What watching women in China taught me about softness, Black womanhood, and the things we are told we have outgrown
One of the things I have been observing in China is the way women move through their world. Chinese women are not a monolith. No group of women is, and I have only been here for almost two weeks, moving through a handful of cities, hotels, shopping centres, institutions and public spaces. I would never pretend that this gives me some complete understanding of Chinese womanhood. But I have seen enough to notice something.
There seems to be a certain permission here for women to be feminine. Not feminine in the narrow sense of clothing, heels or makeup, because femininity is not a costume. I mean something broader. There appears to be an ease around softness, ornamentation, girliness, beauty and even whimsy that has made me stop and pay attention.
I have seen older women riding scooters wearing pink helmets. I have seen women in their forties and beyond wearing frilly dresses that, in another cultural context, someone might insist were more appropriate for a teenager. I have seen carefully braided hair, bows, elaborate phone charms, little stuffed animals hanging from handbags, plush scooter seats, anime characters painted across scooters, heels worn with business clothes and women fully made up simply going about their day. And nobody seems particularly bothered by any of it. Nobody appears to be standing nearby asking whether she is doing too much. Nobody seems especially concerned that she should have outgrown delight.
That has stayed with me.
I am not suggesting that Chinese women necessarily have easier lives, softer lives or less responsibility. I do not know enough about their private realities to make that claim, and I am conscious that what I am seeing is only one small window into a vast and complicated society. What I am observing is something much narrower, and perhaps for me, much more meaningful: certain expressions of femininity seem to have social permission here.
Coming from a culture where Black women have so often been taught to be strong, that permission is something to reckon with.
We know the language of the Strong Black Woman. She is independent. She can handle herself. She does not need anybody. She keeps going. She figures it out. She carries what needs to be carried and rarely allows the weight to become visible.
And strength has saved us. There is no denying that. Women of African ancestry have carried families, communities, businesses, churches, movements and entire economies on their backs. Strength has been survival. Strength has been inheritance. Strength has sometimes been the only option available.
But survival eventually asks a question: what happens when you no longer want strength to be the only thing people allow you to be?
Many of us are tired. We do not want to stop being capable women, nor do we want to surrender intelligence, ambition, authority or independence. We simply want access to more of ourselves. We want to be held. We want to be cared for. We want to receive. We want softness, beauty, rest and play. We want to laugh loudly and cry easily and sometimes wear something ridiculous simply because it makes us happy. We want to be women who do not have to prove our competence by looking permanently serious.
Perhaps that is what China has unexpectedly confronted me with: the question of who gets permission to be whimsical without having their competence questioned.
A few days ago, I bought a FungooFun bag. I liked it immediately. It reminded me of my Bogg Bag, I loved the shape, and it was playful and colourful. There was a smaller replica bag and all kinds of little decorative things that could be attached to it. So I bought it.
That was enough of a reason.
For much of my adult life, my choices have leaned towards practicality. Browns. Blacks. Greys. Sensible things. Things that work. Things that communicate competence. Lately, however, I have been thinking that perhaps I need to colour my world a little.
So I attached the little charms. I put one on my phone. One of my Grenadian companions told me it was too much, that I was doing too much. It was not professional. It was not age appropriate.
Something about that comment stayed with me because I looked around at the women coordinating this programme. These are competent, working women responsible for schedules, logistics, international delegations and complicated days. Their bags are decorated. Their phones have charms. There are little objects dangling everywhere. Nobody seems to believe that any of these things have compromised their intelligence. Nobody appears worried that a plush charm might somehow cancel out their professionalism.
And that made me wonder why the rules become different for some of us.
Why does delight so often require explanation from Black women? Why must our adulthood look so serious? Why must competence come dressed in brown and black and grey? Why does a woman who chooses softness sometimes have to prove that she has not become frivolous? Why does whimsy become suspicious when it belongs to us?
I think a lot of Black women know that correction. Do not do too much. Do not wear too much. Do not laugh too loudly. Do not be too soft or too girlish. Do not expect too much care. Do not appear too delicate. Be strong. Be sensible. Be practical. Handle it.
Perhaps we have handled enough.
For me, the pursuit of softness has been happening for some time. It did not begin in China. Oddly enough, some of it began in my marriage.
My marriage has had its challenges, and I do not need to romanticise that truth in order to acknowledge another one. Being with my husband created space for parts of me that had been buried beneath responsibility. Somehow, being with him made it easier for me to do girlish things. To run around the yard blowing bubbles. To laugh. To cry. To be silly. To be vulnerable without immediately correcting myself.
Those moments were deeply healing because they reminded me that there were versions of myself I had not lost. They had simply been waiting for permission.
Perhaps that is why the women I have watched in China have affected me more than they will ever know.
The woman I met yesterday will probably never know that I have been thinking about her. She had a pink scooter decorated with peach-coloured anime characters. The seat was plush. The entire thing was playful and almost absurdly cute, and she rode it without apology. When I asked, she kindly allowed me to photograph and video both her and the scooter.
She was simply existing inside something that appeared to bring her joy.
There was no explanation, no defence, no embarrassment.
And I realised that I want more of that.
Not necessarily the pink scooter, although admittedly, I would not rule it out. I mean the permission. The permission to enjoy beautiful things without turning them into a philosophical argument. The permission to decorate something because it makes me smile. The permission to wear colour, get my nails done, buy the silly charm, rest, be tender and be a serious woman without looking serious every minute of the day.
I do not believe softness means becoming incapable. I do not believe femininity means performing weakness. And I do not believe a woman must choose between being formidable and being gentle.
Both things can be true.
A woman can negotiate contracts and wear bows. She can advise boards and carry a ridiculous handbag. She can think deeply about governance and stop to admire a pink scooter. She can lead, build, earn and decide, while also giggling, decorating, resting and allowing herself to be held.
Perhaps part of becoming whole is refusing to amputate one part of ourselves in order to make another part believable.
I have spent enough of my life proving that I am capable. I know that now. I no longer need every part of my life to reinforce the argument. Some things can exist simply because they bring me joy.
And I am becoming increasingly unwilling to share intimate space with people who make me feel that my delight requires correction. People who make a spectacle of the small things that make me happy. People who think softness is unbecoming, maturity requires the abandonment of play or professionalism must always look stern.
I do not know enough about Chinese womanhood to tell you what it means to be a woman here. I only know what watching women here has awakened in me. Somewhere between the pink scooters, frilly dresses, phone charms, carefully styled hair and grown women seemingly unembarrassed by delight, I recognised another small piece of myself that I had disciplined into adulthood.
And I want her back.
Not because she is weak. Not because she is childish. Not because I want to retreat from responsibility. I want her back because she belongs to me too.
The woman who is strategic belongs to me. The woman who is serious belongs to me. The woman who leads belongs to me. And the woman who blows bubbles in the yard, buys ridiculous little charms, wears colour, laughs loudly and stops to admire a pink scooter belongs to me too.
I am allowed to be all of her.
So I will keep buying the things that make me smile. I will keep pursuing rest and choosing softness. I will keep making space for beauty, play and tenderness wherever I find them. And anyone who finds that excessive will simply have to find somewhere else to stand.
My whimsy is mine to chase. And I intend to chase it.
