I’m going to be honest, I didn’t vote for Hillary during the primaries. But I’m sure as hell celebrating her victory now.

I’d like to say that “as a woman,” I’m celebrating her win, but it’s more than that, or at least it should be.

We should all be celebrating this day when a woman is on a major party ticket. My husband and I are raising two daughters, and this win is one for our entire family.

I’d love to be around to celebrate the day when a woman being on the ticket isn’t a big deal, or at least it’s not the most important thing about a candidate—male or female. More, I’d feel we’ve been successful if my girls get to vote in this type of climate, both politically and socially.

And then simultaneous with this huge social victory is the injustice of a white man getting six months in jail for rape. I felt sick to be an American as I read this verdict, and the words of this rapist’s father. Juxtaposed next to Hillary Clinton, this feels like an extremely dichotomous climate to be celebrating within.

Yet acknowledging how far we have to go, as well as the injustices that permeate our culture daily, is nothing less than the appropriate, positive thing to do. While it may be disgusting to see racism and sexism still surrounding us in 2016, it’s equally important to not forget that real change can only happen when we open our eyes and say, “I see this.” Because what follows this admission is offering, “Let’s fix it.”

I tried to watch Hillary Clinton’s speech with my daughters. I felt overcome with emotion and gratitude to be living in this moment of history in the making, even if I’m not necessarily one of her staunch admirers. Her victory is one for all women everywhere to celebrate, not just those who love her and filled in the box next to her name. Her victory is one I would be celebrating with sons, too, if I had them surrounding me instead of girls.

My daughters got bored before the speech ended. It’s ok—they’re only five-and-a-half and one-and-a-half.

They’re still too young to understand things like glass ceilings, wage gaps, and rape. They’re still too filled with natural pride, joy and curiosity to know that the world isn’t always as fair as it should be, or as it could be. I don’t look forward to the day when they realize this.

I remember when I was about 12 or 13. I used to tell people, only half-jokingly, that I wanted to be President someday. (I guess sometimes it takes awhile for the real world to sink in, especially when you grow up in white suburbia and more privileged than many, like I did.)

We were getting in the car after a shopping trip the other day—my husband, our girls and I. I told my husband that as soon as the girls are old enough, we’re going to volunteer in local shelters and do things together where they get to see first hand that they are relatively spoiled and lucky, that not everyone grows up this way, and that there are ways they can help if they chose to. I want them to chose to help.

I want to say something cheesy, like I wish there was never a day when they didn’t realize that being a woman might be fun as hell, but that there are faults that inherently come with being one. More than this idealism, though, I want them to be aware of society’s flaws, so that they can make sure to listen to other people when they voice feelings of prejudice, or so they aren’t blind when they witness the discrimination they surely will, at times, plainly see.

I want them to hold space for others who are different from them. I want them to not be ethnocentric and pretend that privilege doesn’t exist, when obviously it does. (Just look at that rape verdict.)

We shouldn’t have to have the same color of skin, or be the same sex, or the same religion to know that rape is wrong, and that a woman running for President shouldn’t be something special.

But I want my girls to know that, right now, women still have far to go, and when they see tears prick my eyes as I watch Hillary Clinton speak, I hope they know one day that these are the happy, happiest tears of a mom raising women; of a mom who is witnessing some of these barriers crumbling.

The post I’m Celebrating Hillary’s Win With My Daughters and I Didn’t Even Vote for Her. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I saw a comment underneath someone else’s blog the other day. It was from a man saying that his grandmother raised umpteenth kids and never complained about it.

At first I couldn’t pinpoint why his comment irked me so much, and then I figured out why.

1. Hopefully his grandmother did complain.

To her friends. That lived in her neighborhood. That, I assume, based on his commentary, were all back-in-the-day, life-was-better-then, stay-at-home moms with an actual community and not one online. And, hear, hear! Good for her.

These days, many of us are having a glass of wine and texting or calling our best friends and family because they live nowhere near us—but that’s a difference in modern society versus “back when,” and this really has nothing to do with a mother’s frustration level and tolerance.

2. Kids shouldn’t know about all difficulty.

Your grandma didn’t complain? Let me rephrase that—your grandma didn’t complain? That’s right, she didn’t. To you. Her grandkid. And my children aren’t my go-to for complaining either. That’s, apparently, why we have Facebook, Twitter, and a semi-social life outside of being mothers.

3. We’re allowed a voice.

Most importantly, your grandma had one main difference from modern mothers—we’re allowed to complain.

We’re allowed to think that life is imperfect, or to have a bad day, and we’re allowed to voice it. We don’t have to Donna-Reed suck it up and vacuum more while muttering underneath our breath.

I’m being factitious in part, because I know that strong, loud women have always exited. (Thank God.) But we’re moving towards the type of equality that means that women have important voices, and away from from feeling like we had a single, silent role.

I have many friends and family members that have chosen to not have kids, or get married, or do any of this family stuff at all. That should be seen as a great choice, too. But for mothers like me, having access to reading stories from other moms out there dealing with poop, and stress, and guilt, and this insane amount of love—it’s more than helpful; it’s the life-line that I don’t have states-away from my best friends or extended family.

I’m a full-on feminist. I don’t mince words, or think I need to explain my word choice. I support LGBT rights, marriage equality, working mothers, stay-at-home moms, stay-at-home dads, and anyone in between or outside of these too-succinct ways to sum up being a human being.

I’m the picture of an average, contemporary mom—I’ve got dyed-blue hair (because I fucking felt like it), a college degree, jeans from Express, shoes from Amazon, an old shirt from too many lifetimes ago, an always-churning brain, an always covered-with-crumbs floor, two kids, a rented house, homemade tomato sauce that covered pasta from Sam’s Club.

I’m a middle-of-the-road, proud, usually happy, sometimes resentful mom. And I read mommy blogs. And I contribute to them. Because I believe my life and myself are important enough to be heard.

The post 3 Reasons Why Your Grandma Didn’t Complain About Having Kids and I Do. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

Breasts are utilitarian.

I realized this after giving birth and beginning to breastfeed my baby. This realization was, I can almost guarantee, not a unique experience for a woman…with breasts…who decides to feed her newborn.

And, for a little while, my breasts were more than newly discovered nourishment for life. They were two parts of my body that hurt, and bled, and cracked, and that I hated as much as I felt gratitude for them—until this nursing-mother difficulty subsided and meshed into normalcy; into a part of life that was routine.

I’ve breastfed two children so far. I’m currently within my second round of nursing a toddler, which is an entirely different experience than a smaller baby.

My toddler now, for instance, tells me when she wants to nurse. I no longer have to guess. She also looks around the living room for a toy to bring with her. (These days, I’m typically found breastfeeding a baby that simultaneously looks at a book underneath my armpit.)

I started to wonder, “Is she too old?” But I repeatedly come back to, “No.”

She wants to nurse and, frankly, she’s not even 18 months old, and she really only likes to drink water. (Trust me, I’ve tried everything—she really likes water…and breastfeeding.)

I stopped nursing my oldest child a few months after she turned two, and that was largely a schedule issue. (I was taking a yoga teacher training, and it ran past her bedtime; forcing me to finally give up our still ongoing nightly nursing.)

I don’t know exactly when I’ll stop nursing my youngest because, as parents often find, we can have plans, but plans with kids are meant to change.

While I am a (pro-)nursing mom, I get sick of seeing boobs pop up constantly on my Facebook newsfeed, and on the online websites I read. It’s partly my own doing, since I actively support artists, like photographers, who themselves support breastfeeding. I read parenting sites. In short, I—a breastfeeding, nursing-advocate mother—am the ideal candidate for these types of stories.

Yet they still get old.

Perhaps it’s especially since I see my own breasts several times a day, and since I’ve had friends that breastfeed, and because I do feel that it’s normal and natural (for those that choose to nourish babies this way). Maybe it’s because of this utilitarian, practical experience with my breasts, that these pro-breast posts begin to feel not only unnecessary, but almost counterproductive.

In some way, it has begun to feel slightly exclusionary of women who choose to not breastfeed. We nursing mamas are so ready to defend are rights that I’m noticing a near-equal amount of articles about why it’s okay to choose formula feeding.

It’s kind of like the “post-baby body” campaign. I’ve written on this topic myself, primarily to offer—like many other new mothers—that comparison to our bodies “before” and “after” children isn’t healthy, for ourselves or for our children or for feminist society in general. Still, we need to talk about why it’s important to normalize breastfeeding. We need to address, too, that our bodies change from having children—we change.

My breasts have bounced between sizes I never thought I would see myself in—A to C to DD. Unexpectedly, however, I didn’t care about what size my breasts were, because my focus has consistently been on “simple” things like wearing bras that won’t leak or shirts that I can open up easily.

I’ve also walked around the NICU with pretty much only pants on, and I’ve accidentally given the UPS guy a glimpse of me in just my bra. This is part of life as a nursing mother, and this functional comfort with my body is a lot of why I think it’s such a wonderful experience for a woman to go through.

I fell more in love with my body after each child that I bore. Each cycle of pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding reminded me of how strong, capable and loving my body is for me and for my children. But my boobs are mine. They don’t belong to my husband. They don’t belong to my kids. They—like the rest of me; mind, body and heart—are mine to care for, love and offer to others.

I wish for every mother out there who wants to breastfeed the opportunity to experience it.

I want for each mom the freedom to not feel shamed for properly caring for her children in public.

I hope for every woman–my own daughters one day, too—the ability to feel comfortable in our own skin.

Maybe it’s time we not put the boobs away, but we consider that there’s a point where empowerment and pride shift uncomfortably towards financial branding and—pun intended—over-exposure; when we are potentially, inadvertently creating more of a problem than uncovering one.

The post I Want to Live in a World Where Breasts Are so Normal They’re Boring. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

There’s this meme that flies around Facebook every now and then, that bugs the shit out of me.

It’s supposed to be an introvert’s brain, and it’s this line that swiggles around in some form of, I guess, thinking pattern, that makes no real sense as to why it’s an introvert’s, unless, I suspect, you’re either an introvert, or a thinker.

I was always the loud girl.

I was the girl who friends told at my-first-slumber-parties that I was bossy. (Usually said in a soda-fueled chaos, equivalent to one-too-many-glasses-of-wine overnights a few years later.)

I was always assertive, and passionate, and outspoken.

I live, currently, in a house on a hill in the semi-country with my family; with two children and a husband. I have no friends, not really. I have several friends actually, but they live nowhere near me, or they do, but they don’t have little kids, or they have kids, but our schedules never mesh—that sort of thing.

I live, essentially, in reclusion—this writer on a hill with her young-kid family, and I would be the perfect introvert, except for that I’m not.

There’s this other idea that floats around in general, and it’s more permeative than a cute meme I see sometimes on Facebook. It’s that kind and smart girls are quiet.

I am kind. I am smart. I don’t prefer to be quiet.

(I’ve met a few people who I assumed were thoughtful or nice because they were quiet, only to later discover otherwise—there’s this funny thing about assumptions.)

Until we stop pretending that it’s either special, or different even, or ideal to be this introverted caricature, we will never fully embrace the roundedness of being human, let alone of being a woman.

My best friend is an introvert. My own identical twin is classically introverted as well. I am not dogging the introvert, but I am suggesting that these descriptions I often see are neither my sister nor my friend.

Both women are socially capable to the point of it being curious that they are introverts, if you didn’t know them better (or if you didn’t truly understand what it means to be introverted or extroverted). They are not necessarily shy. They are kind. They are smart. I think they would both prefer to hold their speech until it was properly thought through.

Yet I’m a woman raising two daughters. I suspect that neither of my girls are introverts. (Although both live in a house on a quiet hill, and are kind, and are thoughtful, and are smart.)

I would love to see us all embrace the loud girls. I would adore to see this done without pretending that we are fighting against a claustrophobic stereotype, like I am now.

When I find an adorable, extrovert meme on Facebook—especially when they are directed at women—we are considered fun. We are “wild.” We are “bold,” or “fierce.” We are these nice words for living, breathing people with ideas that need some sort of justification for opening our mouths and letting out thoughts.

Unless we would rather be called “bitch.” Or introvert.

The post I Would Love to See Us All Embrace the Loud Women. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

On rewriting our limitations:

I tell my girls they can be anything, not because I believe they can be, but because I want them to believe it.

I wanted to be a writer as early as I can remember. I wrote short stories and filled pages and pages of blank books my mom would bring home for me with my 7-year-old scrawl of tales about ants fallen into oatmeal bowls and mistaken for raisins, and giants who just wanted to be loved—but I didn’t believe I could be a writer for nearly 30 years after that initial spark.

I’d been writing for years by the time my new friend (now my best friend) told me over the phone—plainly shocked at my misunderstanding—that I am a writer. I mean, she’d been editing my work for awhile at this point—how could I not call myself a writer?

I couldn’t call myself a writer because I was calling myself too many other things.

I was not “writer,” but “unworthy” or “not good enough” or “too privileged a housewife who can write in her spare time” or “not privileged enough to know anyone that might actually help my voice be heard.” I was busy taking note of all the ways that I wasn’t a writer to notice that I had become one.

I don’t have a degree in anything related to literature. (Read my bio.) Sure, I took lit classes in college, but I’m a geologist, with a minor in sociology. I’m a yoga teacher. (I have certifications and registrations to prove that, but I don’t have any pieces of paper or diplomas with my name and “writer” printed next to it.)

I’m too many other things already, so I can’t be this one more unnecessary label.

I can’t be a “writer” when I want to talk about being a mom, and being a woman and, apparently, all of these facets of my life that people already want to claim full knowledge of, or that I’m not supposed to talk about because it’s not feminist enough.

I’m a feminist—I believe in my equality to any other gender so much that I know my inferiority, but I’m not supposed to talk about that, because I’m a feminist.

And then I had kids.

I had a daughter first, before I had another daughter five years later. Surrounded by girl children, I’m reminded daily that I’m a woman, even if it’s not polite to address this elephant in the room, lest I offend another woman, with girl children, who’s nothing like me in any other way besides our femaleness.

My oldest loves to cook. A lot. She’ll ask to watch cooking shows instead of Sesame Street. I’ll turn one on, and she excitedly runs to the kitchen to get pots and pans to “cook” along with the show. I’ve told her that she can cook food for a living when she gets older if she wants to. I guess I’m supposed to mean this in a “manly” chef kind of way, and not for other females, like how I cook for a living (being a stay-at-home mom and all).

I’m supposed to apologize for not working outside of my home—if I’m a feminist. But then that all changes (so moody is our gender!) and it’s actually completely feminist to stay home, but only if I pretend not to like it and complain a lot.

I try not to complain. I try not to, but I do. In part this is because it’s purely fictional to think that girl children aren’t ferociously active, or into roughhousing, or that they are quiet and doll-like. (I have two of them, and I can vouch for the wonderful loudness of their voices, and for all the jumping off of stairs and furniture.)

So I tell my girls they can be anything, or anyone. I tell them this in the hopes of planting a seed of self-belief. I don’t for a second think that we all possess equal skills, but that each of us hone and have in-born traits that make us unique gifts to this world.

My girls are my gift to the world. Nothing that I write or create or craft or edit or publish or work to obtain will ever be as wondrously worthwhile as these two beings I made. They are my gift to the world, and I’m fortunate beyond words I’m capable of expressing to be their mom, but I am more than a mother, more than a woman, more than a wife, more than a privileged college-educated white person.

I am more than these things because I am honest enough to know that I am them, even if I finally at 36 believe I can be anyone.

The post Letting Go Like a Girl. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I took my husband’s last name at the age of 25.

We’d already been together for over a decade, and I’d imagined over and over again what this would feel like.

My maiden name was a glorious one—a much better pen name actually—but it didn’t mesh well with his. At all. (My maiden name is Friend.)

No one told me that it would be hard to say goodbye to my old last name. No one shared with me that a mini death was taking place as I changed everything over legally.

But, despite having a hard time letting go, I would again take his last name in a heartbeat.

I personally think hyphenated names are ideal, although, for me, this didn’t seem a plausible option, given the, frankly, less-than-exciting combination of our two “word” surnames.

Instead, I chose to bury “Friend” and embrace being a “White.”

Yet, in this contemporary moment of feminism—where, thankfully, women who claim to not be one are called out for their absurdity—I’ve never felt more judged for sharing my husband’s last name.

I’m not judged on a daily basis or even by most people, but, specifically as a writer and a feminist, it’s almost like I’m supposed to apologize for my choice. I do not apologize.

I also don’t apologize for staying home with my kids, and I know full well that I work full-time too—just inside my home. I don’t apologize, either, for sharing my last name with my husband and our daughters. Ironically, I could care less if a woman does or doesn’t keep her original last name upon marriage, or if she works outside or inside her home. Instead, I support her ability to choose.

Staying home is not an option for every woman. Another aspect of modern womanhood is the simple reality that many have to work to feed and clothe our children. (My mother worked more than full-time as a teacher.)

What I have difficulty understanding, and even less capability embracing, is how women want to place themselves into separate, opposing camps from one another, instead of unifying and collectively embracing that “woman” encompasses a whole hell of a lot of ground.

Anytime a group, especially a minority group, pits themselves against each other there is only one group that wins, and it’s not “us.”

We should not be concerned over working mom or stay-at-home mom, or married or single or Mrs. White or Ms. Friend—at least not to the deficit of promoting a woman’s right to live within her personal choices.

What should overwhelmingly concern us most is that I don’t expect to be exactly like another person because we’re both women, but, regardless, there’s a shared kindred knowledge of what still needs to be done in order to best lead my own two daughters into a greater space of equality; into a better world.

So take your husband’s last name or leave it—I could care less.

I would, as already professed, take my husband’s last name time and time again because I like sharing my name with him, but don’t for one second falsely think this makes me less independent or less or more of anything. These, like my last name, are only labels that don’t properly contain or display my worth.

The post I Took My Husband’s Last Name and I Would Do It Again. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

I’m about to have two little ladies running around my house instead of just one. (I’m expecting a girl.)

And raising a girl is nothing short of a blessing.

But sugar and spice and everything nice? Nah.

I’ll take a sprinkle of naughty and a hint of “likes to roughhouse.”

I’ll throw in a pinch of burn-your-mouth spicy and maybe an occasionally sour too.

Because I’ve been thinking a lot about raising girls and about being one too.

I’ve been thinking about my own experiences, hardships and hard-won lessons, and what exactly being a woman means to me.

So, here we go: a compilation of my memories, self-experiments, personal gender studies, stories and teachings.

How to raise a girl:

Let her pick out pink, frilly dresses—and wear them outside to play.

Throw the baseball with her in the backyard so that she can break in her new baseball mitt.

Be comfortable with her nudity and with your own, so that she can grow to be comfortable in her skin.

Let her take off her teenage bra and not wear it for a year. Don’t freak out if she stops shaving her armpits. Let her disown her girlhood because she’s rebelling against—and mourning—leaving it behind.

Let her cover her breasts and wear baggy clothes—but make sure that she’s not covering more than her body from the world.

Let her eat, but teach her that self-indulgence is not self-care either.

Hold her when she’s fallen down and then help her learn how to get back up, for when you’re not there to grasp her hand.

Make sure she knows that she can date whatever gender she wants. Teach her that nice guys and girls do win, and teach her, preferably through example, to choose partners based on qualities that matter and not what’s between the legs, inside wallets or behind “mysterious” demeanors.

Teach her that she is whole alone.

Help her to be proud of her femininity when (and if) she discovers it, and teach her to appropriately equate this word with strength.

Encourage her to develop her voice. Reassure her that she can be loud and large when she wants to be.

Remember, if you’re also a woman, that she is not you and that just because she’s a girl, this doesn’t mean you will share experiences, perceptions or personalities.

Share your heart and your experiences with her, though, so that she becomes familiar with intimacy.

Kiss her and hold her and hug her for no reason. Let her know that she owes no one any of these things.

Toss her giggling, toddler body into the air. Wrestle with her and don’t tell her to “be careful” when she shows signs of being a daredevil.

Show her how to cook, do laundry and clean—not because she’s a girl, but because it will help her be self-sufficient.

Make sure she understands that “being good” doesn’t mean putting herself last or being small. Rather, it means being authentic and kind (and to herself too).

Dry her tears with your love and willingness to witness her pain, but don’t tell her that her crying should be stopped or that it’s a weakness. Show her that it takes courage to wear an occasionally tattered heart on her sleeve.

Tell her she’s beautiful. Tell her she’s beautiful when she’s just woken up, when she’s sweaty and not only when she’s all dressed up. Tell her she’s beautiful when she’s laughing and sharing her ideas and baring her soul.

Allow her to wear bright red lipstick when she’s old enough, but help her develop self-confidence without it.

And, most importantly, raise her not as a girl, but as the individual who she already is—and love her for it.

Photo: Danielle Moler/Flickr.

The post How to Raise a Girl. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.

Call her a pampered-princess type—you’d be right.

She knows her worth and value and she demands that her lover does too. (Lesson one.) You know, let’s just cut to the chase and dive in.

How to love a strong and complicated woman.

First, be open.

Because she will probably want to pull the blankets up over her head from time-to-time; closing herself—and her thoughts—off from the world—and the world includes you.

She’ll want you to know how she feels, of course, but she won’t always feel up to telling you. This will make your relationship challenging for both of you, because open communication is necessary for two people to properly understand one another without, well, misunderstandings.

So please talk to her about your own feelings and thoughts—your sharing will encourage hers.

Also, don’t be afraid to ask her questions, but do try being gentle rather than probing. (She says thank you in advance.)

And let’s get this out into the open right away: Complicated women who pretend that they are not complicated are a challenge.

You have your work cut out for you.

Don’t get me wrong, there are uncomplicated women—just like there are men who will see this article’s words and find themselves written here for their lovers to read.

Because sharing the same sex doesn’t make us the same person.

On the other hand, any woman with close girlfriends will be able to tell you that women, very generally speaking mind you, have their own ways of communicating and, sometimes, even thinking—all I’m suggesting is that it’s okay to admit it.

No, I’m going a step further and saying that if we do admit this that all of our relationships—be it a friendship or romantic partnership—will be easier because—re-read the first statement above and repeat after me: open communication is necessary for two people to properly understand one another.

 Okay, so back to the self-declared-uncomplicated-yet-complicated woman.

I’m probably not the best authority in this arena, because I often put my eccentricities on display (obviously).

However, I will tell you this: let her go on pretending that she’s not complex—you will not change her mind. This is a realization that she must come to own her own (or another woman who is a close enough friend can point it out to her—not you).

Why?

Simple—reflect upon the moments when you’ve probably “accused” her of being difficult to understand; likely they’ve been those times when you were irritated, and your words and thoughts were not coming from a completely loving place.

So, ladies, consider being more forthright about your needs—with him and with yourself—and, gentlemen, keep in mind that your own sharing and approachable receptivity will help her to come out of her shell—even if it’s at seemingly tortoise-like speeds—but, in the meantime, practice patience with her. (Because she’s worth it.)

Additionally, part of the reason that she’s being so emotionally reserved is that, like many of us, she’s afraid of rejection, and this fear—however subconscious—leaves her with a fragile vulnerability.

Which brings me to…

 Give sincere compliments.

Everyone needs to be told—out loud—what’s great about them—everyone.

However, the complicated woman probably needs more compliments than your average bear, or lady as the case may be.

Yes, she’s strong (we’ll get to that later). Still, inside every grown and gorgeous woman is a little girl wanting love, affection and attention—and, honestly, if most people search themselves they, too, will find a child wanting to be shown love.

 If you can’t handle this, walk away now—and good luck finding any woman—or any lover—who doesn’t need the occasionally verbalized compliment.

Remember the sincere part, though.

You certainly don’t want to hand out so many compliments that they become expected or, worse, canned and phony.

Still, there are most likely two reasons why a woman would ask you, for example, how she looks in something:one, she genuinely wants to know how she looks, in which case you should be honest and not let her leave the house in something hideous—proceed with caution here—or, two, she’s fishing for compliments because you rarely give them to her unless she asks—99.9% of the time, the latter is the reason.

Moving on.

Let’s shift over the strong aspect of your lady love.

Strength, like many personal attributes, is subjective. I define a woman with strength as someone who knows what she wants, who isn’t afraid to go after it and who has her own independent mind and life.

In short, if I were you, I wouldn’t glance in any other woman’s direction but hers because you’ll find that she’s fun, fiery and full of excitement since she knows herself thoroughly and can’t wait to discover more with you.

So how do you love a woman like this?

You must be strong too (see aforementioned description)—and the reason for this isn’t complicated like she is.

A strong woman wants a partner—an equal, someone to challenge her when necessary and who is steady enough to lean into—without getting bulldozed—when life gets hard.

She might act like she always wants to get her way—she might even think she does—but, in reality, she doesn’t want to romance—or be romanced by—a push-over.

This doesn’t mean that she doesn’t want you to be sensitive, to always consider her viewpoint and to compromise, but it does mean that she wants you to stand up for yourself when you need to—because she wants to love and respect you enough in return that she, too, has to be sensitive, to always consider your viewpoint and to compromise.

Again, a strong woman is looking for a partner to hold her hand and walk with her through life—not walk herthrough life, pulling her hand and being controlling—and, likewise, she doesn’t want to waste her time always guiding you either.

Okay, back to complicated.

Actually, you know what? I think I can save us both a lot of time here; I don’t think there is such a thing as a complicated woman. No, come to think of it, a self-defined complicated woman will give you the least amount of trouble—and be the least difficult to figure out—because she’s already trying to figure herself out—and then she’s trying to express her revelations to you so that you can fully know her.

And that’s the thing about complicated people: all they’re looking for is someone who gets them—really gets them.

Aren’t we all complicated in our own ways? Isn’t complicated just semantics? Don’t we all have internal idiosyncrasies?

I mean, isn’t it the sum of these individual quirks that make people special, unique and worth getting to know—and then love?

So if you clicked on this article my speculation is this: you either consider yourself a strong and complicated woman, you love one, or you want to love one.

And here’s another thought: you’re already going in the right direction. Because all love has its intricacies and its delicate balances between two hearts and two minds—and it’s not easy for two people to work as one.

It’s not easy, but love is worth it. And she is worth it—you are worth it. Yet, all love depends upon learning and sharing and growing together if it doesn’t want to grow apart. So stay curious.

Be open—and remember that having love inside of you that you want to give readily is, itself, a huge contributing factor towards a relationship’s success and strength. And we’re all strong in our own ways—strength really is subjectively defined.

We all have our own personally distinguishable strengths—and love is simply finding another person who recognizes them and wants to help you make them even stronger.

Because people might be complicated, but I’m not entirely sure that love has to be.

Then again, I guess that love will always be complex—as long as strong, inquisitive, impassioned people are involved.

Photo: Flickr/Thoth God of Knowledge.

This article was first published by elephant journal.

The post How to Love a Strong & Complicated Woman. first appeared on Jennifer S. White.