So I shouted

We moved through the streets, side by side.

We held our signs high, yesterday’s cereal boxes and amazon parcels, now newly painted with messages we needed the world to hear. Some were messages of hope and solidarity for the future and some, well, some were the grim statistics of the present, the horrifying facts and figures about us and what we endure. No sugar coating. I wondered how many of us were buried in those numbers.

So I held my sign higher.

We chanted to the rhythm of a woman, whose voice was much younger than mine and my eyes welled with tears as I wished I’d shouted sooner to make a difference, to be counted, to be heard as part of this one voice, against a patriarchy who can turn on us at any time, just because they can.

So I sang louder.

We marched on together, one foot in front of the other. In a world where there has never been a more treacherous time to be a woman, I felt safe in this moment, walking these same streets I never would if it was dark and I was alone.

So I walked taller.

We carried each other along in an invisible space that was almost tangible, secure that we had each other’s backs, while all the time showing the world we are a powerful force. That thing that women do when we have had enough.

So I shouted more.

I looked to my side to see my daughter, tears rolling down her young face, overwhelmed with emotion, but still trying to sing. So much to shout about already, yet her voice is still quiet.

So I shouted as loud as I could for her.

We were all putting one foot in front of the other marching towards whatever the future is.

So I shouted for all of us.