I am born to a generation where if I said to my peers, “Question…” the most likely response would be “…tell me what you think about me”. The lyrics of Destiny’s Child’s Independent Women Part I are the equivalent to The Lord’s Prayer for millennial women. The gospel according to every female figure that has been heralded as the saviour of our sex is that we not only can do it on our own, but should do it on our own. A by-product of the pop culture that raised us, being an independent woman – financially, emotionally, practically – was the ultimate badge of honour.
I have lived by this code my entire adult life, I have identified as an independent woman (not just because I live alone) and I have viscerally baulked at the idea of being dependent on someone else. It’s me, myself and I, but after a series of unfortunate events I am beginning to question it all.
In a moment of absent-mindedness, I left my house for a hot girl walk (the activity of choice for independent girlies) and locked myself out in freezing cold temperatures. As soon as I had shut the door, I knew I had done it, but it was too late – all I could do was try and fix the problem myself. Three hours of jogging on the spot, countless calls to locksmiths and a mild case of frostbite later, I was rescued by a man that clearly saw ‘mug’ written across my forehead. With a £450 bill (see mug), I was through the front door confronted with the mother of all breakdowns. I tortured myself with the scenario that if only there was someone at home to open the door for me, my bank account and fingers might have taken less of a beating. If only I wasn’t adamant on doing everything myself, I might have graciously accepted the help of someone.
As with all camels’ backs that eventually break, the keys were just the catalyst, and I have subsequently reconsidered my identity as an independent woman and, more specifically, my need to do everything myself. Why is the notion of asking for and receiving help so repugnant to me when, truth be told, I’m tired of this existence? I’m exhausted of doing everything for myself, and yet acknowledging that sometimes I can’t do it all alone is a much more terrifying admission – because what if I
