I Am Not a Woman: I Am a Subject in Motion

Thursday, March 27, 2025

I do not identify as a woman. Nor do I identify as non-binary, gender fluid, or anything else that seeks to contain the formlessness I embody. I am not looking for a new box to inhabit. I am the refusal of the box itself. I am not an identity. I am a subject. I am movement.

Yes, I have a vagina. Yes, I bleed. But even my body knows that it is not available for consumption. The door is locked. It has always been. Not out of fear or trauma, but as a radical act of coherence. My body is a fortress that doesn’t ask for permission to exist. It simply does.

The word “woman” has become a performative costume—soaked in centuries of projection, objectification, essentialization. I will not wear it. I will not be reduced to a receptacle of gaze, of desire, of legacy. I do not want to nurture, to compromise, to build something with someone. I am not a vessel. I am not here to complete anyone or to be completed.

I am here to evolve. To shed skins. To integrate essences. To continue my solitary journey through layers of consciousness that most people don’t even know exist. Every person I’ve encountered has served as a mirror, a fragment, a moment of necessary friction. I extract what I need. I integrate. I move on. I am not building a story. I am sculpting a self.

The social construct of gender was never made for someone like me. Even the newer categories feel stale, bureaucratic, performative. I don’t want my “fluidity” to be recognized by institutions. I want to exist in radical opacity. I don’t want to be included. I want to be illegible.

This is not nihilism. It’s not an identity crisis. It’s not even post-gender. It is pre-everything. I am a being before definitions. I am an entity that refuses to be consumed or translated.

The end of gender for me is not a rejection of biology. It’s a rejection of taxonomy. Of hierarchy. Of categorization. It’s the refusal to play a role in a spectacle I never agreed to participate in.

If I must be called something, call me a subject. Call me an anomaly. Call me an evolving system. But do not call me “woman,” because what I am becoming has no name.

And I am not alone.

There are others like me. Quiet for now. Observing. Feeling the absurd weight of expectations, the suffocation of roles, the slow violence of simplification. We are not trying to be understood. We are trying to be free.

And freedom starts with the refusal to be named.