Womanhood: One Size Fits All

In the words of Virginia Woolf, "For most of history, Anonymous was a woman." This poignant reflection underscores the shared anonymity and collective experiences of women throughout time. Have you ever seen a woman simply walking without a clear purpose? Does she ever just get up and declare, "I'm going for a stroll"? If she walks in the morning, it’s labelled as exercise. The weather might be too harsh for an afternoon stroll, and who in their right mind would choose to wander after sunset? After all, thieves lurk in the darkness, ready to take more than just a penny or two.

I am every woman and every woman is me. We all live the same lives. 

All women have things to say with no mic or pen in hand. the experiences of women are universal and shared across generations and cultures. There’s a constant undercurrent of thoughts, stories, and emotions. But when a man talks, it's discussion, when a woman does, it's gossip. They say a woman's mind is always churning. So, we talk to ourselves, to our pillows, or sometimes to the walls when no one’s looking. After all, silence is golden, and women are obviously full of riches.

All women are scared for their lives. Fear is our trusty sidekick, kind of like an overenthusiastic personal trainer. Always there, reminding us to look over our shoulder, cross the street if a shadow looks a bit too long, and perfect our keys-between-the-fingers routine. Sure, we could focus on just, you know, living life, but what’s the fun in that when you can constantly feel like you’re in a thriller movie? This fear is something we inherit, passed down like an unspoken lesson—how to survive in a world that doesn’t feel safe for us.

All women are doing 24 things at the same time. We balance the roles of worker, mother, daughter, sister, friend, lover—all while holding ourselves together. We wear our exhaustion like a second skin, still managing to smile and to keep moving because stopping is not an option. There’s always something that needs to be done, someone who needs something- where is my purse? Did you see my glasses? Get me some water. Why is dinner not ready? etc etc etc etc etc etc. Why have just one job when you can have a thousand? Clean the house while holding a conference call, sending emails with one hand and doing laundry with the other—honestly, it’s like Cirque du Soleil, but without the applause. Just pure exhaustion.

All women live the same lives. It’s like a giant simulation where we’re all following the same script. Maybe there’s an unwritten rulebook that we missed, but somehow we’re all walking the same tightrope—balancing expectations, responsibilities, and the constant question of “Am I enough?” Spoiler: the answer’s always "No." But we keep trying. Call it dedication, delusion or maybe just societal programming. In the end, we all give up a piece of ourselves to fit the mould society has made for us.

All women live to make their daughters strong, and stronger to face worse men. We teach our daughters the lessons we learned too late. We tell them to speak up, to be brave, to not bend under the weight of the world. Forget preparing them for success, let’s teach them to dodge, deflect, and debate their way out of uncomfortable conversations, situations, and of course, that one guy at the party who just won’t take a hint. It’s a legacy we pass on with love… and a little bit of dread. But deep down, we know the battles they’ll face may be even harder than ours. We hope for a better world but prepare them for the worst because we know too well what it means to be a woman in a man’s world.

All women have been sexually harassed. This is a sad and bitter truth. Whether it’s a catcall, a lingering stare, or something far worse, we’ve all experienced that violation. It’s a moment that etches itself into our being, a reminder that our bodies are never truly our own in the eyes of others. It’s basically a rite of passage. I am a young Indian doctor, a 70-year-old French lady, a student going to school in an auto, a 12-year-old daughter, a mother to a 24-year-old boy, a Miss Switzerland finalist, a nurse, a lady on the footpath, a wife taking her dying husband to the hospital in an ambulance, a student in Agra, a Palestinian trying to survive. I am Diya. I am a woman. We signed up for it at birth. No returns or refunds here.

All women are sacrificial. There is always something she gives up. A dream deferred, an ambition stifled, a desire pushed aside for the sake of others. We give, and we give, often without complaint, because that’s what we’ve been taught—to nurture, to care, to sacrifice. But in the process, we lose pieces of ourselves that we may never get back. It’s fine, we didn’t really want that promotion or time to ourselves. Self-care is for people with time and nothing to sacrifice, which is definitely not us.

One of the most beloved phrases among many men is “Not All Men.” It’s often trotted out as a defence, a way to disassociate oneself from the collective guilt or responsibility for the behaviours of others. It’s meant to remind women that not every man is a predator, not every man is dangerous, this one is just here to sip his latte and read the paper—definitely not a threat. While “Not All Men” is the anthem of the modern knight in shining armour, the reality for women is more along the lines of “All Women” navigating a minefield of anxiety. The truth is, “All Women” are scared of you. And by “you,” I mean every man—because in a world where the threat is omnipresent- as ubiquitous as your favourite sports channel, generalisation is simply precautionary. 

All women are conscious of their selves—who’s watching, who’s recording. Is my cleavage too deep? Is my skirt too short? Is my personality threatening a man? We are constantly monitoring, adjusting, and shrinking ourselves to fit into spaces that weren’t designed for us. We are aware of the gaze, recognize the footsteps, calculate the distance, notice the people, always present, always judging. It’s exhausting, but it’s a survival tactic we’ve perfected over time. Heaven forbid we accidentally provoke someone with our mere existence.

All women are the same. All women are the same. Diya, Riya, Piya, Miya… take your pick. We’re like an assembly line of identical thoughts, fears, and experiences. Society has pre-packaged us and wrapped us neatly in labels and expectations. We’re handed a script at birth, told how to act, what to say, and when to smile. Why bother with individuality when society has already figured out our template? After all, it’s much easier to group us into categories, to streamline our identities so they fit comfortably within the neatly drawn lines of tradition and stereotype.

We’re not people, we’re parts of a well-oiled machine, designed to function in perfect synchronization. Every emotion we feel, every choice we make, seems pre-determined. You want to be strong? Not too strong, or you’re aggressive. You want to be nurturing? Be careful, because you might become invisible, absorbed into the role of caretaker with no space left for yourself. Society gives us the illusion of freedom while simultaneously locking us into roles that are impossible to escape.

Diya, Riya, Piya, Miya—different names, but the same narrative. Whether we’re the quiet girl next door, the outspoken activist, the career-driven woman, or the devoted mother, we’re all painted with the same broad brushstrokes. Our struggles are seen as predictable, our dreams considered small, and our voices—if we dare to raise them—are often dismissed as mere noise in the background. We are expected to follow the formula, to play our part in the grand machinery of society, without questioning or stepping out of line.

And then comes the phrase: "You’re not like other women." The backhanded compliment of the century. It’s presented as a badge of honour, as if to say, “You’ve transcended the mediocre crowd of women and emerged as something better, something different.” Except, I am like other women. Why is it that individuality only gets recognized when it is used to pit women against each other? The statement isn’t a compliment; it’s a subtle reminder that all women are lumped into one predictable category, and only by rejecting your gender can you be seen as exceptional.

But what’s wrong with being like other women? I am like them—our experiences, though varied, connect us in ways that society refuses to see. We are all fighting the same battles, enduring the same pressures. To say "you're not like other women" is to deny the richness of those shared experiences, to ignore the strength, complexity, and resilience found in every woman. It’s an attempt to make us compete, to suggest that individuality is only valuable when it separates you from the collective.

Except, I am like other women. And that’s not an insult. It's a reality that speaks to the universality of our challenges, our dreams, and our strength. Being like other women doesn’t make me less—it makes me part of something bigger, a shared history, a collective voice that refuses to be quiet any longer.

There is a manual. It’s all laid out in black and white. However, there exists a grey area, disappearing as it may be. But we are all women, and in that, we are all the same.