Your Daughter Is Already Pretending

They grow up to be women who have turned pretense into an art form. And it starts early. Before she can tie her own shoes, she learns her first lesson: her body is not her own. “Close your legs.”“Sit like a lady.”“Don’t wear that. It’s distracting.” She is six. She doesn’t know what “distracting” means yet. But she learns. She learns that her body is a problem other people get to solve. “Don’t laugh so loud. Boys don’t like that.”“Don’t talk too much. You’re too intense.”“Don’t cry. You’re being dramatic.”“Smile. You’re prettier when you smile.” She is nine. She learns that her feelings are an inconvenience. That her voice has a volume limit. That her face belongs to other people — they get to decide when it’s acceptable and when it’s too much. “Did you say no clearly enough?” “What were you wearing?”“Why were you alone with him?”“Are you sure that’s what happened?” She is twelve. She learns that her safety is her responsibility. That predators are not the problem. Her skirt is the problem. Her trust is the problem. Her existence in the wrong place at the wrong time is the problem. “Don’t be too ambitious. No one likes a bossy girl.” “Don’t say no too harshly. Be nice. He didn’t mean it.”“Don’t correct him. Let him feel right.” She is fourteen. She learns that men’s feelings matter more than her boundaries. That her job is to manage egos, to soften her edges, to make herself small so other people can feel large. “Stop being so sensitive.” “Other people have it worse.”“You’re lucky nothing really bad happened.”“At least he didn’t hit you.” She is sixteen. She learns that her pain is only valid if it’s the worst pain. That she should be grateful for the minimum. That asking for more is greedy. That surviving is enough — she also has to be grateful about it. “Don’t text back too fast.”“Don’t be needy.”“Don’t want too much.” She is eighteen. She learns that love is conditional. That her needs are a burden. That wanting to be seen, heard, held, chosen — that’s too much to ask. So she stops asking. “You’re too much.” “You’re not enough.”“You’re too loud.”“You’re too quiet.”“You’re too emotional.”“You’re too cold.” She is twenty. She learns that there is no right size. No right volume. No right way to exist as a girl in a world that was not built for her. So she stops trying to find it and starts building a mask instead. She learns to laugh at a joke that isn’t funny, to nod at an opinion she doesn’t agree with, to apologize for the space she takes up. She learns to turn her hurt into something pretty. Something presentable. Something that doesn’t scare people away. She becomes an artist. And the art is herself. Then she grows up.And she becomes a woman who has turned pretense into an art form.<img src="/media/inline_insight_image/IMG_2891.jpeg"/> She can bleed through her pants and joke about it so no one feels uncomfortable. She can be told to smile more by a stranger and actually do it because fighting back takes energy she doesn’t have. She can carry the weight of every unwanted hand, every “calm down,” every “what did you expect,” and still show up. Every day. Still perform. Still pretend. She can be in so much pain that she hasn’t slept in days and still post a smiling picture on Instagram. Because that’s what the algorithm wants. A pretty girl who is sad but not too sad. Sad in a way that is aesthetic. Sad in a way that still looks good in perfect lighting. She has perfected the art. But that art? It’s eating her alive. But she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t know how to. She learned too young that her real self is unacceptable. Too loud. Too much. Too hard to love. Too difficult. Stop telling girls to apologize for just existing. Because they grow up. They become women. Women who can go to work the next morning after someone put their hands where they didn’t belong. Women who can host a family function three days after a miscarriage.A woman who apologizes for crying at her own father’s funeral. They become art.A breathtaking piece of art.But that art is killing them.It is killing us. Let us be before the art consumes us completely.Please.

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