“Don’t hit like a wimp. Put your hips into it.”
I glance up from my punching bag. The man addressing me isn’t my instructor, and I have no idea who he is. With a pointed look, he demonstrates the right technique by delivering a solid punch to the heavy bag, which shakes violently.
I catch a glimpse of him while trying to absorb the lesson; I genuinely want to learn how to strike with full force. Yet, the term “pussy” resonates uncomfortably, amplifying my feelings of vulnerability. I lower my gloved hands, feeling the heavy bag still swaying on its chains.
Before my daughter was born, I rarely pondered the implications of the word “pussy”—especially as a term meant to insult masculinity or imply female weakness. However, motherhood heightened my sensitivity to such slights.
In my own experience, I brought a tiny human into this world through that very anatomy. And I can assure you, it’s not fragile—my “pussy,” if you will. I could likely do it again if I wished. Not to boast, but I think my “pussy” is pretty remarkable. All “pussies” are, as I challenge anyone to find another part of the human body—male or female—that is as resilient, with perhaps the exception of the uterus.
Think about it.
Although the word “pussy” typically refers to female genitalia—both external and internal—its derogatory use implies weakness. This is an example of synecdoche: a part representing the whole. When “pussy” is associated with powerlessness, it suggests that the entire woman is similarly diminished. Now, let’s clarify that anatomy does not define gender; there are women without vaginas and men with them. However, using “pussy” as an insult aims to belittle all women and anyone with such anatomy.
I believe that giving birth is one of the most formidable challenges a “pussy” can undertake. While I often hear about women “voting with their vaginas,” which sounds like a challenge too, I digress. The act of bringing a child into the world is not for the timid. It’s a remarkable display of strength, endurance, faith, bravery, and love.
Personally, I have never felt as empowered as I did during my daughter’s birth. It was the one moment in my life where I achieved something that seemed utterly impossible, driven by sheer will and, well, biological science. On that same day, more than 300,000 women around the globe were accomplishing this extraordinary feat, most of them also using their vaginas.
Incredible.
I would never equate motherhood with womanhood because that’s simply not true. Nor would I ever downplay the various ways to become a mother that don’t involve childbirth. So, let’s set birth aside for now; “pussies” are meant to do all sorts of things, primarily whatever their owners decide. And none of these activities are about powerlessness. Many of the things “pussies” can do involve blood, pain, passion, love, pleasure, and strength.
It’s arguably the incredible and mysterious strength of female anatomy that draws constant attempts to belittle, distort, legislate, and appropriate this power. This includes depictions of women in labor as desperate for medication, or discussions about which parts of women’s bodies are acceptable to show and under what circumstances (essentially, male visual pleasure = good; feeding babies = bad). It also encompasses limiting access to birth control and safe abortions.
Moreover, women frequently endure abuse from men who claim to love them, and societal notions of female sexual purity still lead to devastating consequences—both metaphorically and literally. Young women are often taught to prevent sexual violence, while young men aren’t adequately educated about consent.
Women’s power is repeatedly challenged, and maintaining it demands immense strength. For me, all of this crystallizes around that seemingly innocuous insult: “Pussy. Don’t be a pussy.”
Now, I’m not here to insult male anatomy, as I appreciate the penis. It might not be a vagina, but it’s pretty impressive too (and I wouldn’t want to scare anyone). Instead, I think we should celebrate all our bodies as amazing, miraculous creations. Each of us has a body that performs extraordinary feats and deserves recognition.
I don’t need to undermine anyone else to assert my own strength. But I won’t shy away from claiming it.
So, I turn back to my punching bag, dismissing the man’s remarks. I raise my gloves and focus on my strikes. My hair sticks to the sweat on my chest and back as I repeat the rhythm: one, two, slip, two, body, body. I can feel one of my nails break inside my glove, but I keep swinging.
I chant to myself over and over: Hit harder. Punch. Punch like a “pussy.”