Dear Girl,

I am the sister

you do not know

and will never meet,

but I am your sister

nonetheless.

Dear Sisters,

my whole life I’ve struggled

with trusting women.

I heard girls say things like,

“I love her, but she’s a dirty ho.”

“She’d be so much prettier without that nose.”

“She’s not that talented; she’ll never make it. Think of the ratio.”

These are your sisters.

We don’t exist in silos.

I propose we outgrow

our opposition to one another.

Our experience

is of each other.

If we’re fighting for equality,

there has to be camaraderie.

This is a letter

to every woman

who knows better

than to scarlet-letter,

to whisper

and backstab

a sister.

There is no progress

when we march

in different directions.

Correction:

there is no progress

when we march

in discriminatory sections.

White women,

show up

for your sisters of color.

Straight women,

show up

for your lgbtq+ sisters.

Women,

show up,

have the guts

to overlook differences,

because really

the difference is

as drastic as

progress

or

no progress.

We can’t afford to divide each other.

Since early days

we are taught

to compare and compete

with one another.

You are not devalued

even if

the woman next to you

appears to be perfect.

You are not devalued

if your sisters

are achieving

greatness.

You are always of value

if you

value

you.

Dear Sisters,

hold yourselves accountable.

Show up for those

you might not know

or understand.

Show up for those

you might not

like at all.

Show up for all of us.

I am sorry that the world

has taught you that

beauty is white and thin.

I’m sorry that the world

has taught you

that your thighs

are not supposed to kiss

as if they were lovers’ lips

or that your hair

is supposed to be waxed

or clipped

as if

your body

were someone else’s lawn.

I will be there for you

through your darkest days,

I will stand with you

through the most painful decisions.

That is what makes me your sister:

it is not blood,

it’s thicker.

When you fall,

I will brush the dirt from your knees

and see you off

toward your

next

great adventure.

Your past lives with you, Dear Girl,

but you

are not your past.

If you want to fly,

you must let go

of all that weighs you down.

You are nowhere near the end of your story—

your story has just begun to write itself.

Let go of perfection—

it doesn’t exist.

Let go of your demons—

they are not welcome here.

Let go of your trauma—

you can live with it,

but you need not live in it.

Let go of wanting to go back—

there is no going back,

there is only going forward,

and forward

is more extraordinary

than you could ever imagine.

There is even something beyond the horizon.

Inadequate is not how anyone would describe you—

don’t you dare label yourself

as such.

Dear Sister,

I will never judge you for staying.

You know best

how to care

for your wounded parts.

I only hope you follow

the voice

that tells you

when it’s time

to go.

You are that which

chases the storm

but sleeps through a beautiful day;

you have broken the hearts of those who loved you

and you have broken your own heart over those who don’t.

You never learn

and you laugh when they tell you, “It’s time to grow up.”

They don’t know what you know, Dear Girl:

grow wiser, grow deeper, but never grow up.

For all the women whose stories have been told,

whose voices have echoed,

“Me too.”

Thank you.

And for all the women whose voices will never be heard,

we will not forget you.

You are the warriors we seek

when the world turns its cheek.

We will stand in solidarity,

for you are the women we’ve been waiting for.

Wicked-tongued women

who speak their truths

like a sledgehammer to the glass ceiling,

You are nothing but sheer miracles,

born from the ashes of women

who have walked this earth before you.

That is why you must speak truth,

for other women have done the work

and you must not dismantle it.

Step out of your own shadow.

Step into yourself.

You have come this far

by showing up

with your own two feet

and that alone

is enough.

Her crow’s-feet carry seas

and fleets of ship,

sweet words climb

the gruff edges

of her vocal chords,

and they sound rough

as the wildest street corners.

They are remnants

of a life well lived,

the darkly lit moments

between vitality

and the final few words.

I wrote to find the answers,

instead

I found myself.

Be the light

that floods the wounds

of people lost

in their own darkness.

For those

who came here seeking,

I hope you found what you

were looking for.