I Wear The Pants In The House Now

Burned the rulebook, wore the suit, kept the vagina.

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The Woman in the Suit and Tie

Just when I think I’ve reached the deepest layer of self-discovery, another level reveals itself, unexpected, confronting, liberating.

I spent twenty-six years buried under extreme religious indoctrination, so thorough it erased every trace of truth I held. My DNA, my voice, my essence, rewritten to fit the mold of submission. I became a stranger to myself. Where do you begin when you don’t even know what you’re looking for?

Seven years into the unveiling of who I am, I’m still learning, and every truth I uncover pisses people off. My becoming challenges their patriarchal belief systems, threatens the status quo, and spills far outside the lines they tried to confine me within.

But awakening yourself often awakens the sleeping dogs around you.

I was raised in a cult where a woman wearing anything that did “pertain to a man” was a sin, not because of modesty, but because of control. The belief? If a woman wears pants, her vagina lips will grow into a penis. No slits in skirts. Hems below the knees. A uniform of servitude. If a woman spoke with authority, the whispers started: “She’s wearing the pants in that house.”

I didn’t wear pants for twenty-six years.

I remember once, my mom rebelled. She told my sister to try on a pair of jeans to get a 50% discount but it had to stay secret. If the cult found out, we’d be excommunicated. Imagine risking your entire community for a pair of jeans.

My clothing, my voice, my demeanour, everything about me was crafted for the pleasure, convenience, and control of men. Raised to be agreeable, silent, and sexually compliant. Conditioned to believe that a husband could not rape his wife, especially if she was raised to never say no.

The house of self was on fire. And I didn’t even know I was burning alive until all that remained was ash.

This isn’t a “healing journey” where I’m gluing pieces back together. You can’t glue ashes. I’m rebuilding from the ground up, with those ashes in the foundation. They are part of the structure, but they no longer define the shape.

Last night, I celebrated my stepdad’s 70th birthday. I wore what the world still dares to call a “man’s” suit and tie. I slicked back my pixie cut and never in my life have I felt more powerful. I didn’t walk meek and apologetic, and my head was higher than heaven’s front gate.

My boyfriend lost his breath and blurted out, “Oh my fucking god, my girlfriend is a fucking hot model!”

I smiled and said, “Thank you,” when the waitress told me I looked amazing.

I drank cocktails. I gave a toast to 16 people. I didn’t shrink. I didn’t waiver. The sound of my heels striking tile echoed with every ounce of reclaimed authority: I am not submissive. I am not controlled. I am not theirs.

The house of self is no longer burning. It's being built brick by brick, with a foundation that will withstand every gust of patriarchal bullshit thrown its way.

And yes, I wore a suit and tie.
No, I did not grow a penis.
My vagina is still very much intact, deep, warm, and mine.