Womanhood, braids in orbit, and the right to take up space
On June 30th, I wore two braids to work.
Before I left that morning, my partner called me a nerd for it – probably rightfully so. I had braided my hair because, a few hours later that same day, Jessica Meir would step out of a hatch 400 kilometers above Earth and begin a spacewalk wearing that very same hairstyle.
I had done it another time, ~three months prior, when Christina Koch had worn that same hairstyle aboard a small spacecraft that carried her farther out than any woman had ever been.
I was not going to space. I was not preparing for a mission. I was not stepping out of a spacecraft with Earth beneath me and history around me. I was simply going to my corporate job, to sit at my desk.
But still, it felt important to me to wear braids.
I have always loved braiding hair - both my own and other people’s. It has always been a wonderful way to connect with other girls and women. So, when two incredible women, doing work that was technical, dangerous, historic, and extraordinary, also wore braids, it felt like a way for me to show solidarity. A kind of shared womanhood.
For them, the braid was something as simple as a tool. Something that made it easier to do the work they had to do. But in that simplicity, it became something bigger.
It was unapologetically woman.
Even though I originally braided my hair that morning because, deep down, I am a massive nerd who loves when women are amazing, the braids also ended up taking on a personal meaning for me.
You see, a few days later, I had a conversation at work that left me exhausted.
It was one of those conversations that begins as a discussion about something someone is passionate about and slowly turns into something heavier. A conversation about equality, inclusion, and equal access, that was treated as topics that can be casually debated. A conversation where the lives and possibilities of minorities are discussed as if making room for us is a burden, a risk, or an unfair advantage.
For some people, a conversation like that may simply be an exchange of opinions over lunch.
For me, it is not that simple. For me, it touches something far more personal.
I know what it is like to live on different terms. I know what it is like to need special considerations, accommodation, or extra possibilities in order to do the things I love. I know what it is like when other people look at those possibilities and see privileges, while what I am actually trying to do is simply participate.
And although the life and experiences I am describing here do not, in themselves, have anything to do with being a woman, they are still transferable to womanhood.
Because women do not fit into the standard conditions either. For a woman, it can mean having to navigate systems, norms, and workspaces that were historically built around men - and where demands for equal opportunities are often mistaken for special treatment.
When the world is built around one particular standard, everything that is necessary for others to participate can easily start to look like “extra privileges” instead of access to equal terms.
That is why women are told, again and again, to tone themselves down in order to be taken seriously. To be less soft. Less emotional. Less feminine. Less angry. Less demanding. Less complicated.
So, lunch that day made me tired.
Because I am tired of arguing for why everyone has the right to do what they love. I am tired of defending the idea that different terms do not mean unfair terms. I am tired of people treating access as if it is a favor rather than a condition for equality.
It is the familiar weight of sitting there and realizing that, for some people, equality is still theoretical. Something to discuss. Something to measure. Something to fear might “go too far.”
But for others, equality is practical.
It is about whether you can enter the room. Whether you can stay there. Whether you can do your work. Whether you can participate in what you love. Whether the world will let you be present without treating your presence as a complication.
That is why the braid matters to me.
Because even though the braid is practical, first Koch and then Meir, made it a symbol that people like us have a place in spaces where we were not previously allowed to belong.
After that conversation, I braided my hair again.
Not because I felt strong. Not because I felt optimistic. Not because a braid gave me renewed energy. I braided it because I needed to remind myself that I am not alone.
There is a woman 400 kilometers above Earth who wore braids just the other day. And there is a woman who wore braids, whilst flying to the moon.
There are women who have reached places that were not built for them and still brought themselves with them.
And no, neither my office job nor my lunch conversation was a spacewalk. My ordinary life is not a mission being monitored from the ground. But still, the connection matters to me.
Because there is something deeply moving about knowing that somewhere above Earth, a woman can wear braids while doing something extraordinary.
There is something deeply moving about knowing that another woman once carried the same ordinary, feminine, practical thing farther than something like it had ever gone before.
There is something moving about the fact that neither of them had to become less woman in order to do it.
They could be brilliant and braided. Technical and tender. Prepared and feminine. Serious and soft. Unapologetically women.
I needed to remember that I am not the only one trying to do difficult things on different terms. I needed to remember that there are other women, other fighters, other tired people, who keep showing up in whatever way they can.
Some of them show up in thoughtful messages and comments on the internet. Others show up in courtrooms, classrooms, hospitals, offices, volunteer organizations and protests.
Two of them showed up 400 kilometers above Earth and in deep space.
And some days, they show up on my head at my deskjob. Not because it is enough. But because it is something.
A small act of defiance. A quiet reminder. A way of carrying the knowledge that I am tired, yes, but not alone.
