crushing daisies - ways in which patriarchal fundamentalism harms its children #4

I've had the privileged opportunity to talk to the kids of some of my old fundy friends recently and hear about some others. Their stories share some common threads and I learned a whole lot from listening to them. Here are some brief notes on that:

• Kids leaving fundamentalism face some special challenges. Unlike most of their fleeing mothers they have no frame of reference to help them build a life in a world filled with ordinary folk. That capacity to harken back to our pre-fundy lives is probably one of the reasons that we as mothers were so slow to realise how damaging sheltering our children was: we understood the world and knew we would be able to re-engage at any time. Some of us lost sight of the fact that this was not true for our kids. 
• All the young people I've spoken to say they continue to struggle relating socially to peers into their late teens and twenties. They say it takes a long time to begin to feel 'normal' and lose that fear of a generalised evil they believe lurks in the world outside their homes. Even once their own experience has shown them that this was not wholly true, vestigial worry remains. Further, the guilt and self-hatred that some of them endure make developing normal relationships difficult. And often they are competent conversing with adults but just don't know how to do small talk with kids their age. These are crippling disabilities for a young adult.
• I'm saddened to hear that more than one of the girls has suffered from eating disorders as my own daughter K has. The lovely young woman I spoke with today told me that restricting her eating was her way of gaining control in a life that was micro-managed by her mother, and in which she suffered dreadful abuse at the hand of her father. When my daughter was being treated for her ED in an adolescent mental health unit, she commented that Pentecostal kids were significantly over-represented on the ward. I'd be interested in looking into that further.
• These girls who have fled fundamentalism with its strict modesty regulations seem to take a very special delight in girly things like glam shoes and pretty dresses. On so many levels patriarchal fundamentalism tells children that the things they think and feel are wrong and must be suppressed. It's a joy, but a little bit sad too, to see these gorgeous gals enjoying indulging their tastes without guilt.
• Growing up is hard anytime you do it but it's extra tough on kids who were kept 'young' and so had to make the journey in late adolescence - and often in a time of significant family upheaval. It's a testament to their resilience that they are growing into such lovely young adults. One young man told me that when he and his family left fundamentalism, they all threw a lot of babies out with the bathwater. He told me that, over time, he realised that he wanted to dust off some of those values and add them to the growing entity that is the adult he is choosing to become. He agreed with me that being a grown up and feeling equipped to make those kinds of decisions all by yourself is a very nice thing to be.

So that's some thoughts on the kids. But growing up is also hard - perhaps harder in some ways - for the middle-aged women who leave marriages and controlling church situations unused to navigating the myriad options available to them once rules are not a given. Some of us enjoy a brief revisiting of our teenage rebellious years. I suppose it's only natural to take some time to try out new freedoms and practice making discriminating choices.

One of the themes I've noted when hearing stories of child survivors of fundamentalism is that not every woman leaves in search of Integrity. I've heard about mothers who have ended their marriages and made moves to build new lives but who haven't really left behind a lot of the fundy baggage that caused them and their kids so much harm. Sadly, I've learned that more than one mother persistently refuses to canvas the possibility that they may be in some ways culpable for their children's suffering. They don't want to discuss it or they argue that things were not the way their child remembers. This causes their children a great deal of grief.

I empathise with the sorrow of those women but I am not able to sympathetise with their self-protective self-centredness. I understand that it is a frightening and distressing prospect to face the dreadful truth that some of your efforts to show your kids you love them more than breathing were misguided and have left them with scars. But our kids' recovery and growth seems to be linked to our own willingness to honestly accept that which is ours to own.

In my view, our children need us to be absolutely truthful in this regard. They need us to do some thinking about our mistakes, to approach them unbidden, to tell them they we understand how our beliefs and actions have harmed them, and to ask their forgiveness. More than once. And we need to be open to our kids approaching us with another bucketful of hurt, and another, and another. They need to know that we love them and we get it and that we are sad too. We need to let them tell the truth about how angry they have been, that even though they love us such a lot, they feel a need to say just how hurt they were by our mistakes.

I don't mean that we all move in to a perpetual Beat Up Mum Camp - we also need to know what is *not* ours to own. And as one of the young men I spoke to told me, 'I'm an adult now. My past has defined me to this point...but now I'm making decisions for myself, growing myself into the person I want to be.' At some point kids need to take responsibility for making the best of what they've been given. I just think that a mother's persistent refusal to allow them to revisit the past or to ask us to validate their feelings about it may actually inhibit their progress toward adulthood. And we don't have the right to do that, no matter how deeply it hurts to revisit our culpability in their suffering.

We mothers need to man up and hear what our kids need us to hear. I sincerely believe that every time we refuse to face a truth, every time we stick our fingers in our ears or manipulate our children into feeling that they should consider our sorrow ahead of their need to address issues from the past, we say 'No'  to growth. And that is a very dangerous thing to do. I believe we shrink a little bit each time we refuse the opportunity to take another baby step toward Integrity. I believe we need to embrace the pain that honesty brings us, to learn to love the agony of growth, to value Truth above all things.

There is no excuse for going easy on ourselves in this. Our children's healthy futures may depend on our opening our hearts to share in the truth as they see it. And the big payout is: every time we squeak open the door to those dark places, a shard of light rushes in and frightens away one of our own demons. And we find that we were wrong: the worst thing that can happen today is *not* that someone will confront us with something dreadful we may have done, but that, when that moment came, we didn't grab it with both hands.

boobs: i've got 'em. get used to it.

My daughter K recently brought an interesting book home from the library this week. In "The Body Shape Bible" British fashion problem-solvers Trinny Woodall and Susanna Constantine identify 12 body shapes that they give names such as cello, goblet and column and then detail how women, seeing as how they are stuck with it, can best dress for the shape they've been given. There are lots of books like this about, I know, but this one is written in such a warm, supportive, woman-to-woman way that it's a stand out.

Trinny and Suzanna confirmed what I knew already: there's no doubt about it - I am a textbook hourglass. I have this in common with women like Marilyn Munro and self-proclaimed kitchen goddess, Nigella Lawson (pictured above). Women with my body-shape are variously described as 'generously proportioned' (by our grandmothers), 'curvaceous' (by our friends) and sometimes 'voluptuous' (yes, that would be the men).  

You probably don't need me to point out that hourglasses are not generally found lacking in the boobie department. Even at my slimmest I am possessed of what might be called 'a good set'. When pregnant, lactating or 'cuddly', that description scales up into something between 'impressive' and 'oh, my'. 

As we ate breakfast together yesterday, K read me the introduction to the Hourglass chapter in Trinny and Suzanna's book. Here's what it said in part:

"As a girl you could very well have bloomed early on. Your boobs will have attracted attention before you were mentally equipped to deal with the sniggering. This would have been hard and may have left a lingering shame over your buoyant figure. So rather than celebrating your iconic shape you will be left wondering how the hell to hide it from unwanted glances."

I was surprised to discover that hearing those words made me come over a bit teary. How well I remember being the first girl in my grade to wear a bra, and how the boys would run rulers down my back in class to confirm their suspicions. Feelings of shame about my breasts started early and continued into adulthood. Those feelings may even have played a part in my willing acceptance of QF modesty standards later on.

Being well-endowed causes all sorts of difficulties for the QF woman. Modesty is a highly valued virtue in QF circles and consequently boobs tend to be left to languish unobserved under multiple folds of loose, and generally floral, drapery. When one of my dearest friends joined an Amish/Mennonite group she told me that her new 'cape dresses' were designed to perpetually keep not one but two layers of good thick homespun between the conscientious amishwoman's breasts and the boob-watching world. And no doubt that did limit the visibility of errant and inconveniently erect nipples at chilly church suppers, and that appealing bobbing about breasts are wont to do - strap them down as you may. 

The primary reason for excessive modesty rules in the QF movement is that good submissive wives and daughters would not willingly elect to be a 'stumbling block' to the poor, weak-minded men-folk they encounter at home, at church or in the supermarket. Men, we are told, are 'easily excited by visual stimuli'. Be that as it may, it is we women who bear responsibility for preventing men from sinning by keeping our girly bits well out of sight. 

I have a one or two problems with that.

First, while I am not planning on dressing in traditional prostitute's garb any time soon, I refuse to accept that I am in any way responsible for what goes on in someone else's head. I don't believe a man's secret sexual thoughts are my responsibility any more than a girl walking alone at night in a t-shirt and mini-skirt is responsible for the actions of the man who decides to rape her. QF fundamentalist modesty is only a tiny step away from the Muslim insistence on covering women in burqas lest the very sight of the temptresses provoke a man to imaginings that put him in danger of hellfire. None of us will ever dress modestly enough to avoid lighting the fires of some men. So they just need to take responsibility for their own thinkings and doings like the rest of us do. (See this article for an excellent rant about the illogicality of blaming women for rape.) Women need to know they have the liberty to inhabit fashion real estate between the extremes of prostitute and nun without guilt or condemnation.

Second, as my daughters will tell you, over-emphasising female modesty can make girls ashamed of their bodies, afraid to grow up and become women, and terrified of men and their apparently hair-trigger-set and unrelenting desires. It breaks my heart that this is the legacy I inadvertently handed to my own girls. I am doing everything I can to change that now.

Further, I wonder whether these prudish beliefs and practices might make our boys even more curious about the undiscovered territory that lies beneath girls' dresses than is usual and healthy for normal, curious boys. After all, Victorian men could by all accounts be driven to unbridled lust by the unscheduled flash of just one well-turned ankle. Could it just be that QFers actually incite unhealthy obsessions in our sons by imposing our religious nudiphobia on them?

Third, if anyone thinks that women wearing modest clothing prevents sexual sin I suggest they look up some statistics on the prevalence of porn use among church-attenders. Depending on which study you read, perhaps between 5 and 8 out of every 10 men sitting smiling at the pastor on a Sunday morning are likely to be spending at least as many minutes viewing lewd sexual acts performed by other women with boobs much less well concealed than yours Monday through Saturday. So where should the blame lie if one of those guys gets a wee tingle in his thingle as he stands impertinently chatting to my chest after the service? I, for one, am not owning that.

Fourth, I've often thought that, with respect, if God was so hung up about keeping boobs out of sight and mind, he could easily have built us more like other mammals, none of which seem to have noticable bumpy bits unless lactating. He could have, for instance, given us a couple of rows of nipples like dogs' that swell with milk only when needed to sustain offspring. Or located breasts somewhere less visible - in our armpits for instance. But no, he made breasts bountiful, bouncy and, in my case, big, and tacked them tantalisingly in a spot just barely below the line of polite eye contact. Would he have done that if he didn't mean for us to acknowledge they are there? Clearly if we believe God made them at all, it seems he planned breasts to be an undeniable reminder that women are not the same as men  - and that they are very, very different to dogs.

Finally,  QF modesty + big boobs = frump. When you are in possession of a curvy boob, waist and hip configuration, adhering to the QF dress code means doing it baggy and, you can ask Trinny and Suzanna, baggy doesn't work for hourglasses. Frocking up like Demis Roussos doesn't do a lot for a gal's self-esteem either I can tell you. Even my legalistic zeal and belief that I was doing 'the right thing' and 'setting an example for my daughters' could not possibly compensate for how depressing mirrors became to a hourglass-shaped QFer like me.

Anyway, it's all good now. I am happy and comfortable in my skin and have no axe to grind with any other woman, whatever she chooses to wear.

In conclusion, for what it's worth, I'd just like to say this to all the men I know and to those I have yet to meet: 

I have breasts - two of them. They are big, bouncy and beautiful and they are mine. I'm not going to go out of my way to use them to terrify or titillate (heh, heh) but I'm not either going to gear up like a nun just because some of you have active imaginations. I dress to please myself. I am trying neither to entice nor repel you. Unless you are a family member, work colleague or friend, I'm just going about my business and ignoring you. They're just boobs, mate. Women have them. Grow up and get over it. It's up to you to control yourself and limit your imaginings and gropings to the ones that that are attached to the woman in your life.

And that's got nothing to do with me.

out fundying the fundies

 

pilfered with thanks from stufffundieslike.com

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Warning: this post may contain traces of nuts

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Coming out of a cult-like mindset is a journey of a thousand steps. As I've said before, for me it was discovering an increasing number of things I didn't share with the QF/Christian patriarchal/Fundamentalist camp that formed a large slice of my escapee education pie. 'Leigh' (not her real  name) unwittingly taught me one of my most memorable lessons.

I first heard of Leigh when a mutual, and very lovely, fundy friend asked if we could put Leigh and her son up for the night at short notice. My friend regularly had them to stay but unexpected circumstances prevented her offering a room this time. I said I'd be happy to find them some space.

Leigh and her 23 year old son James (also not his real name) needed to fly to across the continent two or three times each year. James was studying a Bachelor of Music through a university in a city near us and was periodically required to attend in person to sit his exams. Apparently this was the only uni in Australia that offered the course James wanted to study but allowed students to complete it from home. Home university - within limited approved course choices - is pretty popular in QF circles.

Leigh arrived in a particularly dull and dowdy home-made floral frock, her uncut hair wound up tight in a bun and wrapped in a crochetted 'covering'. This bun cover was not intended to be decorative but was worn as a religious garment, a symbol of her submission to her husband. Leigh wore no make up or jewellery, her calves were swathed in a pair of peculiar fuzzy socks and I'd seen more stylish footwear on psych ward night nurses.

It quickly became apparent that Leigh liked to hold court from a position squarely in the centre of things. She fended off all direct contact with James. Whenever we could get the lad to answer a question for himself Leigh would either finish his sentences for him or chip in and correct the details with a brusque, 'No, no, James. It wasn't like that!' It seemed James was used to being harried by his mother but, despite his charming manners and respectful fascade, there were unmistakable signs he was embarrassed and annoyed at her constant chiding. I managed to get Leigh's to loosen her grip once or twice and allow James to play table tennis with my boys in another room. The boys said James was transformed from a nervous, twitching mummy's boy into a regular, jovial bloke at these times.

Leigh, not unexpectedly, turned out to be one of those fundies who likes to let loose every hobby horse in her not-inconsiderable stable right up front without regard to the possible opinions of her beleaguered audience. Indeed, she didn't allow for alternate positions at all but treated us to an unabated tub thumping from the moment she arrived until she finally was forced to sleep that night. I've met a lot of these sorts of fundies and suspect they persist in such thick-skinned, anti-social, brow-beating monologues in part because of a short-sighted assumption that if one has 'Christian homeschooler' tattooed across one's forehead one must also be in happy receipt of the whole box and dice. In addition, I suspect they think it good policy on the off chance they have struck some poor fellow not fully right-minded quite yet. Then, as their victim is lucky enough to be in attendance while the fundy pursues their favourite subjects ad nauseum and without drawing breath, there is a fair possibility the wayward one may be brought round. I'm ashamed to say I have indulged in this sort of arrogance myself on many occasions.

So...Leigh began by holding forth on the 'right' kind of homeschooling. ACE, of course. I gathered as she continued that in general the only 'suitable' material for the consumption of children was overtly Christian both in authorship and message. She assumed we were in agreement about the evil practice of reading literature containing animals or inanimate objects that talk. The kids smiles froze and they shot panicked glances my way. I crossed my fingers and hoped Leigh wouldn't look too closely at any of my many bookcases containing as they did contraband favourites such as The Hobbit and D'Aulaires Book of Greek Myths. Still hoping she wasn't a Pantry Checker (I've known a few), I made a metal note to remove my wine to a safer location under my bed just in case.

Leigh went on to treat us to sermons on modesty and feminine submission. My girls and I were past wearing skirts by this time but, suspecting our houseguest may tend to the conservative side, I had dug one out for myself so as not to cause offense. I had stopped short of imposing that on my girls.

At that precise moment twelve-year-old K unwittingly entered the room dressed modestly enough in jeans and a blouse. It was now that Leigh revealed she had rebellion-spotting super powers. These enabled her to detect the tell-tale whiff of a rebellious seed '...even as young as 12...' She narrowed her eyes to suspicious slits and cast a despising glance K's way. Leigh had, apparently, the only 'saved' kids left in town. She said they started homeschooling with 40 other children each and every one of whom she assured us had 'gone off the rails'. She said that she was well-known for being the only parent of their acquainance who had been able to raise 'godly' children. Subsequently, Leigh volunteered a deal of her time to support less successful mothers in their grief. Occasionally she took one or two wayward souls into her home for a time, fixed them and then sent them back home for their hapless mothers to ruin again.

At one point I asked Leigh why she accompanied James each time he flew to Queensland. I thought she must have friends or relatives nearby that she wanted to visit. With a disappointed look, Leigh, sat up a little straighter and explained that obviously it wasn't safe for James to catch a plane and then a bus on his own so she came along every time to make sure that he'd be safe. What made Leigh think she'd be able to keep a grown man safer than he could keep himself was not specified.

As it happened, I'd managed to kick the hobby horse closest to Leigh's heart. She took the opportunity to explain that she lived on a farm (brownie points there for sure) and shopped in the small, quiet country town nearby. But, she said, she would never let her two girls - aged 18 and 21 - walk from one end of town to the other, a distance of some 500 metres, unchaperoned even when she was shopping nearby. She was worried that men might try and....I'm not exactly sure what men might try and do but it was something and it was bad. Consequently, her girls had attained adulthood with virtually no opportunity for unsupervised conversation with a non-family member. 

Leigh had chosen careers for all her children that would keep them safely with mama for the long haul. She and her husband had built a music studio in their home so that James could try and earn a living teaching piano and still be able to eat all his meals with his ma. Leigh had helped her daughters establish a business making and selling modest clothing to other fundy women. The business name was based on 1 Timothy 4:12 and revealed the object was not just to keep certain body bits under wraps but to be - and be seen to be - better than everyone else because of your exemplary dress standards. Anyway, those young adults were kept safely under Mother's gimlet eye 24/7 and were apparently not due for parole any time soon.

It eventually became plain that the rest of James' life was pretty well stitched up for him. He had managed to select a prospective life partner from a mother-approved shortlist. This gal was from a similarly-minded fundy family who lived in another state. (It is common for QF families to start making connections like these as their children reach their teens - marriage partners not being thick on the ground in your average homeschool kitchen. In Australia ACE families seem to do this best.) James had met his chosen at a fundy-only 21st birthday party and after much prayer and character-sussing on both sides a betrothal contract agreeable to both families was negotiated.

All that remained was for the lass to come and enjoy an extended visit where she would be subject to a final bout of scrutiny from her mother-in-law-to-be. In due time James' beloved arrived, endured 10 days with Leigh, then rushed home to her own mother refusing to speak to James or any of his family ever again. This hard-heartedness despite Leigh's offer to section off a bit of unsaleable land on which James could erect a house for himself and his bride, and a promise that, faithful matriarch, Leigh would be on hand every single day to mentor the poor ignorant thing and help her properly raise the hoped-for tribe of grandchildren. Ungrateful wench! Leigh could not find it in her heart to forgive the girl or her family and would not brook my gentle suggestion that it was perhaps better after all to call it off now than after the wedding.

Don't ask my K about bedtime that night unless you want an earful. At 8.30, after phoning her husband and tersely delivering a full menu of instructions and reminders, Leigh announced that it was well past James' bedtime and insisted he head off at once. James offered a sheepish goodnight to my pre-teen children who were still up and about and headed obediently for his nigh-nighs. And he almost escaped without further humiliation. At the last moment though Leigh called him back, offered her cheek and insisted on a 'kiss for Mummy'. Honestly, we were all starting to feel a little ill.

The following morning Leigh was up and floral-frocked nice and early. She wandered the halls for over an hour (I kid you not) until everyone had seen her with her Bible (in hand-made quilted cover) and so knew she'd been at her 'devotions' while we were all still dribbling on our pillows. It was the day of James' big exam so I asked him what he'd like to eat. He cast a worried glance at his mother whose glare left us in no doubt that I was sadly mistaken if I thought James was the honoured guest at this little party. Nevertheless I made James coffee, bacon and eggs and porridge and told him to help himself and have as much as he liked and not feel it was too much trouble. Leigh was pissed at all the attention James was receiving and also because, the service being a little slower than usual that morning, she had to shout from the dining room and hurry me along with her cutlery. All this without a word of a lie. And there was so, much, more more besides.

Leigh is not exactly typical of the women I met in QF fundamentalism. Certainly, she was uncharacteristically rude. But her meanness and self-absorption aside she is really only slightly more extreme in her views than many - both women and men - I knew personally. Still I was staggered at her self-rightousness and the depth of her self-deception and appalled at the abusive and inappropriate control she inflicted on her children

Truthfully, Leigh scared the shite out of me. I realised that Delusion was a near and dangerous enemy and wondered if I was looking at a portrait of me in twenty years time. I determined then to ask others to hold me accountable as I searched my heart and pleaded with God to show me whether I might be on the same path. I told every friend who would lend me an ear about Leigh and reminded them that if they saw characteristics like that in me and didn't tell me, they couldn't rightly say they loved me. I decided I didn't want to build myself into the kind of woman whose kids don't visit her once they are given the choice. It was a good plan.

Sadly, although Leigh is a shocker she is not unique. Neither was she relegated to the outer corners of QF Fundidom. Leigh had real cred and was an honoured stateswoman in the QF pool in which she swam. I don't doubt she had moulded many, many young women in her image over the years. I met her when I was already on the way to asking some difficult questions about the belief igloo I'd built around myself and my family. Consequently, Leigh repelled rather than attracted me. I wonder how I'd have responded if I'd still been in the throws of fullest QF zeal. I know this for sure, if she came to stay today I wouldn't fail to challenge her nonsense. What a coward I was then.

James was a nice young guy though and I suspect he'll make a decentish sort of man if he can ever get out from under his mother's thumb. Perhaps he has. I sure hope so.

I'd also like to say that I hope this post serves to more clearly define the parameters of fundamentalism such as I will use the term on this blog. When I say fundy, I mean legalistic, self-righteous, delusional folk like Leigh. Sometimes I'll be referring to homeschooling, homebirthing, home churching, home businessing, frock-wearing, KJV 1611 sorts. Other times I'll include independant conservative and charistmatic/pentecostal believers.  I do not mean to cast my net around Christians who simply believe the Bible is true and seek to live as though Christ is real - whatever I happen to believe myself. I fully intend to criticise a bunch of church practices that may be common across the board but I want it known that I love and respect many of the mainstream Christians I know who identify positively with the term Fundamentalism as they understand it.

And, I should note too that I have a lot of love and respect for QFers who are sincere believers and seekers after the truth - whether they are still in or have found their way out. But I'm not wasting any warm fuzzies on Leigh or her sort.

crushing daisies - ways in which quiverfull fundamentalism harms its children - # 2

 
The Little House on the Prairie Fashion Club
 

Our family wasn't particulary extreme regarding dress standards but we did insist on longish dresses and plaits for the girls for several years.This morning my 17 year old daughter K reminded me how damaged she had felt by that over-emphasis on feminine modesty. She tells me that in her view it had three significant effects. First, she grew to have a lasting disrespect for men and boys who obviously couldn't keep their minds away from her private parts. K says she felt disgusted at male weakness and their apparent obsession with all things sexual. I know she still struggles even to imagine enjoying a healthy partnership with a man.

In addition, dressing like weirdos served, conveniently, both to keep a distance between us and 'the world' and also helped us spot like-minded families in a crowd. K tells me that, even though she's glad she's at school now, she feels 16 years behind the eight ball when she's with her peers. Dress and other conservative choices we made kept my kids from engaging with their own culture. In an effort to follow the advice of patriarchal teachers such as Jonathan Lindvall we 'dared to shelter' our kids from many things that would help them function in a 21st world.

Finally, and perhaps most disturbing is that K says she grew up believing that there was something very wrong with her body. Having to hide herself away under a veritable mountain of denim and promptly being admonished when any bits weren't properly covered left her confused and, she says, appalled at her own foulness. She tells me that, before she even came to the dreadful realisation that God planned a very limited range of life choices for her, she knew she hated it that he had made her a girl.

How incredibly sad is that? I am heartbroken that I participated in crushing the self-worth of such a beautiful, intelligent and energetic young woman. And I feel very lucky indeed that she loves me still and allows me to walk beside her to build her up and help her realise her full potential.

It has been several years since I stopped enforcing the dress code in our home. Really, as soon as our girls reached their teen years the foolishness of such a position became clear to me. The fact that my two oldest girls came to me threatening mutiny helped a lot :) I dropped over-the-top modesty like a hot potato when I realised it was hurting my girls - and probably my boys - and damaging my relationship with them. Thank God my desire to keep the love and respect of my children overruled my foolish legalism.

I can imagine a flood of  'if anyone loves father, mother....more than me' tut-tutting from some former churchmates as I write. I understand the fear of hell but I have chosen to love my kids regardless. I praise the day I realised I loved my children too much to stand on silly, man-made principle. Whatever happens and whoever my kids decide to be, the only mother they've got in the world is going to stand beside them cheering them on. No matter what it costs me.

Addendum:

I just got in from collecting K from her part-time job. On the way home in the car I told her about this post. This is what she said:

"Now I love being a woman. I feel powerful, strong and capable of doing anything I want to do."

A little joybird just nested in my heart.