And My Favorite Kind Of Women! Poem by Emtiaz Anwar

My favorite kind of women have never been particularly easy.

They are too outspoken.
Too honest.
Too unwilling to smile when something is wrong.

They question things the rest of us have quietly learned to accept.
They notice the unfairness.
They say something when someone is being treated badly.


And somehow, they find the courage to say out loud what everyone else was only brave enough to think.
At work, they can be sharp-tongued.


Stubborn.
Occasionally impossible.
And, if we're being honest, sometimes an absolute pain.

But they are also the ones who make ordinary days feel like memories before you even realize they are becoming them.

The chai breaks that turn into long conversations.
The laughter between deadlines.
The little arguments forgotten by lunchtime.
The ridiculous jokes that make no sense to anyone else.

The moments that seemed so ordinary then,
and somehow become precious later.
Back then, we were simply colleagues.

We complained about work.
Counted the hours.
Waited for weekends.

We never stopped to think that one day,
we would miss these very ordinary days.
Now, when I think of her,

I don't remember the difficult part.
I remember the woman with teeth.

Wild enough to speak.
Soft enough to care.

Brave enough to make a little trouble when trouble needed making.
Maybe some women aren't difficult.

Maybe they simply refuse to become smaller
so everyone else can stay comfortable.

They don't always say things gently.
They don't always make themselves agreeable.

They don't always fit into the version of a woman the world finds convenient.
But they are alive in a way that is impossible to ignore.

They make you laugh.
They make you think.
They challenge you.
They annoy you.

They stand beside you.
And sometimes, without either of you realizing it,

They become part of the story you will carry long after the chapter is over.

Those are my favorite kind of women.

The ones who speak when silence would be easier.
Who care enough to confront.
Who refuse to look away.

Who laugh too loudly,
love too fiercely,

and take up exactly as much space as their truth requires.
The women who were called difficult

when what they really were
was unwilling to disappear.

And perhaps that is why,

years later,

I don't remember what made them difficult.

I remember how much brighter the room felt when they were in it.

And how strangely quiet it became

when they left.

Those are my favorite kind of women.