A Tip of the Hat to the Women Who Wear Them All And the Myth of the Gentle Woman

Some days I wear the paint-stained apron. Some days it’s the flour-dusted one, or the one that smells like vinegar from scrubbing the church floors. Some days I’m in scrubs, and others, I never make it out of my nightgown. And then there are days — most days, honestly — when it feels like I’m wearing them all at once.

This week alone, I’ve been a gardener, church member, housekeeper, mother, professional artist, virtual nurse, health coach, patient educator, UBC chair, and chef. Phew. Even listing them is exhausting. But if you’re a woman, I bet you don’t even flinch — because you know exactly what that feels like.

We wear so many hats. Sometimes the weight of them all cracks our composure (God forbid!), and we leak a few tears, let out a hysterical laugh, or maybe even have a quiet panic attack behind a closed door. We’re told we’re nurturers, gentle souls, caregivers. But what about when I’m striking my canvas with wet, dripping graphite or tearing collage to shreds in a fit of creation? What about when I yank my toddler from his high chair and deliver firm, life-saving back slaps to dislodge whatever he’s choking on?

Tell me how gentle I am when I’m on my knees, scrubbing sweat and vinegar into the church floors.

Trust me — I can be gentle and nurturing. But just as I wear many hats (or aprons), I also embody many selves. And no, they’re not “masculine.” They’re just me.

If you’re a mother, you already know that childbirth is anything but gentle. You roared. You fought. You screamed. You tore. Just like the earth splits open when a tree emerges from the dark soil depths. Even mothering each day comes with tears, messy outbursts, and the occasional curse word. 

If that sounds familiar, don’t judge yourself for not being gentle enough. Your children don’t need a porcelain doll. They need a human being. They need to see your strength, your weariness, your will — so they can recognize that they are human too. 

The idea that we should carry all these roles with grace, a quiet smile, and a flawless face needs to be thrown in the garbage. Toss it in the trash along with the lie of effortless perfection. You’re not perfect. And honestly, no one wants you to be. “Perfect” people either make us feel like we’re failing or make us feel like they’re lying. Real people — honest, full, imperfect people — make us feel seen. The world is begging for vulnerability right now. That is where community thrives is in sharing our vulnerabilities. 

Life isn’t about being gentle. And it sure isn’t about performing someone else's version of “feminine.” It’s about being whole. That includes every sharp edge and soft curve you’ve got, girl! 

I’ve heard people say the gender pay gap exists because men are more “aggressive.” That their assertiveness gets them ahead. But what if the whole game was designed for one kind of player? (Mic drop).

Women bring different tools: empathy, intuition, vision, patience, decisiveness — and yes, power that doesn’t always smile. We’re still reshaping a world that hasn’t quite made space for us yet, but we’re not waiting around. We’re taking up space as women. Boldly. Loudly. Unapologetically. And we’re not gonna stop making change, baby 😉!

We don’t need to act like men to be powerful. We don’t need to shrink to be accepted. We are bold. We are impactful. We are feminine. And it’s time we stop letting anyone else define what that means.

Let’s talk about the body — not the airbrushed one, not the filtered one, but the real, pulsing, wild thing that bleeds, births, breaks, and mends.

Childbirth was the most raw, animal act I’ve ever experienced. It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t quiet. It was a storm. And it was mine.

I didn’t need to channel masculinity to find that strength — it was already stitched into me. Even though at the time I did not feel strong. I felt threatened. I felt vulnerable. I was scared. But looking back I see my resilience. Women are born with the tide in our blood and the thunder in our bones. Our power isn’t borrowed. Like a root that splits concrete, it simply is. 

That power lives in us whether we’re nursing a baby with cracked, bleeding nipples or running a business from our kitchen table. Whether we’re holding someone’s hand in silence or holding our own boundaries loudly. Our bodies may be soft, but our resolve is steel. And our femininity? It never needed permission to roar.

Somewhere along the way, we were told to lower our voices. To soften our edges. To smile more, say less, and never make anyone uncomfortable. And many of us listened — at least for a while.

But I refuse to feel guilty for being “too sensitive,” “too intense,” “too ambitious.” Those are the very flames I paint with. They’re what make me a protector, a creator, a truth-teller.

This isn’t shame. This is shape — the shape I was always meant to take before the world told me to shrink. Our power is elastic. Just like our bodies can push out a human and return to center, our capacity to love, lead, rage, and rise is limitless.

What’s crazy is that the version of me I used to hide — the one I feared was too much — turned out to be the bridge to real connection. Avoiding her kept me from a whole community of me’s out there. A community of you’s. If you’re still reading, maybe you know what I mean.

We wear many hats — different colors, textures, sizes. Some are for beauty, some for protection, some just to survive the day. But they all belong to us. We are their rightful owners.

And you? What hat are you wearing today? Which ones have you been told to take off? Which ones have they told you were borrowed from your male counterpart?

Maybe it’s time we decide for ourselves. Maybe it’s time we wear them all — with pride.

They might call it too much. Too loud. Too intense. Too wild.
Let them.

The volcano doesn’t apologize. The tide doesn’t ask permission. And neither do we.

Let’s take the word feminine back. Let’s rip it from the labels and stereotypes. Feminism isn’t about being against men — it’s about being for women. For our voices, our value, our fire, and all the parts of who we are.

It’s about honoring the woman who whispers and the one who roars. The one in the kitchen and the one in the boardroom. The one birthing children and the one birthing new ideas.

Feminism is wearing every hat, owning every season, and refusing to shrink for the comfort of others.

So wear your hats, sisters. All of them. They’re yours.

  And to every woman out there doing just that — I see you. I tip my hat to you.