Little Women Marching


It’s already a little difficult to recall my personal feelings leading up to the Women’s March on January 21, 2017. So much has unfolded since that historical day. But I want to at least try to catalogue some of the movement – both inner and outer – before the chaotic and dizzying twists and turns of our current political climate demand a progression of my focus and energy.

I first stumbled across rumors of the march circulating on various social media platforms in the days following the election.  The news of this social movement in the making was all the evidence I needed to confirm that the surge in the progression toward gender equality did not dwindle when Hillary Clinton’s shot at the presidency went to crap. It was a reminder that all was not lost, that the hope born from being thisclose to shattering that damn glass ceiling survived some pretty brutal blows. The march revealed that hope was banged up, but rising still. It was strong and determined to make a comeback.

The march became something I could allude to when my two oldest daughters (who will both come of age during Trump’s presidency) would ask questions like, “Do you think a woman will ever become president in our country?” I could point to the women banding together, joining forces and having tough conversations about race and intersectionality, and simply say, “Look at these women, these sisters, leading the way! Of course there will be a woman president someday soon.”

When I heard about the controversial decision made by the organizers of the march to revoke a partnership with a group that maintains anti-abortion values, I felt my stomach turn – a familiar bodily indicator of fear. I knew that this controversy would not dissuade me from marching, but I knew it would generate an even more heated cultural response. My personal thoughts and beliefs on reproductive rights are complicated and do not perfectly align with either end of the political spectrum. My thoughts are informed by the research around the true impact of the varying policies and the realization that this issue touches on categories of race and social class in undeniable ways. I hope to unpack this highly sensitive and polarizing issue in a future post, because it feels important for me to find the language necessary for dialogue, to wrestle with it, to stop avoiding it out of the fear of being misunderstood.


In the days leading up to the March, I knew that as much as hope was rising, so was fear – within me and beyond me. And I also knew that this time, I had to move toward my own understanding of what it means to live in the light, to live in the world, to live out loud. I sent a link to the Women’s March mission and vision statement and to the Unity Principles to my two oldest daughters for their own review with instructions to read it thoroughly and then we would process together how their own beliefs aligned or misaligned. Many conversations unfolded as we moved closer and closer to the big day. In these conversations I was afforded a glimpse of my daughters as my sisters too as they are approaching adulthood at what feels like mock speed now.

That glimpse expanded into an even larger window on the day of the march. It was a struggle for our trio of mostly introverts to make it onto the streets with the hundreds of thousands of other folks. We were grumpy with each other that morning and even still as we first emerged onto the scene of a gazillion pink pussy hats. We waited nearly an hour and a half to exit the park where the opening rally began before taking our first slow steps on the pavement. The grumpiness gave way to awe almost immediately. Our social anxiety was soothed as our bodies moved in unison with this collective of bodies, of voices, of stories, of hope generators and hope seekers. Shoulder to shoulder I marched with my daughters and thousands upon thousands of other sisters of numerous races and religions ranging in age from nursing infants to women old enough to be pushed in wheelchairs by their already silver-haired daughters. And there were countless male allies too – some filling the streets, and some (like my own husband and my brother-in-law) tending to children so their partners could march freely and take in the beauty and power of the day.

For over three hours we marched. We were hungry and our bodies were hurting but our hearts were so full. My sister-daughters and I listened, and witnessed, and felt the cries of our muslim sisters and our sisters of color and our Trans sisters imploring us not to forget about them after this historic moment. And so we vowed with so many others to stay committed, to mark that moment as only the beginning. I had no idea just how quickly that vow would be put to task.

The lash back that spread throughout social media and on certain news networks did not come as a surprise. It was disheartening but certainly not shocking. Millions of women (and men) banding together to declare their nonviolent resistance against the oppression and suppression of human rights for all people. It was a powerful expression of alliance and allegiance and so of course it was met with both conscious and unconscious measures to deconstruct that force. I imagine that power struggles are as ancient as humankind. But time and time again it is revealed that love is more powerful than hate, nonviolence more revolutionary than war, and hope is more compelling than fear.

So here we are. It’s been nearly two weeks since the Women’s March. Hope took a few beatings and will likely continue to bear the brunt of several blows yet to come. But it is rising still and this is just the beginning. 

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Facing the Pain Together

There we were, the three of us sitting in Faith’s room coming undone together. A day of reacting, of crying, of hurting led us each to our own discoveries. Faith was the one first able to get at what was going on underneath the reacting, the irritation, the symptoms. When she started to name how different she perpetually feels from her peers, from the way things are or the way girl’s are supposed to be, and how she feels sick to her stomach when she thinks about such things, Bailey and I both found her there too. We were back in our own truth and in our own depth, instead of being relegated to our surface selves – the selves most notorious for revealing all the symptoms of the deeper wounds. The most common symptoms are exasperation and irritation at the world around us. Bailey echoed Faith’s sentiments on what we’ve come to refer to as high school girl culture and added her own disorienting and disillusioning experiences related to an event they both attended over the weekend.

Instead of trying to help guide them toward some sage wisdom or manufactured sense of empowerment in their individuality, I let my own tears begin to fall and do the painful work of receiving the greater truth that was coming to me in that raw moment. This was what I had feared most when I first wondered if I should ever have any children. How could I survive witnessing my own daughter(s) having to endure the torture that comes with being female in this world? Wow, I would think to myself, that’s a little dramatic, Shauna. And then I’d remember the darkest years. Years that followed the abuse. Years that followed the objectification and sexualization. The years of splitting. All the girl parts of me that were ever free enough to explore, to feel pleasure, to experience life subjectively were no longer allowed in public. And eventually they forgot how to be present in private too.

I swallowed whole some new illusions when I first turned to religion. I wanted to believe that I could somehow shield my children from the atrocities of a long standing societal system that perpetually objectifies one half of it’s members. If I could become godly enough, stay married enough, be the best and most holy mother to my children, gain wisdom enough, and heal psychologically enough to prevent the pattern of abuse from recurring then my children would be held together, protected somehow from the splitting I had experienced.

But here we were. Sitting together in the bedroom of my 16 year old feeling the impact. Because no matter how hard I have worked for the past 16 years at mothering to the best of my abilities, I could not shield them from the culture hell-bent on ravaging and devouring and splitting the lives of girls and women. And this fixation ruins boys and men too. But that topic is for another day, another post. Neither of my teens have stories of abuse. Neither of my teens have survived the complete fracturing of a family unit. Neither of them are even remotely as needy and starved for affection as I was when I was their age. I thought that if I did everything I could to ensure that they had very different stories from my own, that they would be spared from the pain. Relatively rational creature that I am, I knew they’d still have to encounter hard things, but I envisioned they’d be entirely unencumbered by the rules and expectations bestowed upon them the moment the doctor announced, “It’s a girl!”

But here we are. The truth is that my daughters, because of the sheer fact that they are in fact my daughters – descendants of this particularly hyperaware and ridiculously sensitive and perceptive human they call mom, they had no choice but to swallow the red pill. So they see life as it really is. They see all the rules. All the masks. All the denial. All the pain. Much of the horror. They hear the stories of blow jobs and anal sex from 15 and 14 and sometimes 13 year old girls who claim its their best form of birth control. They ask if it’s even possible for a girl to orgasm in either scenario and then they are even more confused as to why sexuality for their peers is about being objects and not subjects. They feel split too – between who they really are and who they would need to be to fit in with their peers. They feel the poison all around them and they see their friends drinking it freely because it’s all that they have known. They even know that some of the poison seeps into their skin because it’s in the air all around them. It’s on the walls of their high school. It’s even in our house because their mama drank from the poison for much of her early life and she’s 37 and still trying to purge the toxicity. It’s on their screens. It’s in their music. We are all choking on it all the time. And my girls and I…we know it. And it feels unbearable and overwhelming sometimes. We feel powerless much of the time. And it feels painful all of the time.

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