What Should Girls Like Me Do?

by someone still figuring it out

There are days when I wake up and genuinely ask myself:

What am I doing with my life?

I don’t mean that in the dramatic, throw-a-pillow-at-the-wall way.

I mean it in the quiet, bone-deep, unsettling way —

The way you feel when your entire lineage seems to shine with clarity, and you… don’t.

I come from a family of strong women.

Real ones.

The kind who built something from scratch, who carved their names into spaces where women weren’t invited, who stood tall and didn’t flinch.

Women who broke moulds, who are still celebrated, who know how to command a room.

And then there’s me.

Still figuring it out at 41.

Still confused.

Still having days where I look in the mirror and wonder where the spark went.

Still not entirely sure what my version of ‘success’ is supposed to look like —

Or whether I even want it, deep down.

In a family that’s full of bold chapters, I often feel like an ellipsis.

Suspended.

Unfinished.

Not quite enough.

And here’s the strange part — I’m not lazy.

I’m not ungrateful.

I just… don’t fit the formula.

I’ve tried the hustle. I’ve tried the corporate route. I’ve tried reshaping myself to meet the expectations whispered at every family gathering.

And every time, something inside me whispered back: This isn’t you.

But when you’re not a career woman, when you’re not married, when you’re not chasing the conventional dream with fire in your eyes — society begins to file you away in a quiet corner.

Even if you’re kind.

Even if you speak five languages.

Even if you’ve seen the world on your own terms.

You’re still somehow… not enough.

Too much for some men, not enough for others.

Too soft to be taken seriously, too independent to be kept.

Too free-spirited to be domestic, too slow-paced to be ambitious.

You become the woman men talk to at a café with interest, until they hear you’re 41.

The one who’s charming and articulate, but “not quite the one.”

You’re either the muse they once knew, or the mystery they don’t want to unravel.

They prefer the girl who’s thinner, brighter, more obviously dazzling —

Or the one who’s visibly building an empire.

So what happens to women like me?

Women who feel deeply.

Who try not to hurt anyone.

Who still believe in goodness, in love, in rainy mornings with tea, in long walks with no agenda.

Who were raised well, who carry culture in their bones, who travel solo but sleep with a pillow clutched to their chest at night because yes, it gets lonely sometimes.

What happens to women who have made mistakes, not because they were foolish —

but because they believed?

Believed in love.

Believed in men who spoke softly but disappeared when things got real.

Believed that their softness would be seen as strength, not as a flaw.

You know, people love talking about manifestation these days.

Vision boards, affirmations, “just align your energy.”

But I’ve begun to think — maybe this stuff doesn’t work for women like me.

Not because we’re negative.

Not because we don’t try.

But because we don’t fake.

We don’t pretend to glow when we’re cracking inside.

We don’t lie to the mirror about how okay we are.

We’re not thin enough to be idolized.

Not successful enough to be envied.

Not lost enough to be rescued.

We are inconvenient.

We are real.

And that makes us invisible.

So, again, what should girls like me do?

Should we shrink ourselves?

Starve ourselves until the cheekbones show and the world decides we’re pretty enough to be wanted again?

Should we get louder, harder, more ruthless — start fighting for attention like it’s a prize?

Or should we disappear quietly, light our candles, sip our tea, and just accept that maybe some kinds of women are not made for the world as it is?

I don’t know.

I genuinely don’t.

But I do know this:

I don’t want to lose myself just to be seen.

I don’t want to harden just to be chosen.

I don’t want to run a race that was never mine to begin with.

Maybe the world doesn’t know what to do with women like me.

But that’s not my fault.

And it’s not my job to become easier to digest.

Maybe — just maybe — this phase of loneliness is not punishment.

Maybe it’s a cocoon.

Maybe my softness isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s a quiet kind of rebellion.

Maybe living a life that’s slow, rich with thought, shaped by gentleness and grace —