They say my body holds a spirituality. Maybe that’s why it comes with a free pass—permission given without asking, expectations loaded onto shoulders I never agreed to bear. Standing under the shower, water mingles with the blood leaving my body, and with each drop, I feel as though my dignity is being bled away. Every inch of me, every decision I should be allowed to make, is somehow dictated by what society deems acceptable for me, for my gender. Why do I need a say? Isn’t this how it’s always been? Letting others have their way, quietly accepting it, and learning to internalize this warped sense of normalcy. After all, isn’t this the image we’ve been conditioned to revere?
They say my body reflects my masculinity. As if my worth as a man lies not in my kindness, or my empathy, but in the sweat I produce and the tears I suppress. My heart is a whirlpool of emotions, each one more powerful and demanding than the last, but I’m expected to bottle them up. “Shut it down,” they say, “That’s how you start becoming a real man.” Becoming the kind of man who might one day tear me apart. Emotions, they claim, are a sign of weakness, yet I can feel my strength slipping through my fingers as I deny what makes me human.
They say chastity is a virtue that women have always carried. So now, I carry my hymen like a badge of honor or shame—depending on who you ask. It becomes a symbol, something far beyond flesh. If I lose it, will I lose my purity too? Will I no longer be worthy of the pedestal they’ve placed me on? My mind, filled with these thoughts, considers all the ways in which I’ve been taught that my worth is tied to my body, to its “purity,” and to its silence. So, what if I let it all go? Have I then become a woman of their taste? A woman acceptable to the gaze, the judgment, the endless scrutiny?
They took me to a psychologist once, only because I said I wanted to become a gynecologist. How absurd, right? A man wanting to study women’s health. The irony is not lost on me. It wasn’t about my passion for understanding life’s beginnings or providing care; it was about challenging their ideas of what men should do. “Freedom of expression?” they’d laugh. “Do you even need that? You’re a man, you wear the power hat.” But the power doesn’t feel like mine. It feels heavy, ill-fitting, as though I’ve traded my sense of self for the ability to fit into their mold. And even if I lose myself in the process, for them, it will be a victorious day.
They create these stereotypical boundaries, these invisible lines that trap us in roles and expectations we never agreed to. And every day, someone new steps up to the line, shedding crimson tears—emotions, identity, and dignity poured out. These wounds cut too deep, leaving scars that no one else seems to see. So I put on new skin, a new mask, trying to fit into what they want me to be. But each time I do, I shed a little more of who I really am. Until the face staring back at me is unrecognizable.
I wonder sometimes if the real me is nothing but fiction. A story I’ve been telling myself to survive, to cope, to hope that one day things might be different. Because if I admit who I really am, I’ll be met with judgment, with condemnation, with conviction that I am not enough, or worse, that I am too much. And so I let myself fall, over and over again, to the poisonous segregational knife they wield.
But here’s the thing: I’m not just living a pleaser’s life. So are they. The ones who enforce these rules, who perpetuate these stereotypes, who tell me how to be a man or a woman, they’re trapped too. Deep down, they’ve built their walls so high, they don’t even realize they’re locked in the same prison. A prison of gender roles, expectations, and societal pressure that suffocates us all.
But now, I think I want change. And somewhere deep down, so do they.
It starts with acknowledging the pain, the silent suffering we’ve all endured. It starts with tearing down the walls we’ve built around each other, the judgment we’ve cast, and the roles we’ve enforced. It starts with small acts of rebellion—allowing ourselves to feel, to cry, to break away from the molds that suffocate our spirit. Maybe change doesn’t have to be loud. Maybe it can begin quietly, in the spaces where we dare to question the narrative we’ve been handed.
And so, I let myself hope. Hope for a world where we aren’t confined by what we’re told we should be, but celebrated for who we are.