As a woman you would think it easy for me to be open and vulnerable, trusting even of the feminine. Of other women. That sisterhood would just come naturally and easily.
As a woman who is a mother of 7 souls, three of which are daughters and spends her day’s reaching out into the world and helping other women, other people and sharing of herself as vulnerably as I can in any given moment. That female connection and understanding would just be a reality. A norm for me.
The truth is though that I have had a lifetime of shut down around the feminine. Around trusting the feminine. Trusting my fellow sisters. Just calling other women my sisters causes a nagging nausea in my gut. It rises up an uncertainty of if I can trust women. If I can lean in here.
Do I even want to?
My wounds with the feminine stem back to my early childhood where my mother would talk radically negative about my father to me on hour long walks with our German Shepard and myself. She would tell me how awful my dad was. How she wanted out of the relationship. She would dream of finding a suitcase full of money on our walk and escaping life with him. She wanted to run away from him. She wanted her freedom but at the cost of choosing daily to stay settled and just bitch to 5 year old me on our evening walk about it.
Then came her co-dependent nature. Always attached at my hip, like an infant to it’s mother. It seemed often like I was the mother. She could not make a move without my support.
Then came her crazy ass stories of her past, where she shared all too much with me about how she manipulated this or that.
How she was wounded from WWII and the bombings.
How she was angry at her father for being killed during the war when she was eight.
How she was angry with her mother for doing the things that she had to at that point to survive and support two little girls.
She told me about her abuse in her first marriage.
She tried to teach me how to steal from stores.
How to lie well and hold my poker face.
She showed me how to disconnect from my heart and SURVIVE.
She taught me that women are not to be trusted.
She taught me that women manipulate.
She told me that I was different though.
That I could walk on water.
But I was her air.
So don’t run away.
Don’t abandon her.
Then came school. My girl friends once made would randomly choose to no longer be my friends. They would make up stories, would gossip if I shared anything vulnerable. They would steal my clothes, cheat off my tests and then point the finger back at me.
But I craved friendship.
I craved sisterhood.
I craved to be one of the girls.
I craved to fit in.
Then came high school. I chose to go to a high school that was actually not in my district so that I could remain with my best friends. They were a grade ahead of me, but we were besties and they WANTED me to come to that school. It was going to be great. Until school started that was.
Now they were too busy for me. They had boyfriends. Sisterhood no longer mattered. It was every girl for herself.
And lord help me if one of their guys spoke or looked at me.
Now I was a threat.
Now I was the enemy.
Ice cream hurdled across the hallway, hitting my brand new leather jacket.
Laughter ringing out.
The call of “You Slut!” from the mouth of my once best friend. The girl who wept her tears of pain when her parents divorced into my arms. The girl who we “twinned” once a week together and sunbathed on the roof of her house every summer day we could grab together.
The girl who begged me to come to this school.
It was going to be great.
We were besties.
We had each others back.
Yes here, here is where it all started.
Repeatedly I witnessed the whirlwind of emotional instability from the feminine.
Repeatedly I was daggered by my sisters as though I was a vampire out to steal their lives.
Repeatedly I was wounded, shamed, disowned by the feminine.
I was lied too.
I was lied about.
My besties, my sisters had been taken over by the mean girl syndrome.
But we were young.
We were just children still.
Things would change once I was an adult.
Women don’t act like this.
Women know how to support each other.
Women understand the pains of our adolescent years and we overcome them and heal. We rise about the mean girl syndrome and we become radiant, supportive siSTARS.
Right?
Then came my adult years.
I shut down in my twenties. I kept my friendships limited. I kept my heart limited. I focused on my family. My children. My husband. My life. My education.
The things I felt I could control.
I had a siSTAR in my life. She was amazing. Supportive. Trustworthy. She had my back. I was certain.
And I was right.
She still today, even with miles apart, years between. Words rarely shared has my back and I have her’s. There is no doubt in my mind or heart that I could call her at 2AM from anywhere in this world and cry on her shoulder, ask to stay the night, and I would do the same for her.
She is my soul siSTAR.
She is a rare light.
25 years of friendship proves this.
Then came my 30’s. I was eager, hungry and full of desire. I wanted to take on the world. I wanted to expand. I wanted to meet myself and I wanted a sisterhood. I entered the state of Texas with a mission to have just this. ALL OF THIS.
And so I did.
Or so I thought.
Quickly I had a large group of feminine support. This was my tribe. These were my sisters. We were all mom’s, we lived close to each other. We enjoyed similar things. We celebrated life weekly together. It was amazing.
The laughter.
The tears.
The sharing.
The holding space for each other when shit went down with our spouses or kids.
The sharing of our fears and our desires.
This was sisterhood.
Then came the day that my dear friend said, “You know what you did. We can’t be friends anymore.”
And with her went the whole tribe.
Poof!
Gone in a second.
And for what?
Still to this day, almost 10 years later I have no certain closure on this.
Accusations made while I was away on summer holiday with my family. Lies told. Stories conjured. Truth lost. Friendship lost.
Told I was guilty.
Told I was a slut.
Told I was horrible.
Told I was not fit to be in the tribe.
Abandoned by my sisters and never offered a space to speak my truth. To get answers. To set things right.
Mean girls knocking at my door again.
Statements made on social media.
Accusations and allegations of false truths.
Lord help me.
So I shut down.
I closed myself off and I isolated myself from the feminine.
I opened and did my work around the masculine.
I danced and blossomed with the help of the great men who stepped up in my life. Who held space for me.
I stepped into my goddess-hood.
Claiming I did not need the feminine.
It was not to be trusted.
It disliked me.
It hated me.
I was alone.
There was no sisterhood for me.
All but one siSTAR.
Who still remains after 10 years of friendship.
My Hawaiian goddess siSTAR. Who holds space, who laughs and shares her wisdom in times needed. Who shares her pain, her fear and tears. Her joy, her dreams, her spirit with me. Yes she has my back. This I know. This I am certain.
She is a rare light.
The masculine.
It holds me.
It adores me.
It craves me.
It eats me up and helps me to fly.
It scorns me.
It scares me.
It bruises my being.
It rips my heart out like a ravenous beast.
It breaks my body and stomps on my boundaries then blames me for being a woman.
The masculine.
I love the masculine.
I hate the masculine.
I need the feminine.
I crave my sisters.
I crave the support.
I hunger for the light.
I want to be seen as a woman and understood.
Seen that my crazy girl moments are normal.
I want to cry and not be fixed.
And just be okay.
In steps my siSTAR.
She is a rare light.
She supports me by just being.
She see’s my pain and she wants to fight for my hearts pain.
She stands firm in the wake of my storm and she casts a line to help me find harmony once again.
She uproots her whole life,
She turns herself inside out,
She shares her fears,
Her pain,
She holds space when she is not even trying.
She is a rare light indeed.
She is a Goddess.
She has my back and I have her’s.
This I am certain.
This is what friends do for friends, she says.
This is not what I am accustom too.
She and my fellow siSTARS through the last 25 years,
though they may be few,
they are strong,
they are Mother F*cking Goddesses.
They aim to heal them selves.
They aim to heal other’s.
They are kindred souls.
They are true siSTARS.
This is the relationships that I crave with my fellow women.
This is my tribe of goddesses.
This is my healing of wounds from my youth and wounds from theirs.
This is our life path.
This is SiSTARHOOD.
Embracing the fierceness of sisterhood.
Today.
Tomorrow.
And ALWAYS.
Healing the feminine.
By allowing myself to be healed by the feminine.
Remember my fellow siSTAR Goddess,
You are worthy.
You are a rare light.
You are loved.
You are a Mother F*cking Goddess.