Somewhere around the age of 30, when I was in my peak physical form and feeling strong and vital, there came the realization that no matter how hard I worked, even the average man could easily over power me. There was a nugget of anger that came with that knowledge. And also, a tiny nudge of fragility. The beginning of a feeling that would slowly grow over the years, getting bigger with a health set back, or when I could no longer do something on my own or when a nervousness sets in where there once was none. It just is.
I’m currently reading American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins. Beautifully written with a compelling story, I can only take it in spurts because it triggers the feeling of the immense powerlessness of being a women. I find that I need to push it away until I have to go back to find out what happens to our protagonist who has the unfortunate, regretful characteristic of being a woman on the run in Mexico.