A Letter to the woman in the doughnut shop in Cypress

You walked in with your two beautiful boys. You asked me if I was ok. I said yes, then you looked into my eyes, gave me a stronger look. The look, a look. The one that says, ‘No, as a woman’ are you ok? I said last night was a lot. I smiled. You probably thought I may have got what I wanted. But I just didn’t want to cry in a doughnut shop. What I should have said to you is:

I did vote for Kamala, I did vote for hope. I did hope that our fathers, brothers and mothers would vote for us, among the safety of others. That we would finally choose to protect the things we love. But when we finished our exchange and I grabbed my coffee I sat in my car, spotify playing but mute in my ears as I thought about how sad the female experience is. And I cried. I thought about all the times I was kept cooped up in the house, while my brother had the freedom to do as he pleases because my parents ‘didn’t want anything to happen to me’. I was barred from even going to the end of the drive way to get the mail if it was dark. When I worked retail the managers would make the male employees walk the girls to their cars after the closing shift. That hot fear that rolls down your spine when the elevator stops and a man walks in and it’s just you two. When you’re fighting for your life to be kind to a man because you’re scared the no will infuriate him and he will hurt you. Some would say the fear is unfounded, but it’s a reality that is ingrained in us since birth and proven if not from strangers, from those we thought loved us. Sometimes I think it’s just me. That I’m gas lighting myself and continuing a cycle of pain for no reason. But then that look exists, the one you gave me, the universal are you ok look. Do you need help look, do you need me to pretend to be your best friend so you can get out of this situation look.

And I am sad for us. That we feel the need to protect ourselves this way. That we have less rights now than our mothers.

I wanted to let you know that I have a daughter, and that I worry I can’t always protect her and keep her safe from the realities of the world. That we want another child, that I had to discuss what would happened if I died with my husband, where we could go if I still had time if I miscarry and could be saved. That I went through IVF and fear that people who want to be mothers may never get that chance.

That I’m not actually ok but I have to be. I have to be strong for my daughter and keep fighting.We all do.