Women of all ages need to learn to take up space. Men are allowed to spread out on a train, but women are expected to shrink. Codswallop. Take up space.
The body mapping paper I chose featured the Venus figure — that ancient, rounded form of womanhood found in sculptures and artefacts thousands of years old. It felt like a thread connecting me back through time, through generations of foremothers. Those old images speak to me of the sacredness of women’s bodies and the quiet power we carry inside us, even when we don’t recognise it or know how to give it voice. But I do. That’s my thing — voice and power.
The dark outlines on my map are where my power lies. The bold, black boundaries are strong and deliberate. I used two body maps layered on top of each other — one representing the younger woman still living within me, full of energy and physical strength, and the other showing who I am now. I think it’s so important for older women to stay in touch with that inner young lass, the one with fire and confidence. She’s still there. We just have to let her breathe again.
The body keeps the score. She remembers everything — the pain, the trauma, the joy. The trick is to bring the good forward. Let her remember the fabulous things too, not just the awful ones.
On my map, I wrote that my mind belongs to me. Finding and using my voice has been a lifelong journey. I didn’t have one until I was sixteen. Before that, whenever I spoke up at home or school, I was told to shut up. I learned silence early. Safety is something I’ve never really known.
But when I was sixteen, something shifted. I discovered that voice doesn’t just come from the throat — it comes from the earth. In Hebrew, there’s a word, shvoong, that means to move forward with strong energy. That’s what finding voice feels like: not just speaking, but moving through the world with strength and presence.
I wrote across the head of my map that my lines are a record of where I’ve been. A makeup artist once told me that the lines on our faces show our journeys, and that always stayed with me. The marks on my skin are maps — lived experience carved in time.
Across my pelvis, I wrote that my body is, was, and always will be mine. For so much of my life, it wasn’t treated that way. That boundary, those bold black lines, are a reclaiming.
There are hearts scattered all over my map because I am full of love — an astonishing, endless love. I’ve endured trauma after trauma, any one of which could have undone me, and yet there’s still love. It never runs out. It just keeps growing. When I had my first child, I thought love couldn’t possibly get any bigger. Then my second came along, and it did. And then came grandchildren — and my heart grew again.
The triangle on the paper shows children playing on grass in the sunshine — a reminder of birthdays, of joy, of life underfoot. I planted flowers around my feet because I am grounded in nature. Birthdays, to me, are sacred. They are proof of survival. I was told as a child that I wouldn’t live past seven because of my asthma. Reaching seven was a miracle. Turning eighteen, after nearly dying during the Vietnam War, was another. Every birthday since has been a triumph.
I wrote again on my map: My mind belongs to me. I live with PTSD, diagnosed in 1996. When a psychiatrist offered me medication, I refused. My creativity comes from my mind, and I don’t want it dulled. I’ve learned to live with it, to tell intrusive thoughts to bugger off, to sleep despite the nightmares. My mind is still mine.
When I crumpled the paper of my body map, it felt good — strong. The texture of it, the folds and wrinkles, looked like skin that has been around. It’s old skin, lived-in skin. It felt real and empowering.
There was one question in the workshop about intimacy that confronted me. It didn’t sit right, and I’ll take that to counselling. I haven’t had a long-term partner for decades — forty-eight years, to be exact — but that doesn’t mean I haven’t known passion. In my youth I had wonderful lovers, truly special connections. One, in particular, stands out. We reunited years later, and the spark was still there, but we both knew not to reopen that door. Some experiences are so extraordinary that they become your measure for the rest of your life.
Sex, when I was young, simply wasn’t spoken of — not as good, not as bad. It just didn’t exist in conversation. And maybe that was a blessing. In the religion I grew up with, sex was seen as sacred, a celebration, not a sin. I feel for women who were raised to see it as shameful — what a cruel burden.
Reflections on the workshop
I have strong views about how older women are seen — or not seen. The clothing made for us is often drab and beige, designed to make us disappear. I won’t have it. If you wear colours that tell the world to look away, why be surprised when it does? I paint my own clothes, using fabric paints to show who I am. Women need to learn to take up space. Men can spread out on trains, but women are taught to fold themselves smaller and smaller. To that I say — codswallop! Take up your space. Fill it.
Over time, we’re trained to shrink — clutching our bags close, crossing our legs, keeping still. But the smaller we make ourselves, the smaller we feel. It takes effort to expand again, but it’s worth it. We do not have to become invisible little old ladies. There’s power and vitality in us still.
The Body Mapping workshop reminded me of that. It gave me a place to be with my body, to sit among other women who had their own stories and scars. I wasn’t alone with my body stuff anymore. We felt things together, in a space of understanding and support. It was empowering, and it was enabling.
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