I used to admire women for the obvious things. Curves. Beauty. That surface level awe. I grew up and learned a deeper kind of respect.
Female bodies are architecture and miracle. For about forty weeks a body becomes a home. It builds a heart, a spine, a face. It carries weight and worry and still gets up the next morning. Our world exists because female bodies do this work.
I exist because my mother did it for me. She carried me for nine months. When she was alive I did not always love her enough. Now that she is gone, I feel the shape of that absence every day. The more I mature, the more I understand what she gave me. Not just life. A way of being. Warmth. Patience. A quiet kind of strength.
Biology makes me respect it even more. An egg sends signals. Sperm swim toward those signals. The body filters and selects until only one gets through. Even at a microscopic level there is wisdom at work. The design protects life before life begins.
Today I see women far beyond the outline of a body. I see feminine energy that steadies a room. I see a nurturing instinct that notices the small things and makes people feel safe. I see warmth and affection that soften hard days, and a kind of intuition that reads what words miss. I see resilience through cycles and pain, yet a softness that is not weak. I see boundaries that protect love instead of shrinking it. I see care that heals, humor that lifts, attention to detail that holds families and teams together, and a calm that can turn chaos into order. That is what I admire now.
Not every woman is a mother and a woman’s worth is not measured by that. But the truth holds. Female bodies carry a kind of magic. My mother showed me that. I miss her. I thank her. And I carry what she gave me forward.
Kveer, signing out.
