RELAY RACES are played in teams. Once the first runner finishes their lap around the field, they’re required to pass the baton on to the second runner. I was never the athletic type who watched sports, but I witnessed my own version of a relay race at home.
Growing up, I’ve always expected many things from my mom. I thought she would be dependable in carrying the burdens of caregiving and patient in reconciling all of our family dramas. I expected her to be competent with balancing both career pressures and household chores, and—all the while—perfect amid all the uncertainties that life throws at her.
In that regard, I see motherhood as sacrificial by nature. My mom has the single most important duty to keep the family buoyed by supporting the many fixtures of domestic life at the expense of her own energy, time, and identity. These expectations of motherhood stem from a larger social contract, which relies on women to render the invisible labor that goes into running a society.
As the only other female family member at home, I was naturally expected to sub in and fulfill these responsibilities when my mom wasn’t available to do so. In true teenage fashion, I was frustrated that I always had to cover for her when my brother was just as capable of accomplishing these chores as I was. I hated dealing with these sudden disruptions to my routine—especially as they fell on top of all the emotionally alive and psychologically complex problems I had to deal with as a teenage girl.
Through the years, it became clear that womanhood was an all-encompassing identity, accompanied by a mounting tide of expectations that eclipsed whatever personal life I had.
These expectations to be serviceable and perfect towered over me, and my resentment for them eventually bled out into my relationship with other women, whom I held to the same standards that my mom held me. I expected my female friends to be graceful when managing the mounting demands of school and home life, patient with their peers even at their most challenging, modest when presenting themselves in public, and pleasant despite all the hormonal changes that upended their puberty-ridden lives. In turn, they expected the same from me.
Fueled by frustration, this dynamic devolved into a relay sport where my female friends and I passed on our shameful expectations from one person to the next. The recursive sport was equal parts enraging and draining, but it felt impossible for us to just walk away from it and admit that it didn’t matter. If we did, we were seen as less worthy in society.
Ultimately, the image of what a woman should be was so sacrosanct that I couldn’t even acknowledge my feelings of disappointment and rage to myself. I allowed my anger to fester, pushing me farther and farther away from the women in my life.
It has taken me nearly 20 years to realize the tragedy of the split that occurred between me and the female community. In the current patriarchal society, I am still learning that the reason it was so painful is because all of us lost in the relay sport.
However, I’ve realized that reconciling my feelings of rage over this pervasive form of sexism would mean coming together with my mom and my female friends who understand these pains best. It entails standing with them in solidarity as we brave the world together—not just as people of the same sex but as a unified community. In this sense, it calls for collectively recognizing that we deserve better than what the world subjects us to—whether it be a pedestal of extremely high standards or a competition against each other in petty public spectacles.
Ultimately, empathy is the most radical choice we can make in a society where women are often overlooked and underappreciated. Until systemic changes fundamentally shift public perception of women, I can spark change through my own circle of female friends—and the personal will always be political for me.
