A quiet reflection for National Women’s History Month
March is here.
The calendar turns the way it always does — steady, without asking whether we are rested enough for what comes next. And in this country, March is known as National Women’s History Month.
I say that carefully.
Not like a slogan. Not like an announcement. But like a pause.
Because months are strange containers. Thirty-one squares pretending they can hold something as large as labor. As endurance. As love that keeps showing up even when it is tired.
Still.
A month can be a reminder.
Not because women only matter in March.
But because the world moves fast, and steadiness rarely advertises itself.
The first women in our lives — most of us meet them before we have language — were steady long before we knew how to say thank you.
They were shelter before we understood safety.
They were rhythm before we understood routine.
They were hands before we understood what help was.
Before we knew what a home was, they were building one around us.
They taught us without calling it teaching.
Fed us without announcing it.
Cleaned us without asking for applause.
Clothed us before we ever understood dignity.
We were dependent on them for everything.
And we didn’t even know how to feel grateful yet.
We were just living in the care, as if care were the natural law of the universe.
Then we grew.
And somewhere in that growing, we began treating care like background noise. Like the lights that turn on when you flip a switch. Like the meal that appears because it “always does.”
But it always does because someone always did.
There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being the person everyone depends on. The one who keeps track of the appointments. The groceries. The moods in the room. The missing socks. The quiet disappointments no one else noticed.
The one who knows what everyone needs before they say it.
That’s not personality.
That’s labor.
And too much of it has been treated like it isn’t work at all — just what women do. As if womanhood comes with an invisible timecard that never stops.
I’ve seen it most clearly in kitchens.
Not staged kitchens. Not curated kitchens.
Real ones.
Counters with scratches. Cabinets that don’t close right. A stove that has witnessed arguments, laughter, silence, and reconciliation. The kind of kitchen where a pot can be both dinner and prayer.
Women have been feeding the world from rooms like that for a long time.
Feeding children.
Feeding partners.
Feeding elders.
Feeding neighbors.
Feeding grief.
Feeding celebration.
Feeding the day so it doesn’t collapse.
Sometimes the meal was love made visible.
Sometimes it was survival.
Often it was both.
And if you grew up in certain neighborhoods, you learned early that the women weren’t just mothers.
They were infrastructure.
The ones who knew which kid hadn’t eaten. Which one needed a ride? Which one needed correction? Which one needed quiet protection?
Communities run on that kind of unseen steadiness.
The older you get, the more you realize something uncomfortable:
You survived partly because of someone else’s quiet sacrifice.
Because somewhere along the way, a woman with too little decided to stretch herself further.
That kind of care is not soft.
It is disciplined.
It is showing up again.
And again.
And again.
Even when nobody says thank you.
Even when nobody is watching.
Even when the world keeps moving and expects her to keep up.
I understand the danger of months like this. They can become symbolic gestures. Flowers are handed out like they substitute for respect. Posts that evaporate by morning.
But I also know this:
People need moments.
Not because love needs a calendar to exist — but because human beings are not always good at receiving what they deserve without being invited to.
Sometimes a month gives us permission to say what should have been said all along.
If you have a woman in your life who helped raise you — mother, grandmother, auntie, sister, neighbor — someone who did the early work of keeping you alive — consider this your invitation.
She may not need grand gestures.
She may need recognition that feels real.
A phone call that isn’t rushed.
A thank you that isn’t followed by another request.
A moment where you say plainly:
I see what you did.
I see what you still do.
And I don’t take it for granted.
The world will keep trying to make her work feel normal enough to ignore.
Don’t help the world.
Let March be what it can be: a reminder.
Not that women are only worthy now.
But we are now capable of being more intentional.
We don’t have to wait for a holiday to practice gratitude.
But if the calendar offers a doorway, we can walk through it.
Slowly.
On purpose.
Because some of us are here because a woman refused to let us fall.
Steady.
Even when tired.
Kyle J. Hayes
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