like this:

-birth

-school

-college

-career (very cloesely followed by)

-marriage

-children

-raising children

-empty nest

-grandchildren

-old age

-death

Have I let anything out?

The reality of the situation is, there is a natural progression of the course of a life a "typical" woman is supposed to lead, and at this point, I am far behind.

I have felt the weight of this timeline on my shoulders since I was a child. I decided early on- more out of a need to protect myself- that I would never adhere to this kind of timeline or lifestyle because I would never marry (who would've wanted to marry me? I was chubby and didn't sleep around.); except, I DID marry. But I did it much later than most of the people I know.

And here I am, a year into marriage, at the age of 30, and I am not pregnant. That has been as a result of my husband and I's choice, and not because of biology. However, as much as I know that, I still have a knee-jerk reaction of feeling inadequate or behind because I am my age and I am NOT a mother. Logically, I know this is what I have chosen; my emotions are more reticent to understand that notion.

So what am I bitching about? That I chose a path and don't like how it looks or feels by comparison to my friends and acquaintances?

Well. Yes. Exactly that. And if you're scratching your head about what the real issue is here, then you're right where I was a few days ago. And the conclusion I have come to is that the constructs of what it is to be a woman in this world is a difficult rat race, and whether you buy-in or not, it's a race you never signed up for, but one that you absolutely are in.

My mother is 62 years old, and was blessed with grandchildren last March. She was one of the last of a myriad of her friends to be graced with grandchildren. And I know my sister felt the pressure-- at the time, she was the one of us that was married. I wasn't there yet, so I was more incubated from feeling that pressure; but the pressure remained. Even at my mom's age, she was imbued with notions of where one should be at a certain point (with grown children), and she wasn't there yet. And other women in her life let her know it. Regularly. "Where are your grandchildren, Barbara?" The cycle of pressure healthily churns.

Don't get me wrong-- she didn't then, nor has she ever, pressured us to pop out kids to keep up with her friends, but it strikes me now as significant that she was still experiencing female expectancy pressure at her age...after having two children...and keeping her marriage together after 35 years. What is that?!

Does it not bother you?

It bothers me. Profoundly.

And I guess I didn't realize it until I felt inexplicably defensive about the fact that a friend I have prayed for to get pregnant, did so before me. I cannot be alone in these feelings of inadequacy. I know I'm not. But, there it is. That's the ugliness I am willing to claim: I found out she achieved something I haven't even been working towards, and I resented her for it.

So, what does that say about me? Well, maybe i am being too easy on myself, but I am more inclined to believe that it suggests women are under a ridiculous amount of pressure. We have to dress and talk and act a certain way at all times; we have to deliver life milestones on a specific timetable; we have to perform our womanly duties on a suitable standard level; it feels like the constraints on women never end.

So what in the hell is my point?

Essentially, this entire process has taught me to remind myself that even without meaning to keep up to the norms of expectancy, every woman will invariably find them self confronted with those norms at one time or another-- ignore it. Eventually, the ghosts of what you should be doing or what you should've already done will rear their ugly heads-- ignore them. You WILL find yourself behind the curve of achievement, especially (but not intentionally) as it relates to your friends-- ignore it all.

This whole experience opened my eyes to the subtle ways a woman can buy in to what or who or how she should be; I choose not...to all of it.

__________

Here is to living life ON. YOUR. OWN. TERMS.; here is to living by no timeline, feeling no pressure, and audaciously deciding 'normal' for yourself. I celebrate you in your own journey as I hope you pray for me in mine.

Betsy Fouse Townsend

I am at a loss.

When I think and/or write, I let my thoughts slosh around in my head, and invariably wait for whatever missives fall over the rim to anchor what I put in writing. This process serves me well- what makes it out of the jumble of my consciousness is usually easy to form into coherent, cohesive thought.

As I sit here, attempting this very well-worn process, I am coming up empty. Perhaps my brain knows better than my heart that there are no words I can conjure that will do justice to how I feel. Because what I am feeling and thinking is impossible and incredulous and angry and desperate; how do I reconcile an egregious loss with perfunctory rhetoric?

I don't. 

That's it-- I don't.

Today, I found out that a friend of mine passed away at an impossibly young age, when she was both a loyal wife and dedicated mother, with no explanation or justification for her early exit from this life we all share. She is now this person I was friends with-- past tense. She was something; she no longer is anything. She is past tense.

So, here I am, attempting to assign some notion of eloquence or nostalgia to what I know and remember of her. And it isn't enough. Remembering it at all feels trite and prosaic.

So, without further attempts at profundity, I will simply say this--

Betsy Fouse Townsend was a fucking badass. She endured more heartache, distress, injustice, and consequence in 32 years of life than the entire character list of a Stephen King novel-- and she did it better. She did it with more grace, humility, and strength than any other person I have ever known.

At her worst moments, her lowest lows, and her most harrowing moments of despair, she always insisted on dwelling in the positive. She adamantly refused to be the person with a cross to bear or an ax to grind; she regarded her struggles as character building and not a thing more.

So this person, who I witnessed deal with more strife in her 30 years of life than anyone else I have ever known, is now gone from this earth. And I have no idea why- either in literal or spiritual senses. But she is gone, and she leaves in her wake a legacy rife with the best 'stuff' people in this world have to offer. She welcomed me into the camp nursing station with the confidence and moxie of a brain surgeon-- and just as easily shared with me all of the things she did not know to assuage my own palpable lack of confidence.

She showed up to my college campus one weekend to surprise me after a bad week;

She sent me a box of affirmations and inside jokes after a round of brutal finals;

She called me for no other reason than to tell me that she appreciated my kindness-- with no catalyst or prompting; she did it 'just because'.

She called me two weeks ago, and I couldn't make it to the phone. I put a call back to her into my 'reminders'-- I set it for a week from now.

I missed out on her. I missed out on whatever it was she was reaching out to me for two weeks ago. I. Missed. Out. 

She is gone now-- I'll never know what she wanted when she called me that afternoon. That's on me. I missed out on the final conversation I would've had with a personal giant of mine because I took for granted this. life.

I desperately pray that even just one person can learn NOT to make this same kind of mistake-- it's a permanent way to learn that life is short and too many things are impossible to reverse. Don't take life for granted.

Do everything in your power to make sure you're never the person that unintentionally 'misses out'.

If you don't, I assure you it's the lowest feeling you'll ever know...