But who in their right mind questions someone who dares to call herself a woman? Who, upon witnessing a woman step into a room and unsettle the very gravity of existence, hasn't secretly longed to walk with that same certainty—of being a living miracle?
To be a woman is not merely a biological circumstance, nor a social tag, nor a prepackaged answer to the dilemma of gender. To be a woman is an ontological force, a cosmic insurrection. A woman is not born—she is forged, sometimes in silence, sometimes with screams, in the abyss of the soul itself.
I love calling myself a woman because being a woman is to walk through the world and have it slow down in your presence. It’s to look chaos in the eye with long lashes and say: I command this.
To be a woman is also a performative art—of flesh and spirit. I knew it as a child, when the wind would steal away the black towel I wrapped around my head. I didn’t want to be pretty. I wanted to be sacred. I wanted that power women possess—to make a temple out of any place.
There is something deeply mystical about femininity, something you cannot teach—it’s sensed. It’s a kind of soul-DNA, an ancient vibration whispering that beauty is not ornament, but existential affirmation.
When I wear a long dress and the wind lifts it, I do not feel in costume—I feel I am invoking every goddess exiled from Olympus, every woman burned for being wise, every disobedient virgin and every mother who birthed the world. That wind doesn’t just move fabric—it stirs my bloodline.
Some say being a woman is weakness, a concession. They understand nothing.
A woman can kiss a child on the forehead and topple an empire.
She can whisper and still be heard by generations.
She can cry and, simultaneously, write decrees for eternity.
To be a woman is to live with pain and turn it into ritual.
To have been cast aside for centuries and still raise civilizations from the kitchen, the bed, or the lectern.
When I speak of being a woman, I’m not talking about cosmetics or gestures, about birthing children or merely possessing a vagina. I’m talking about inhabiting the mystery, being both temple and witness. About looking in the mirror not to assess—but to recognize.
And that is why I chose it.
Not out of imitation, but out of calling.
Because the most glorious thing about being a woman is that no permission is needed.
It’s enough to know it. Enough to feel it. Enough to live it.
Now—people fear masculinity because they do not understand it. They call it “toxic” when it asserts itself, they point fingers when it burns.
But I—who have known life from the depths of the cellar to the heights of the dome—will say this plainly: I love the masculine man. Whole. Virile. Feet planted firm and eyes sharp.
I love the man who does not need to shout to command a room.
And if he is dominant—so be it. If he raises his voice when needed—so be it. That does not frighten me. It awakens me.
Because I am a lioness. I hunt alone. I guard my pack. I roar when I must.
But even the fiercest lioness, in the most intimate hour of the night, allows herself to surrender before a true lion.
Not every man deserves to see the lioness relent. Only one:
The King of the Jungle.
The one who doesn’t compete with me, but neither grovels.
The one who knows my strength is not a threat, but a mirror of his own.
The one who does not come to limit me, but to hold me—
Not through control, but through presence.
Not from ego, but from knowing.
Because being powerful does not mean I don’t long—body and soul—for a man who can carry the world and still make space for me.
I love that man who enters a room and fills it.
Who needs no embellishment, for his mere existence is enough.
Who is not afraid to protect, to care, to say:
“I am here, woman. Lean on me. Do as you please with my being.”
I love the man who makes me feel small—not by diminishing me,
but because his shadow is so vast I can finally rest under something I didn’t build alone.
I love the man who knows that when the lioness yields,
it is not from weakness, but because she chose to lower her claws for him.
The man who does not flinch when he sees me cry.
The man who does not falter when he sees me blaze.
Because the lioness does not surrender to just anyone—
Only to the one who can rule beside her without stealing the jungle.
That is why I prefer men with beards.
The beard is the banner of virility:
Time made flesh, deliberate shadow across a steadfast face,
the mark left after battle,
the echo of centuries when man was unafraid to be man.
I prefer the man with hair on his chest—
Not for aesthetics, but for its symbolism.
Because there, nestled in that fur, I want to bury my face and fall asleep.
I want to hear his heart beat like a drum saying:
“You are safe, woman. Stop trembling. You’re keeping me awake.”
A man who soars, yes, but who knows how to land—with me.
A man who can be my straitjacket when I lose myself in my own madness,
but who also opens the window when I need to escape and dance in the sky like a lunatic.
Because when I step out into the world, I transform.
I lift my chin. I harden my gaze. I defend myself.
Not because I enjoy it—
but because I must.
Because in this world, women like me are taught: be strong, or die.
I want a man who is my Atlas.
Who can carry me—with my light and my wreckage.
Who doesn’t shrink if I cry like a girl.
Who doesn’t falter if I burn like a goddess.
I want the man who can bear the weight of my soul—
as if it were a flower made of iron.
And when I see him falter—because even Atlas tires—
then I will carry him.
I will be his shoulders. His chest. His shield. His spear.
Because that is love between titans:
Not blind surrender, but a silent pact between two who know how to carry each other’s universe—
Without yielding, without fleeing—
until eternity dissolves us.
