Ahead of International Women’s Day tomorrow, Michelle Duff writes that sometimes resistance is getting out on the streets protesting, or pushing for law change, but other times the answer is closer to home. 

The dancing, rollerskating girls of Lyall Bay make their way to school in a pack, the gang doubling in size as they go. Their hair flies behind them, their bags dangle with charms, they wear flares and short shorts and oversized sweatshirts and baggy jeans. Sometimes they hang on to each other, making a long chain that means you have to squeeze by on the other side, and you might get a “hi” and a smile, or they might be having so much fun they won’t notice you.

On a recent weekday, after they’d been to a disco, one of them was telling a story. A boy their age had appeared at school on Monday, downtrodden. He’d liked one of the girls, but she’d rejected him. “She said he was a walking red flag,” said the girl, before prancing off to practice her dance routine, in the lounge, where everyone was watching.

I love these girls. Every time I see one, or talk to them, they make me smile, for who they are and for everything they represent; freedom, joy in friendship and in their bodies, reaching out to the world and moving through it with confidence, without shame, for having each other’s backs.

Don’t worry, this story doesn’t have a twist; I’m not going to say that seeing them also tugs at my heart a little, makes me remember a time before I grew up that much more – at intermediate, say, or high school – and encountered callousness, or started to realise the expectations of me were different, that the ceiling was just a little bit higher, or made of glass, or that I had to try and do the same tricks as the boys but wearing leg-irons and a skirt.

I could go down that road, quote a whole bunch of examples about how fucked up the world still is for women and girls [insert sexual and domestic violence statistics, and studies suggesting views on women’s rights are regressing] and how even when we know it’s bad, it turns out the rot goes way beyond the surface [insert multiple case studies from Epstein files], or how being a woman and especially a woman of colour in public office paints a target on your back [insert misinformation and blame targeting Wellington Central MP Tamatha Paul during Moa Point catastrophe], but do you know what? Not today.

Today, those girls represent our kick-arse future. Today, on International Women’s Day, I am going to engage in a ritual I’ve just made up, which will henceforth be known as the Very Feminist Practice (of enjoying the moments that make you happy) [VFP] and letting all those fools who try to bring you down fade away. It’s an exercise in self-care, on a day you can guarantee stuff-all men will be worrying about how far we’ve come.

Here’s my VFP:

1. Last week, I took the day off, lay on the couch with my new puppy, and watched the Olympics closing ceremony, with the highlights of Zoi Sadowski-Synnott carving up in the snowboarding. I ate a lot of salty chips.
2. I started lifting weights at a gym with a bunch of super-friendly wāhine, who encouraged my fledgling efforts with gentle words and smiles.
3. I went to see a cabaret show at the Aotearoa New Zealand Festival of the Arts, which featured a hilarious, sexy clown monkey and a bunch of electric performers from House of Marama, who lit up the stage. Started googling leotards.
4. I cuddled my 10-year-old son, who wanted to know what cancer was and why people die from it, and what that might feel like. It was scary, but we talked, and as we talked it got less scary, and then we fell asleep together.
5. I stood shivering by Titahi Bay beach, thinking about pulling out of the surf comp I’d entered. Then another woman and I got talking, and we were in the same heat, so we giggled about being nervous and vowed to look out for each other. Bobbing in the choppy surf with the other two competitors, we cheered each other on, and I even caught a wave.

The world at large can be a lot. But the longer I’ve been at this being alive game, the more I think resistance doesn’t just look like being out on the streets protesting, or pushing for law change, or engaging with every single news story that flashes up on your phone. It also looks like being present for those you love, choosing to surround yourself with people who get you and who care too, and choosing the moments to educate and learn when you can. It looks like the radical act of loving yourself.

Basically, what all this boils down to is, you’re awesome.