Today marks the end of the first week of Women’s History Month. 

To be entirely transparent, with all that the past few months have brought, I’ve had a difficult time remembering the month of March’s significance. 

In my defense, I’ve also forgotten most things that typically hold a large sentiment to my identity. I’ve forgotten just how much I love warm, sunny days when the light turns the lake a vibrant teal. I’ve forgotten how amazing the music from my early childhood really is. And most of all, I’ve forgotten just how much I love spending time with the people I love. I guess you could say I’ve had other things on my mind.

But unlike the dopamine boost of a bright day in late February, there’s something that feels different — even shameful — about mindlessly neglecting the most integral part of identifying as a woman: the fact that it deserves to be celebrated. 

One month ago on the eve of Black History Month, a number of federal agencies banned the celebration of various special observances including Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Holocaust Remembrance Day and LGBTQ+ Pride Month, to name a few. Then, just several weeks ago, Google Calendar removed references to correlating observances to comply with the altered political landscape in the United States. 

Women’s History Month was just one of the many celebrations taken off of the app. 

My first introduction to the common concept of men undermining women occurred during recess in fourth grade. I was nine years old at the time. The girl I had chosen to partner with in a game of manhunt and I had become increasingly impatient with the group of older boys in the opposing team. The boys had developed a rather strong sense of superiority upon us, and it wasn’t long until they began to change the rules of the playground, dictating where my friend and I were and weren’t allowed to play. I never quite understood why they were allowed to sit at the top of the monkey bars and we weren’t, and more importantly, why we listened to them. 

However, through the years, I’ve come to understand that the matter isn’t limited to young boys bossing schoolgirls around in a sandbox before lunch. It takes place anywhere men are offered power. 

The summer before my junior year of high school, the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, winding back the clock on decades of effort towards the fight for safe abortion access in the United States. 

I awoke that morning next to my phone buzzing incessantly. Still half asleep, I opened my messages to see various articles from The New York Times, and a single text from my older sister. 

“I’m so sorry Belle,” her message read. 

A good friend of mine at the time, sleeping on the couch across from me, awoke to me visibly upset. As I explained the significance of the court’s actions, the best way a hysterical 16-year-old girl could, he sat up and scratched his head. After a moment of silence, he looked at me blankly. Devoid of empathy, he told me he “wasn’t aware that I was such a feminist.” The word slid off of his tongue like the most vulgar of insults. That was June 24, 2022. 

The comparison between the two reactions was the final nudge demonstrating just how differently women navigate the world — an observation that struck me once again on the night of the presidential debate. 

Two and a half years later, I stared at my TV screen in disbelief that a man so boastful and ignorant could ever be permitted to serve as a candidate in the race to lead our country through its challenges. On the morning after Election Day, I stared at my computer screen in disbelief that he had won. 

Part of me feels embarrassed to harbor such fear within me. Afterall, so many of us have dedicated years of our lives to joining the revolution of strong willed, independent, courageous young women. Still, we fear. 

But we don’t fear without reason. 

We have fear because history has proven time and time again that no matter how many indictments one may have against him, a man may still get everything he wants. No matter how many crude insults spew from his mouth, a man may still maintain a loyal following. And perhaps the most disturbing of all, no matter how many dozens of women speak out against him, a man may still be given power over us all. 

I used to wonder why most men refuse to listen to women when we demand for help — when we shove our reasons for concern in their faces. Why those in power ignore the pleas of at-risk communities no matter how hard they fight. Then, it clicked. 

Sometimes the strength of our voice intimidates them so much they feel no choice but to attempt to silence us. 

But this time, we understand the rules of their game. We understand that they depend on our silence — it’s the only thing keeping their feet dangling above us. 

So, I offer a promise forward. 

Never again will I forget the celebration the month of March calls for. Never again will I allow feeble men hiding behind wooden desks and large microphones to dictate my identity as a young woman. Never again will I fail to understand the power entrapped within our voices. 

Because as soon as we take our pride for granted, they take everything else.

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