Reclaiming Women Series #2. Reclaiming Our Bodies: Why Women are Done Being Small

Before I begin, I want to acknowledge that some of what I’m writing about today is upsetting and very present in the media. I am having some huge feelings about it all—and I am going to invite you to feel something too.

So if you want to feel the rage… come with me.

…….

I went to get another tattoo the other day.

I am not a painted lady or anything particularly wild—I tend to get small, meaningful tattoos when the time feels right. This one sits on my shoulder: olive leaves and flowers, echoing one I already have on my foot.

I chose it because I get these intense migraines that originate in a muscle near my shoulder. I wanted to make something beautiful out of a part of me that brings me pain.

As I was driving there, I found myself thinking about it more deeply (cue Sex and the City theme music and Carrie Bradshaw in a loft window).

Recently, I wrote about reclaiming joy. Now, I find myself thinking about reclaiming my body.

About women reclaiming their bodies.

There are lots of memes circulating about women in menopause becoming the person they were as teenagers—but loving her this time. And I find myself wondering about that. When we were younger, we didn’t know what we had. Isn’t there a quote about youth being wasted on the young?

Anyway, back to the story.

Whether we care to admit it or not, our bodies as women have been shaped by the male gaze (not the male gays—a clarification I once had to make to my children, who were understandably concerned. Semantics matter).

Our media system is built on a capitalist structure that often keeps women—and other vulnerable groups—small. A patriarchal system does not easily make space for different ways of being. At its core, it is driven by fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of not belonging.

And so, for generations, women have made themselves smaller.

Because if you don’t fit in, who will keep you safe?

Perfectionism plays a role here. It is a construct that keeps us striving for something that does not truly exist.

Think about it:

How many times have you exercised because your body didn’t feel “right”?

How many times have you said “no thank you” to a biscuit because you wanted to be “good”?

These are not neutral thoughts. They are messages we have absorbed from the world around us.

This can feel even more complex in long-term relationships.

We may feel pressure to maintain the body our partner first fell in love with. To dress in a certain way. To remain attractive. To be available. To keep up appearances—not just at home, but at work and socially too.

And yes, making an effort can feel good. But there are also times when we just want to wear a tracksuit and our favourite jumper on repeat (and I am very glad there is no photographic evidence of me while writing my book).

We are still the same person underneath that jumper.

The same soul.

So what, really, is the difference?

And then there is care. Care takes our bodies in a different way.

If you have given birth, your body has been physically reshaped—through pregnancy, birth, feeding, recovery. There are scars, shifts, aches, and memories held in the body.

Parenting itself is physical: lifting, carrying, bending, running, holding. It is also emotional: exhaustion, stress, love, frustration—all lived through the body.

Caring for others—children, parents, relatives—has its own weight. It can show up as tension, fatigue, stomach issues, a kind of quiet stooping under responsibility.

When we are constantly “getting on with it”, our bodies still keep the score.

We push our own needs down. We make space for everyone else. And slowly, our bodies can begin to feel less like ours—and more like containers for everyone else’s needs.

(Trigger warning: forced adoption and sexual abuse)

On the way to my tattoo appointment, I heard two stories in the news that stopped me in my tracks.

The first was about forced adoptions in the UK between the 1960s and 1980s. Women were made to give up their babies simply because they were unmarried. Their circumstances, their wishes, their bodies—none of it mattered.

Some were even given medications known to cause harm to their babies—prescribed by professionals who understood the risks.

Let that sink in.

This was a system in which women’s bodies did not belong to them. It was paternalistic—decisions made for women, regardless of their consent. A patriarchal system, again. The body as something to control, to shame, to punish.

The second story was about what has been referred to as the “Rape Academy”—an online space where men shared advice on how to abuse their wives.

Even writing that feels surreal.

But it exists.

And it connects to something many women already know in their bodies:

Walking home with keys between fingers.Checking over our shoulders.Being told not to dress a certain way.

And now—being unsafe not just outside, but inside our own homes.

Women’s bodies are still too often treated as objects. As commodities. As things to be judged, controlled, used. Not as something that belongs to us.

So What Are We Going to Do?

We are going to say no.

We are going to push back.

Not all at once. Not perfectly. But consistently, in ways that matter.

We are going to start noticing the messages we have internalised—and gently questioning them.We are going to allow our bodies to take up space, even when it feels uncomfortable.We are going to rest when we are tired, eat when we are hungry, and move in ways that feel good rather than punishing.

We are going to speak differently about our bodies—especially in front of our children.We are going to challenge the idea that our worth is tied to how we look, how we perform, or how well we meet expectations.

We are going to support each other. Believe each other. Stand alongside each other.

And perhaps most importantly, we are going to begin the quiet, ongoing work of coming back into our bodies.

Not as something to fix. Not as something to perfect.

But as something that belongs to us.

Questions to Sit With

What is one small way you could begin to reclaim your body this week?

And what might change if you treated your body not as something to control—but as something to come home to?