She Understands Its Power

Before she even understands her anatomy, she  understands its power. Not as freedom—but as leverage.

From an early age, many girls are taught that their bodies are not truly theirs. Long before they can name their parts, they know how the world reacts to them. Not with reverence—but with entitlement. With evaluation. With control.

She learns that her body can be a tool. A trade. A weapon. A game.

She picks it up subtly at first—in how grown men look too long, in how adults scold her for being “too grown” rather than asking why someone was looking. She notices how beauty is praised, while boundary-setting is labeled rude. She learns that a soft voice gets her further than a strong one, and that modesty isn’t about dignity—it’s about safety.

She watches as the women around her navigate the same system. Some play the game well, using their looks to gain access, affection, or approval. Others lose for refusing to play at all. The lesson sticks, her worth will be measured not by who she is, but by how she’s seen.

She internalizes this. And over time, it becomes strategy.

She learns that a certain smile can defuse tension. That flirting can feel like protection. That silence, at times, is safer than truth. She learns that her curves can command attention, even if it’s the wrong kind. That attention often masquerades as affection—and without affection, a girl feels invisible.

So she adapts. She learns how to move in a room like it’s a stage. How to dress to impress without inviting danger. How to speak just enough to be liked, but not enough to be labeled. She becomes fluent in contradiction—desired but not demanding, beautiful but not bold, sexual but not sexualized.

And ————————when that attention hurts—when it becomes hands that don’t ask, words that wound, comments that claim—she doesn’t always know how to say no. Because for years, the world has trained her that this is what her body is for.

Eventually, she may begin to use it too. To get the job. To stay safe. To hold the affection of someone who doesn’t really see her. Not because she’s manipulative—but because she’s surviving in a system that taught her this was her only form of power.

The tragedy is not just that she learns to use her body like a tool. It’s that she forgets she was ever anything more.

But beneath the performance, beneath the practiced smiles and carefully calculated charm, a voice remains. Quiet, almost drowned out, but steady. 

It whispers, What would it feel like to be wanted without being used?  What would it mean to belong completely to myself?

She may not know the answers yet—but one day, she might.