Wild Woman, Roar

We’ve all heard of her. The scary witch, the old crone, the poor, unwed, unwanted spinster who lives alone, unwelcoming and unfriendly, deep in the dark, impenetrable forest.

She is as much a part of our childhood stories as the Fairy Godmother, the Disney Princesses and the Ugly Sisters. A version of her surfaces in every culture and children across the world have encountered her in countless traditional and fairy tales.

This architype serves as a warning – be a good girl (Cinderella, Elsa, Belle), obey the rules, (written and unwritten,) respect your elders and find a handsome man. But woe betide; stray off the path, disobey the unseen order of things, embrace your inner wild child and you too will end up alone and shunned, banished to the scariest place imaginable, the deep, dark forest.

Lately I have come to identify with her. And I understand her.

Hmm, living alone in a house in the woods? Doesn’t that strike you as idyllic? Sure, no company. No yoga studio or WiFi or supermarket nearby. But girls, just imagine. No patriarchy telling you what to do either.

Recently my life has been inundated with talk of the menopause and while I am not in the throes of it yet, I am, I know, on the cusp, am rapidly entering my own deep, dark woods. Am I afraid? Hell no. Do I fear navigating this amidst the swirling cess pit of patriarchal society? Hell yes. Many of my friends are talking passionately and forcefully about attempting to sail these waters. The rage is real. Thankfully we do seem to be in the midst of a sea change. The Menopause Revolution, if you will. Davina’s enlightening documentaries, Women’s Hour, Glennon Doyle’s podcast – all shining a light on this upheaval in women’s lives.

Menopause is a time of massive transformation, a rewiring of the brain and, I am certain, an emergence of a new, powerful woman shedding the old ways and comfortable in her skin.

I may not know enough yet about this stage of life, but I can damn well tell you for sure what I do know; that I have no desire to travel through the menopause while simultaneously trying to carry on, business as usual, within the confines of societal norms. I am done with that.

Women are always expected to carry on as if nothing is happening. Bleeding profusely and feeling ready to faint? Man-up and get on with that presentation. Shut up and get up and teach that class. Hold onto the desk if you have to. There’s a three-minute loo break in another hour. What are you moaning about? Ready to gauge someone’s eye out as you rage with PMT. Suck it up! Smile and nod girls, smile and nod. You’re on a school trip walking in the fells on your period? Hmm, no one has thought of half the cohort. There’s a shocker.

Just pushed a human being out of your vagina? Surely, it’s time you were back in your jeans by now. What are you, slovenly and lazy? And while you’re at it, get back to work. And you’d better pray that child never gets sick or has an appointment or a sports day you’d rather be at. Women, you don’t mind living as an afterthought, do you? You’re what? Filled with shame and guilt? And anger. No matter. Just. Be. Quiet.

When I think of the wild woman in the woods, I suddenly see the truth as clear as day. She was never shunned and rejected. She chose to go. She looked around at the systems in place that governed society. She looked back on the years that she had played the game, wore the uniform, followed the rules. She saw the disinterest and lack of understanding reflected back at her, the woeful absence of information and support. She feared the lack of space in which she and her fellow wise women could expand and grow, could change and transform and she thought, FUCK THIS SHIT. And she packed her bags and took herself off, into the woods, where she knew they would never be brave enough to come after her.

Because of course we know the woods are nothing to fear. We know they are a place of wisdom and clarity, calm and quiet. A place of magic and healing. We have never been afraid of the woods. Little Red Riding Hood was in her element until, obviously and inevitably, the male crossed her path, luring her to her death. The answer has been there all along in plain sight – the woods have never been the problem. Men. They have been the problem. In our stories (and therefore our collective subconscious) they fulfil one of two roles, the handsome Prince who will ‘save’ you and whisk you away to a life of unimaginable boredom and subservience, or, the murderer, the Blackbeards and wolves and imprisoners of our stories.

So, it is to the woods we go, to use the plants and howl at the moon and walk barefoot in the dirt. It is to the woods we go to find respite from the burdens that weigh us down as young women, the unconscious desire to be beautiful, to squash and squeeze our female form into something acceptable and pleasing. We go into the woods to finally be free of the exhausting, relentless absorption of everyday sexism, the inability to walk alone at night, the gender pay gap, the glass ceiling, the weariness of rubbing shoulders with toxic masculinity, gender stereotyping and misogyny in every form imaginable.

My only thought really is why on earth aren’t all women in the woods.