I have always been a girl’s girl. But as a teenager I tried to fight it, intent on the fact I was not like other girls, morally superior to those who spent their days fawning over the latest It bag from Miss Selfridge. It was only as I entered adulthood, and was diagnosed with an incurable illness, that embracing the femininity I had pretended to hate started to make any sense to me.
All through my adolescence femininity was presented as something to belittle, berate or outright mock, with tabloids tearing apart teen pop icons and painting any high-profile woman with blonde hair as a bimbo. I did whatever I could to push against how I was taught I should behave, whether that was ignoring beauty trends, hanging around with boys I didn’t like, or feigning an interest in indie bands. I locked away any semblance of girliness deep inside me, burying femininity until I genuinely believed that I just didn’t want to conform to it.
