There should be a national holiday for women. WOMEN’S DAY! (Who needs Hallmark? Wait. I need to speak to whomever is in charge of holidays!)
Not Mother’s Day. That’s just brunch, flowers, and a handmade card with macaroni glued to construction paper while we’re still expected to coordinate dinner reservations.
I’m talking about an actual holiday where we receive a medal, and someone announces:
“Congratulations. You have successfully completed decades of putting yourself dead last.”
Because sacrifice starts early for a lot of women.
First, some of us grow an entire human being inside our bodies. We gain weight, lose sleep, sacrifice our bladder control and spend nine months sharing our internal organs with a tenant who kicks us in the ribs and uses our kidneys as furniture.
Then comes motherhood itself, where your needs quietly slide down the priority list. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just inch by inch.
You skip the hot meal because someone else is hungry.
You postpone the doctor’s appointment because someone else needs braces.
You put off the vacation because college tuition exists.
You put your dreams in the “later” file.
You don’t sleep when you’re tired. You sleep in random forty-three-minute intervals like you’re being interrogated by the CIA.
You don’t buy yourself the nice shoes because someone needs soccer cleats.
You don’t go back to school because someone needs daycare.
You don’t take the trip because braces cost approximately the same amount as a small SUV.
And some women put careers on hold. Some put dreams on hold. Some become the support staff for everyone else’s lives. Some supporting their husband’s or partner’s ambitions. Some work full-time while carrying nearly all the invisible labor anyway, like remembering birthdays, buying gifts, forgotten homework, permission slips, shopping, dinner, laundry, making appointments, keeping track of everyone’s emotional weather forecast.
You become CEO of Things Nobody Notices Until You Stop Doing Them.
No salary.
No bonus.
No pension.
Performance reviews conducted exclusively by people asking:
“What’s for dinner?”
And if you think there is a finish line, that’s adorable.
The kids grow up and move out. Except increasingly, they don’t. They’re back in the house with student loans, rising rents, emotional baggage, actual baggage, and enough laundry to clothe a small nation.
Just when you think, Maybe now I can focus on me… (You silly girl!)
Your parents need help.
A relative gets sick.
Friends need support.
Someone needs rides.
Someone needs caregiving.
Someone needs money.
Someone needs advice.
And women, many of us trained from birth to be emotional support humans, immediately put the cape back on.
Again.
And again.
And again.
So, I wonder…
When exactly is it our turn? Is life for many women just one long relay race of sacrifice where we keep passing the baton but never get to cross the finish line ourselves?
When are we allowed to say, “You know what? I would like to pursue a dream, take a trip, sit down and drink a hot cup of coffee before it becomes iced coffee against my will.”
At what point are we allowed to become a little selfish without feeling guilty?
And where exactly is the line between selfish and self-preservation? Where is the line between sacrifice and slowly disappearing? Because there must be one.
There just has to be a difference between being selfish and simply refusing to abandon yourself.
Maybe sacrifice was never supposed to mean disappearance.
Maybe tending to our own needs isn’t selfish.
Maybe buying the concert tickets, taking the trip, changing careers, saying no, resting, dreaming, creating, sleeping in, or simply wanting more isn’t selfish.
Maybe it’s maintenance.
Because the truth is, I don’t think women are asking to stop loving people.
I think we’re just wondering if somewhere in this lifetime we’re also allowed to love ourselves with the same devotion we’ve handed out to everyone else. Maybe after spending a lifetime tending everyone else’s garden, we’re allowed to water our own damn plants.
I don’t know when sacrifice ends.
I just know I don’t want my first uninterrupted period of rest to happen after someone says:
“She was always there for everyone.”
Then closes the casket.
Because seriously… that feels like a terrible rewards program.