Friends, gather around, I have news.
Superwoman is dead.
Buried under the pressure of other people’s expectations, she succumbed to overwhelm, exhaustion and an overdose of f*cks to give.
After decades of tormenting us mortal human women with the notion that if we just tried hard enough, we really could be all things to all people and look good doing it, she has finally, finally faded away.
Don’t send flowers. Do not shed a tear. She wouldn’t cry for you.
Superwoman had no time for such sentimental weakness, she was too busy training for a triathlon with a baby on each boob.
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No, she wouldn’t encourage you to waste time mourning. Superwoman would just tell you to get up at 4.30am for some me-time meditation before the kids wake up.
She’d tell you to spend your Sunday packing school lunches for the week, she’d suggest you do squats while you iron your children’s sheets, to get your kegels in while you're meal prepping, to bake thoughtful gluten-free cookies for the swimming teacher while you’re cutting your kids' sandwiches into star-shapes and delivering a key-note presentation to colleagues via Zoom.
Superwoman did not help us. She whispered in our ears that in everyone else’s kitchen, the third drawer down was tidy and everyone else’s bras matched their knickers.
She encouraged us to over-schedule and over-commit. She said that baby yoga was a non-negotiable, like post-natal pilates and baby-led weaning.
Superwoman had a tattoo on her bum that read, 'Want something done? Give it to a busy mum'.
And all that happened was that everything got given to a busy mum and busy mums lost their collective sh*t.
I am dancing on Superwoman’s grave. I never liked her much.