Does it ever end?

They never told us that adulthood is not just bills stacked on the counter or taxes eating away at the little we make. They never told us that adulthood means carrying your child-self on your back, whispering to her when she cries, feeding her when she feels unloved, teaching her how to trust when she is still afraid. They never told us that adulthood means learning how to sit with the teenager inside you, too, the one who knows only rage, who screams when silenced, who rolls her eyes at every betrayal, who wants to fight but also just wants to be held.No one prepared us for this balancing act, parent and child, guide and rebel, healer and wounded, all housed in one body that still has to wake up for work in the morning. We stumble. We circle. We burn out. We confuse exhaustion for healing because the crash feels like peace. We call it wellness, but it is simply survival dressed in softer clothes.We begged for blessings. We prayed until our knees ached, until our throats ran dry with supplications, until silence itself began to sound like faith. And when God poured them down, generous and unrelenting, we found ourselves trembling with the weight. We complained of exhaustion, forgetting that once upon a time, this was the very season we begged for. Our mouths rant, our bones ache, but deep down we know we are living inside answered prayers we did not know how to hold.But fame? No, I do not crave it. I do not care for strangers who memorize my name or for applause that echoes hollow. I do not care to be adored for my poetry if it means losing the honesty of my vision. What I want is the view my own eyes widened, stretched, seeing life so sharply that poetry itself kneels before me, admitting it was only ever a shadow of what my gaze can hold. I want to expand my lenses until words themselves cannot contain me.And yet, I want something more. I want to live without the constant burden of being sexualized. I want to wake up and walk freely without fear stitched into every step. I do not want the hiss of catcalls thrown at me like scraps. I do not want the shadow of violence lurking simply because I am a woman. I want softness without interrogation. I want gentleness without suspicion. I want to say I am human, simply human, without the world demanding justification for why I choose to live softly.My womb is not an oven waiting for expectation. My body does not owe lineage. If generations must end with me, then so be it. But let me live free, free of patriarchy’s shackles pressing against my neck, free of being a body before I am a soul.I want to look young girls in the eyes and tell them: beauty was never his to define. It was never theirs to hold hostage. Beauty belongs to you. Beauty is not confined to patriarchy’s gaze. Beauty wears black eyeliner and lace-up boots, yes, but beauty also glows in earth-tone skirts, in braids touched by sun, in skin unafraid of scars. Beauty is a girl riding her bike fast, laughing, never explaining why the wind feels holy against her face. Beauty is calling out the man who tried to reduce you, without fear of death pressing cold lips against your neck.This is what I want: a world where we no longer measure our worth in how well we survive their cruelty. A world where rage can be language and softness can be power. A world where we can rest without defending our humanity.And maybe that is the real revolution to live fully, without apology. To rage without shame. To love our softness as rebellion. To carry our child-self, our teenage rage, our womanhood, and our dreams and still insist: I am human. I am whole. I am free.PS: My darling, you are not beholden to patriarchy. You are the beauty and beholder!Welcome to Yappers FM This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bintaisha.substack.com This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bintaisha.substack.com