To the Greek Masseuse,
What’s the weight of being a strong girl?
As you pressed lavender oil into my skin, my body softened, but my mind tensed.
“What exercise do you do?” you asked.
In a massage, you naturally fill the silence with your thoughts. So, when you directed the conversation to my body, my mind was already there. How it has fluctuated over my life, but consistently been strong. The way my shoulders are kinda popping at the moment – something that served me in tennis matches (pun intended) and fuelled me through swimming competitions in my youth. How I can leg press more than my brother, despite him being nearly a foot taller. When I had a six-pack. When I gained weight from eating several sweet treats a day while travelling. When my sister jumped on my back and broke my ankle. When I had a bowel operation and couldn’t walk. How my body healed after.
“Um…just gym and walking, I guess,” I replied.
“Nice. I knew you did something, you’re strong,” your voice warm with praise.
As a woman, strength can be a weird thing. I know it isn’t, but as a 5’2 girl who loves to romanticise everything, it can feel overwhelming. Bulky. Like when I accidentally kicked a hole in the wall or pushed open a door a little too forcefully that it slammed back in my face. Don’t get me wrong, working out has a ritualistic and rewarding place in my life. But, the way my figure clings to muscle…? Well… hot girl walks just make zipping knee-high boots over my calves harder.
Going to the gym just makes my jeans tighter and skirts shorter; a baddie. But, sometimes I just want to be as dreamy and doe-eyed as Bambi. The way I refrain from wearing ballet flats, cause I’m not dainty like that. How I don’t want to be woofed at on my way back home from gym by a creepy guy when I’m wearing my flares. A pair of pants that a friend could wear and be considered classy and cute.
So, what does it actually mean to be strong?
The power to perform physically demanding tasks.
When I helped move my housemate's bed, I felt like a) the man of the house and b) physically strong. I get that same sensation working at the bakery, a surge of power as I steadily hoist heavy trays of croissant dough from one fridge to the next. But maybe, because it’s pain au chocolat, it feels a little more chic. And, no matter how much I don’t want to admit it, I view strength as a more masculine trait. Maybe because so many men still value it. A 2023 study revealed that 59% of US men act strong, even if they don’t feel it, and boys aged 10-17 ranked strength and toughness as society's top expectation of them.
To make this relevant to you, I guess our bodies are like the marble columns of the Parthenon. Durable and supportive. A temple built to Athena’s vigor, a goddess armoured from the head of Zeus; the strongest Greek God. Even her power is partially tied to a man. And that was back in 447 BC.
So, even though my dump truck isn’t as grand as the Parthenon perched above the Acropolis, being strong as a woman sometimes feels like taking up as much space. Think of Serena Williams and Simone Biles. Two incredible athletes who have accomplished the never-before. Their physique is framed with awe, but also a lingering surprise. The media marvels at their strength, praise often laced with disbelief: look at what she can do. Have you seen her arms? Can you believe how strong she is? Because when strength resides in a woman’s body, it’s rarely seen as neutral. However, there's a beauty in that rarity. It’s unique, and if it’s anything like the Parthenon, it’s far more impressive and beautiful than the Temple of Olympian; a temple dedicated to Zeus.
Being able to withstand force, pressure, or wear.
When my mum passed away, people described me as strong. The way I kept going. How I looked after my sister, made lunch for my brother. Helped my Dad by doing the washing or cooking dinner. But, the rest of my family was strong too. My Dad had to keep working, while simultaneously becoming solely responsible for raising three children. Even when we were all worn out, my brother managed to make my sister and I smile, lightening the mood. A strength, at the time, I didn’t have. We all supported each other.
Yet, this was something I got told far more than my brother or Dad. Not because people thought they were weak, but maybe because it was expected of them. Men should be strong, but a 10-year-old girl? That’s a little more shocking. A little more commendable.
Interestingly, I view my female friends who work in male-dominated fields as tenacious. Their resilience to subtle misogyny and their comfort in frequently being the only female in a room. How they consider decisions like when to have children with a strategic guise, to keep up with their male counterparts. A pressure that to me feels too much, too uncomfortable. So, I opt out of it. Partly because of my own experiences and maybe because it wore me out. Because I, maybe for the best, no longer had the strength to stay.
Very intense.
Intensity is a force, it commands attention. But it is also divisive. A strong scent of chocolate is divine, while a potent scent of sewage is not. And a rich scent of musk? Well, some people love it and others hate it.
There’s a subjectivity to strength, which probably is part of my discomfort with it. To someone who’s never exercised, I’m the hulk. To a bodybuilder? I’m weak and dainty. Like most things in life, it’s a spectrum, but the ‘intensity’ can seem polarising. A ‘strong' opinion or perspective, insinuates some element of controversy, like it will stir up a reaction. But, this subjectivity is not necessarily taboo – it’s just diversity. We all have our energy drawn and drained differently. For example, my brother is training to be a paramedic, something I could not stomach. Yet for him, writing a Substack would be akin to going to battle.
Intensity can also be good. It can be so bold, courageous and rich. Often, my most powerful moments have been where I’ve wholeheartedly backed myself. Uncontroversial, just intensely me. A kind of strength that requires comfort with yourself. Something, much harder than any deadlift.
The number of people comprising a group.
Strength in numbers. A strong army or church following. Initially, I thought this definition would be irrelevant to this piece. Yet, there’s a power when people come together. Not necessarily because of the size, but rather the strength of the connection. Those gracious moments where vulnerability is shared.
As you commented on my body, it was weirdly grounding. Suddenly, my strong stature didn’t feel clunky or boisterous. Instead, it felt settled. Because your words forced me to think about strength in all its facets. Because, it’s layered – just like muscles.
xx Mandy
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