What Is a Woman, Anyway? And Why I’m Nowhere Near Where I Thought I’d Be

A raw reflection on womanhood, rebellion, and becoming something beyond the roles I was raised to play. From being told I’d only matter as a wife and mother, to dreaming of travel, lovers, and legacy—I’m unlearning everything I was taught a woman should be, and remembering who I really am.

I’m not where I thought I’d be.
Not even close.

There was a time I thought I’d be married by now. A couple of kids. A soft kind of life.
A house my husband picked.
Love as stability. Identity as an extension of someone else.

Instead, I’m here.
Alone—but not lonely.
Building a life from scratch. Painting, sewing, writing.
Waking up in a beautiful apartment that I chose for myself.
Filling it with plants, silk, unfinished paintings, and creative mess.

I never imagined I’d live like this—not because I didn’t want it, but because it never occurred to me that it was an option.
When you grow up in a lineage of women trained to survive through marriage, you don’t always know what survival looks like without it.

I was told—indirectly, and sometimes directly—that as a girl, I was property.
My dreams were optional.
My worth conditional.
My purpose tethered to a man’s desire.

So when no man came, I started to question:
*Was I even real without one?*
*Who was I without a ring, a title, a plan someone else made for me?*

And yet... even as a child, I felt the fracture.

I was drawn to women who defied the script—Cleopatra, Anne Boleyn, Geishas, Courtesans.
Women who were still bound, still judged, still used—but who twisted the rules in their favor.
Who carved out altars of power and seduction within the confines of empire, patriarchy, tradition.
Not free, but not silent either.

Even Marie Antoinette—demonized for decadence, but a symbol of feminine rebellion in a gilded cage.
I look up to women like this.
Not because they were flawless. But because they refused to shrink.
Because they made something out of what they were given, even when the world tried to make them small. 

And I’ve always admired courtesans.
Not just for their seduction—but for their strategy.

They were women who moved through rooms they weren’t supposed to be in.
Not just lovers, but muses, diplomats, tastemakers.
They turned desire into influence. Intimacy into currency.
They created culture while being mistaken for decoration.

Some of those women—scorned, adorned, misunderstood—used their status to fund orphanages, support artists, and shift culture behind the scenes

I see myself in them.
Not because I sell sex—
but because I offer *presence.*
Aesthetic.
Awakening.
Experience.

The modern courtesan isn’t bound to kings.
She moves for no one.
She is the spell.
She is *the room.*

I don’t identify with the label “woman” the way the world wants me to.
I feel like a secret the world can’t quite place.
Something fluid. Something feral. Something sacred and strange.

I live in LA. I do LA things with LA people. I play the game.
But I don’t *feel* here.
Not in this country. Not in this culture. Not in this version of reality.

I dream of Paris. London. Spain. Wine-drenched afternoons, late nights filled with cigar smoke, laugher, plucked guitar strings and erotic tension. 

I imagine myself in a smoky speakeasy, velvet-dim and candlelit, perched on the lap of my lover— a professor, a neuroscientist, the kind who dissects both the mind and the soul.

We’re surrounded by our friends and lovers—the visionaries, philosophers, and soft-spoken madmen. People who debate quantum physics, love, embodiment, politics. People who feel like soul-siblings, chosen kin.

We’re smoking cigars like it’s foreplay, sipping expensive whiskey that burns just enough to remind us we’re alive. In this world, intellect is erotic. Power is quiet.

This is my happy place. The kind of place where ideas seduce before bodies do. And I belong here—not just as a muse, but as a mirror.

I imagine a life of many lovers—men, women, trans, undefined.

Not to conquer or be consumed, but to *touch.*
To know. To devour and be devoured.
I want to kiss people’s minds.
I want to wrap my hands around their souls.

That’s the life I want. That’s the life I *feel.*

But here I am.
Nowhere near where I thought I’d be.
Still haunted by inherited expectations.
Still breaking rules I never agreed to live by.
Still asking—*what does it even mean to be a woman?*

When I was about 12, my mother and stepfather asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wasn’t allowed to say the word, so I asked for permission. I said, “I want to be a bitch.” They were horrified—but I wasn’t joking.

I was raised to believe that being a woman meant being property. You were a wife, a mother, a doormat. Your worth came from how well you served. Your dreams didn’t matter—only your obedience did.

But I had already noticed how they talked about the women I admired—the ones who lived on their own terms, who had money, power, opinions. They were always called bitches. And I thought, then that’s exactly what I want to be.

Now I look back and wonder:
Was I trying to become a woman?
Or was I already becoming something else entirely?

✨ Zooming Out

Lately, I’ve been realizing that the way I see myself isn’t the full picture.

I’ve been looking at myself through a distorted lens—too close up, too zoomed in on the flaws. I hyper-fixate on my perceived shortcomings, my insecurities, the parts of me I haven’t perfected yet. I forget how powerful I am. I forget what I’ve survived. I forget what I *carry.*

But when I zoom out—when I really *zoom out*—I start to see the bigger picture.

I see that I’ve walked away from legacies of silence and suffering.
I see that I’ve built a life with my bare hands.
I see that I am living in direct rebellion against a lineage of women who weren’t allowed to want more.

And I still don’t know exactly who I am.
But I know I’m not small.
And I know I’m not done.

——

✨ The Return

And sometimes, I wonder if I’ve been here before.

Not *here* in this exact life, but somewhere adjacent.
Somewhere velvet-lined, candlelit, indulgent and alive.
I know in my bones I was once a decadent socialite—wealthy, adored, searching for meaning beneath the lace and luxury.
Someone who was surrounded by beauty and brilliance, and yet still asked the hard questions.
Someone who was deeply loved by her people—not because she conformed, but because she *embodied* something they longed to remember.

I know I helped people.
I know I used my charm as a bridge to deeper healing.
And now, I feel like I’m finally circling back to that lifeline.
Not starting over—*returning.*
Reclaiming a version of myself that never really left, just waited for me to catch up.

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🖤 Maybe I’m not lost. Maybe I’ve just been looking at myself too closely.
And maybe the truth of who I am… can only be seen in wide view.