Every March 8, people celebrate International Women’s Day, a commemoration of women’s many, many, many incredible accomplishments. But International Women’s Day can also be a stark reminder of just how far we have to go when it comes to reaching true equality for all women.
In this ongoing quest for empowerment, equality, and embracing feminism, we’re all bound to make a few missteps along the way. But there’s one glaring oversight that keeps showing up, whether it’s in feminist memes, women’s march merchandise, or actual legislation: using specific anatomy to characterize what it means to be a woman.
Having a uterus—or vagina, for that matter—is not a prerequisite for being a woman, and it shouldn’t be a prerequisite for participating in and benefiting from the conversation around women’s rights. Holding on to that tired belief further stigmatizes and negates the experiences of women whose anatomy varies somewhat (or a lot) from whatever we’ve historically deemed as biologically female.
Here, three women share why being a woman is about so much more than the sum of their parts.
“When I was was 16, I was diagnosed with Mayer-Rokitansky-Küster-Hauser (MRKH) syndrome. My uterus was so severely underdeveloped, it would never carry a child, and I needed to have a medical procedure to create a vaginal canal. My definition of what it meant to be a woman evaporated.
Prior to that day, I’d associated being a woman with motherhood, with having a period, a uterus, and a vagina. Now I was asking myself questions like, Am I a woman? Isn’t having a uterus the very definition of womanhood?
I had a great team of physicians and ended up having a choice between dilation or surgery to have a vagina. I chose surgery, and my vagina works really well. I've had a great sex life, but I went through phases where I felt like I wasn't worthy because I couldn’t have children.
I eventually earned a Ph.D. in human genetics, and understanding the roots of MRKH helped me to accept this diagnosis. As I progressed through academia, I met many women who forged fulfilling, happy lives without having children, so I had role models to show me that being a woman encompassed many different options. Being different because of MRKH has allowed me to live life on my own terms. I’ve been able to travel and develop activities I like to do; I’m a big snorkeler.
I also started going to counseling. My counselor told me it was OK to grieve for my unborn babies, and that was helpful. I didn’t think I deserved that because I didn’t have a miscarriage or anything, but she gave me permission.
After I started the Beautiful You MRKH Foundation with Christina Martin, a woman I met in an online MRKH support group, I realized the foundation was my child. I poured my heart and soul into it. Now I continue to mentor people in the MRKH community and work hard to increase awareness, provide support, and improve health care for all affected by MRKH.”
Lossie, 50, is president and CEO of Beautiful You MRKH Foundation
“I never ‘came out’ as trans. I’ve always identified as someone who transcends gender norms, even when I may not have had the language. Having a supportive family and community was transformative for me in being able to navigate societal issues that impact the lives of black trans women, like harassment, sexual assault, and discrimination.
There are misconceptions that black trans women are out here manipulating men and being ‘deceptive.’ This whole idea of deception is rooted in thinking that women are here to satisfy men. Women are not here for the gratification of men. Women exist to be who we are and fulfill whatever our dreams are, whether or not that includes men, whether or not that includes children.
We’re not defined by our body parts. What it means to be a woman or man is not exclusive to physical anatomy. Womanhood and manhood are social constructs that have changed over time.
I really don’t care what other people think about my identity as a black trans woman. I tend not to engage with people who think I don’t have a right to exist. That’s just wasted energy for me. If I encounter someone who’s transphobic, I know how to turn around and go the other way. At 42 years old, I know I’m already living longer than many trans women of color. At any moment, my mother could receive a phone call to come and identify my body.
I don’t let that fear consume me, because I have a greater purpose in this world: living unapologetically and unabashedly in my truth. I’m educated: You can’t come to me with an argument about my identity. I already know who I am. I am a woman, but I’m a person first. Being acknowledged as a human is really core to me.”
Hunter, 42, is executive director of TransWomen of Color Collective and is currently pursuing another doctoral degree at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C.
“After I had my daughter at 25, my adenomyosis hit the fan. I went from having largely asymptomatic adenomyosis, which is when endometrial tissue grows into the uterine wall, to being severely symptomatic. My decision to get a hysterectomy came in the middle of the night. I felt like I was going into labor, but I wasn’t pregnant. The pain with adenomyosis was exactly the same as the labor-like contractions I felt when giving birth to my daughter without pain management.
My husband and I were done having children, so I decided to get a total hysterectomy to remove my uterus and cervix. They also removed my fallopian tubes. I kept both of my ovaries, which three years later are still functioning very well. I was able to resolve my uterine issue while not having to deal with early menopause.
I believed that because I was 100 percent done having children, I would be just fine losing my fertility. But after my hysterectomy, this emotional wall came crashing down. When I saw a friend’s pregnancy announcement, I was devastated. I was happy for her but upset I would never go through that again, even though I didn’t actually want more kids. I also felt a bit of a sense of loss in regard to my uterus, since that was my daughter’s first home.
And then there were the unsolicited comments from other people. I don’t know when reproductive plans became acceptable to ask about, but I was fielding questions like 'When are you having another?' all while recovering from this hysterectomy. At the time, I would just lose it and say, 'I can’t have more kids.'
Ultimately I realized it was the loss of choice that really got to me. As time went on, I came to terms with it. Now when people ask when we’re having more kids, I’ll just laugh and say, ‘We’re trying, but between the vasectomy and the hysterectomy, we’re just not getting pregnant!’
I know some women who won’t have hysterectomies, no matter how many days a month they spend curled up in the fetal position with a heating pad, because they think it will make them less of a woman. I don’t ever want to diminish the way someone feels. I have empathy for them, but I have never felt like less of a woman because I don’t have a uterus.
My uterus was ruining every part of my life. I couldn’t go to the bathroom without pain. I couldn’t have sex without pain. Now I don’t have to worry I’m going to bleed massive blood clots through my clothes. I don’t have to worry about my bathroom looking like a murder scene. I don’t have to pack what most people would consider a lifetime supply of feminine products to go on vacation. My uterus was dictating my life. Having all of that gone has been liberating. I’m definitely not less of a woman. I’m a healthier woman.”
Gibson, 28, is a women’s health advocate in Huntsville, Alabama
Quotes have been edited and condensed.
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