#i think its funny that all my life i’d spend sunrise to sunset swimming or playing outside

[isabellestillman]

Strong (In)Dependent Woman

From an evolutionary perspective, humans are not meant to be alone. Darwin and our seventh-grade science teachers would have us recall that the foremost objective of any living thing is to procreate. Our species requires the meeting of two distinct individuals to do so: we need a second human to survive.

From the perspective of my elite, liberal, feminist upbringing, a young woman ought to survive on her own. In my world, engagements before age 25 are met with shock if not opprobrium, breaking up with him is encouraged in favor of “doing you,” career-based choices are lauded over those that prioritize relationships. ‘Survival,’ in my case, often seems synonymous with ‘self-reliance.’

Run fast, be smart, get dirty, eat what you want—and don’t ever think you need a man to make you whole: it’s a crucial set of tips, an education in womanhood of which too many girls and women are deprived. It’s one that I’ve taken seriously throughout my adolescence. But having internalized its expectations of autonomy, I’ve begun to scold myself for longing, for loneliness, for the slightest whiff of dependence.

It is this capacity to scold that I now question.

Will was my blind date to a wine-and-cheese dorm party my junior year of college: an unfamiliar face with mountain-man hair, his gangly frame swimming in a sport coat, paired perfectly with beat-up trail running shoes. It was a first sight thing. That night we didn’t leave our corner of the room once. We traded thoughts on the Green Mountains and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, privilege and justice, the scenes at the tables where we’d grown up eating dinner.

The next week, we went for burgers and beers in town. Four days later, I wrote in my journal, “Something I know for sure: I am falling in love.” From then on, we saw each other every day. We’d drive down dirt roads to catch sunsets and eat pancakes in bed and try to figure out how to be good in the world.

We were so different; that was what drew me in. I craved something other, something to shatter the carefully sculpted perspectives I’d held for the first two decades of my life. Will challenged me, his mind full of questions I’d never wondered and convictions I’d never entertained. I was spellbound by his way of seeing the world, hungry for the way he made me eat away at my own beliefs. For a while, I thought that was what it meant to find a partner.  

But over time, our differences began to wear, revealing themselves not just as day-to-day misunderstandings but as existential crises. Little things at first: Will was a minimalist, the owner of roughly five shirts, a couple pairs of shorts, and a laptop from 2007. I like clothes (whatever!), enjoy dinner out, spent $30 on Amazon for a poster to hang in my dorm. The first winter of our relationship, I bought a new sweater. I wore it to his house and waited in his bathroom, talking to him through the curtain as he finished showering with his simple bar of soap. I caught my reflection in the mirror—the sweater suddenly egregiously bright—and felt immediately sick to my stomach: You don’t need this sweater, or any of the countless things you have. You’re wasteful and spoiled. Your priorities are all off. What is wrong with you?

Maybe you know the feeling–when minor lifestyle choices bear the weight of character traits, criteria for judgment. Will managed to keep his world view consistent down to the last detail—living only on bread and peanut butter, listening only to music with ‘real’ messages, keeping as much distance from his phone as possible. And, in contrast, I was shallow, asinine, silly, out of touch with the systems and structures of the world.

It was more than just wardrobe choices. It was Big Ideas About How To Live: my drive to change the world and his fear of unbridled ambition; my need for light-hearted frivolity, his reading of my laid-backness as a failure to scrutinize my surroundings; my trusting of certain ideas, his only constant being skepticism.

As these chasms grew, my strength depleted. And the same person who made me question my worth was the one I turned to for affirmation. If Will couldn’t spend the afternoon with me, I wondered what it meant and begged him to assure me it was nothing. When I felt unseen or inferior, I would escape to his dorm room to feel his hands in my hair, the band-aid of physical touch. I could never hear the words “I love you” enough. I needed him to say I was smart, insightful, vibrant: that he loved me even with my flaws. I needed him to tell me I was good.

It ended almost as suddenly as it started. A phone call three months after graduation. And soon, I began to wonder if my ‘flaws’ had really been flaws at all.

That summer, I moved to Boston to get my Masters in Education, knowing that what I needed to work on was being good enough for myself.

And it worked.

I became the strong independent woman my upbringing had enshrined. I got a 4.0 GPA at Harvard, took on double the required teaching load, created a new social circle, read and wrote more than I had in years. I got drinks and kissed by the Charles and met people’s friends and sometimes stayed the night. I dated around.

In the midst of all this, my best friend broke up with her long-term boyfriend. It was a long time coming, but nonetheless sad, difficult and dark. It was also, as our group of girlfriends agreed, a great time for Zoey to “work on herself.” “Time to do you,” we said. “Time to become the strong independent woman you envisioned when you made this decision.” Plant a garden, we suggested. Make a scrapbook, join a soccer league, play poker, paint. Make yourself happy. Be independent.

It was funny, hearing myself counsel Zooey. So convinced that I knew what she needed—to do things that ‘made her independent’—advising her with ostensible confidence, but never quite sure how, exactly, I’d arrived at my own self-discovery. I’d certainly tried to learn to cook, to train for a half marathon, to finish the Sunday crossword, to skateboard. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t these things that had gotten me where I was.

I was afraid, when Daniel came along that February, that I hadn’t yet solidified my independence, that I was still vulnerable to other people’s ideas of what would make me ‘good.’ But as we spent more time together, that fear sort of dropped away. Eventually it stopped occurring to me at all, because with Daniel I never felt like there were expectations. I felt like my own self, at my very best. The most perceptive observer, eagerest listener, funniest banterer, caringest ally, cleverest referencer, insightfulest reflector, outgoingest adventurer, sweetest lover: peak Isabeller. Not because I was trying. Because Daniel somehow brought it out.

In the spring of 2017, I got a job teaching at a school I believed in, in Denver, which I knew would suit me better than Boston. I didn’t want to leave Daniel, but in my strong independent heart I knew better than to base a career choice on some guy I’d been dating a few months. Even if I did suspect, as I still do, that he might be the guy. As my friends, family, and culture had taught me, I sided with my strong independent woman self.

It was a tearful (sobful, really) sunrise parting, imbued with the understanding that staying together would be essentially impossible. He was a third-year medical student, I a first-year teacher, the number of three-day weekends sub-three, the distance a seven-hour, two-thousand-mile journey.

I pushed. I said, “Let’s leave the option open,” and, “It might be worth a try.” He smiled noncommittally, saying it didn’t make sense, that it would be more pain-inducing than joyful. The rational side of me saw his reasoning as legitimate. The strong independent side of me saw single life as ‘the right thing’ for me. But the feeling side of me still believed that it was possible. That when something makes you feel like the best you, holding on makes the most sense.

Now, lying on the floor of my new, empty apartment, my mind rings, “I need you.” And in some ways, I do. I need people in my life who inspire me. I need to laugh often, which we did. I need places where I know my best self comes standard. Just like I need these things from my friends. Why is it that different to need from a partner? Why is it that different to need from a man, a lover?

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If you have a minute, Google “strong independent woman”: the how-to’s are endless, not to mention simple, degrading, sexist, and frankly absurd. (My personal favorite: lovepanky.com’s “How to be a Strong Independent Woman that Men Love.”)

Our society puts so much value on independence: make your own choices, discover your own happiness. Look in the mirror and say, “I look fly in this sweater, and I’m keeping it!” It sounds empowering. But it’s just another “women should ____.” A sexist expectation. A pigeonhole that’s exhausting at best, inhuman at worst. Being human means at least sometimes reveling in relying on others, in the beauty of finding your best self with other people—in a dependence that secures your survival, rather than threatens it.

I’m working on a theory of two kinds of dependence: in type one dependence, we rely on others to make ourselves believe we are good and worthy. In type two dependence, we rely on others because with them, we simply are that way. The fine line between the two gets lost easily in the fog of romantic feelings.  

It’s only a hypothesis, with a mere 23 years of evidence behind it, but it passes the common sense test. A woman’s choice of whether and how to depend should be just that: hers.