On Girlhood

I am sitting on a balcony overlooking Paris, three days before my twenty-first birthday. It is easy to romanticise, the dried roses resting on the table beside us, the Eiffel Tower glittering in the distance. All of this is so beautiful, but it is my friend’s laughter that reminds me “oh, these are the good times”. She has been splitting my sides with giggles for almost a decade now. She has known me through every (questionable) haircut, those few months I listened exclusively to Grimes, every lost friend, every almost lover, and every new city. We’ve watched each other transition through every version of ourselves. It is less of an unwavering camaraderie and more of a promise to come back, to let the others visit who we are now. OTo get in the car, train, or even plane and smile as you are introduced to new friends, bars and the new life they have been slowly weaving. 

I think I never truly resonated with the idea of girlhood until my twenties. I felt excluded from this secret sisterhood. I deemed myself too awkward, queer, and slightly miserable: envious of the women around me to whom womanhood came so easily. I convinced myself there was this secret language I could not speak as it was easier to isolate myself than to offer myself the very real possibility of rejection. I still feel this way sometimes. 

My relationship with myself, my identity and my gender seem to be all wrapped up in a confusing mess of religion and red hair dye. For a long time, I thought the only thing that tied me to girlhood was anatomy, leering men and a learnt tendency to bite my tongue. In short, womanhood to me was personified by pain, a pain I so desperately wanted to distance myself from. 

But then, my friend laughs. I am lucky enough to know that girlhood is not defined by one feeling, but a tapestry of small moments.

It is Mia, who bought a coffee that she doesn’t like just for when I come to stay. That Isobel will spend an entire day in silence with me. Ellen, who sends me pictures of Bowie from halfway around the world. The Lippy girls will always find a compliment to give. Isla taught herself crochet and made me a hat. There are flowers hanging from my mirror from Georgia. There are pictures on my wall and comments on my Instagram. I want to collect them all - like the shells I find in my pocket from my hometown - and stitch them into a warm hug. The more I fall in love with these moments, the more I fall in love with myself. A new self is coming, slowly, one that knows everyone is deserving of this support. One that is loving girlhood.

Words by Bea Butterworth she/they