The cost of being seen
Of all the hundreds and hundreds of pages I've read for Uni, one phrase has stuck with me:
"Women have always lived with worry."
It was written in relation to accusations of witchcraft.
A neighbour, trying to make sense of the world - failing crops, a sick child, poor health, even the weather - could cast blame and call it magick.
“I saw her look at me funny,” they’d say.
“She muttered something as she passed.”
And just like that, the words “She’s a witch” could change your life.
You’d be dragged from your home.
Locked away until you confessed. Confessed not to being powerful, but to being in relationship with the devil, because that was the only way a woman’s power could be explained.
But after the witch hunts ended, the worry continued as the asylum opened its doors.
Didn’t agree with your husband?
Spoke too loudly?
Grieved too long?
You weren’t a strong independent women who knew her own mind and honoured her emotions. You were hysterical.
Off you go. Locked up once more.
And now, we have #MeToo and chronic illness.
Not the beginning.
Just the next echo in a long line of whispers, warnings, and worry of not being believed. Of being blamed. Of having your life turned upside down for daring to speak out.
Women have always lived with worry.
Not because we’re weak
but because we’ve always known the cost of being seen.
But now, we’re learning to look each other in the eye.
To speak the truth before it gets stuck in our throats.
To turn that ancient worry into watchfulness, wisdom, and wildness.
The fires they once used to burn us?
We carry them now in our hands.
Not to destroy
but to illuminate.
The worry hasn't gone.
But neither have we.
And this time, we’re breaking the spell.