Womanhood is Beautiful. And Tiring. And Expensive. And Everything at Once.

by Similoluwa Ifedayo

“Heyyyy, babyyyy.” That’s how I greet my mum almost every time I call her. My voice goes soft, full of affection. I do it unconsciously now with a mix of warmth and admiration. And when my friend hears me call my mother that, she laughs. I always smile and tell her, “She’s just a girl too.”

It’s something I’ve come to understand more deeply with age: the women we look up to — the ones we call Mum, Aunty, Big Sis, Madam — they’re girls too. Girls who grew into women and are still learning, still carrying the weight of expectations, still trying to live fully in a world that asks so much of them.

And it hits me often: even the strongest women I know are still figuring it out. That’s when it dawned on me: Womanhood, for all its wonder, is work. Emotional labour. Safety planning. Preparation for the next stage. Constant self-affirmation in a world that questions your worth. There’s always something nobody really prepares you for. Being a woman is a full-time job. Not the pretty, Instagrammable part. The real part.

The part where your body changes faster than your emotions can keep up. The part where everything costs more — emotionally, mentally, financially. And no, I’m not just talking about sanitary pads and skincare products or how blood flows from the lining of your uterus (endometrium) through the cervix and out of your vagina. I’m talking about existing.

People say being a woman is beautiful. And it is. I love being a woman. I love my women. I love how we feel deeply. How we love hard. How we create, nurture, lead. I love the idea of being a mother and a wife one day. I love writing about women. I love being in rooms full of women. But let’s not pretend like it’s not a lot. Like it’s not overwhelming sometimes. Like womanhood isn’t a constant balancing act between surviving and shining.

The system isn’t built for women. It just isn’t.

You’ll hear all the talk — “equal rights,” “girl power,” “women empowerment” — but then you walk on your street, minding your business, just trying to buy food, and a man taps your butt. Just like that. Like you’re a piece of meat at a market stall. Sigh. You speak up. Maybe even shout. But nobody moves. His friends laugh. Strangers keep walking. The air shifts, but not in your favour.

And you realise something very important in that moment:

You’re on your own.

Sometimes, it’s your own body that betrays you. You wake up craving touch not because of a romantic fantasy, but because your hormones are doing what they do during your cycle. You want sex. Not love. Not validation. Just raw, human intimacy. But you can’t have it. Not because it’s not available, but because you are an unmarried Christian who loves God and has standards. Boundaries. A line you don’t want to cross. So you turn over, grab a pillow, hug yourself, and try to sleep it off.

It’s frustrating. It’s exhausting. It’s part of being a woman. Maybe human. To carry heat in your body and still say no. To be responsible for your desires like they’re another task on your to-do list.

Now enter the workplace where emotions are liabilities.

As women, we’re told to be confident. Bold. Assertive. But not too much. Don’t be “bossy.” Don’t be “emotional.” Don’t speak with too much feeling. Don’t cry. Don’t show PMS symptoms. Don’t be “difficult.” Don’t have opinions that make people uncomfortable.

Basically: bring your brain, but leave your full self at home.

And I hate it. So much that it hurts as I write this at 12:41 a.m. on a Friday morning.

I hate how we’re expected to be polished and professional, but only in ways that don’t threaten the system. I hate how we second-guess our tone in emails. How we smile to soften truths. How we dilute ourselves to make people more comfortable.

The truth is, the professional world wasn’t built with women in mind. It was built with men as the default setting. We’re expected to catch up, fit in, and adapt. Like Lois P. Frankel writes in Nice Women Don’t Get the Corner Office — the game is the game. You either catch up or fall behind.

And what happens when you don’t? When you cry after a tough meeting? When you raise your voice in passion? When you pause to breathe before explaining yourself again in a room full of people who already made up their minds?

You become the “emotional one.” The “too sensitive” one. The one who needs to “toughen up.” But here’s what I know: emotions are not a weakness. Feeling deeply is not a flaw. It’s human.

I’m not even the most emotional person out there. But God forbid I judge a person for being human. Because last time I checked, being human shouldn’t disqualify you from success.

Let’s talk about the cost of being a woman.

Because yes — being a woman is expensive. And not just in money. It’s the cost of safety. The cost of silence. The cost of dignity.

It’s walking home with keys between your fingers. It’s switching your route because that street is too dark. It’s pretending you didn’t hear the catcall. It’s brushing off a comment in a meeting because “it’s not worth the drama.”

It’s overthinking. It’s carrying the weight of what people think. It’s always being aware — of how you dress, how you speak, how you exist.

It’s being afraid and smiling anyway. It’s being tired and showing up anyway. It’s being hurt and holding it in because you still have things to do. It’s having menstrual cramps and being told you’re overreacting. It’s being shy to buy a pad as a teenager, hiding it in black nylon like contraband.

Women are superheroes. But we shouldn’t have to be.

We shouldn’t have to be strong all the time. We shouldn’t have to fight this hard to be heard, respected or even just left alone.

I’m tired of sugarcoating it. Tired of making it sound palatable. Have you seen the price of a sanitary pad?

I saw one earlier today — 8 pads for ₦6,500 (US$4.22). I laughed. Because it’s sad. A woman would likely need two packs.

How does a poor woman afford that? And the ones that don’t cost a fortune? They’re low-quality. They barely stick. They irritate. They’re not made for comfort, they’re made for profit.

Oh, I love womanhood. I really do. But don’t mistake love for silence. Loving womanhood doesn’t mean I don’t get angry about what it costs. I do get angry. And I’m allowed to.

We all are.

Because we deserve better. Not just in the workplace.

Not just on the streets. Everywhere.

If the world won’t adjust for women, then women will remake the world.

And this rant? This is part of it. This is me refusing to stay quiet. This is me saying enough is enough. This is me loving womanhood with my whole heart and demanding better for it.

Because being a woman is beautiful. And tiring. And expensive. And overwhelming. And powerful. And emotional. And messy. And full of magic.

All of it. At once.

And that’s okay. And I think no one should go through the stages of womanhood alone.

I hope I have a daughter or daughters one day and they know that Mama wants them to live fully and unapologetically. Right now, Mama is just a girl, you know — and all she had to do to write this article was take a bowl of ice cream because her cravings and hormones cried for that.

(This is your sign to send the woman in your life some ice cream or whatever reminds her that her full-time job of being a woman is seen and appreciated. I mean, I wouldn’t mind another one either…if it helps me write another top article, just saying.)

And maybe that’s the most womanly thing of all: feeling everything deeply and showing up to do what makes you happy — and right now, for me, it’s writing.