On women - contributed by Betty Ann

Women are inspired, motivated, guided, strengthened, consoled, and loved by other women: their mothers, their sisters, their friends, and their partners. It can be said, among the strongest bonds we form in this life are with women. That has certainly been true for me.

My nieces - contributed by Allison

My nieces Lille and Grace. Even when Lille was a toddler, she seemed to understand when I needed her to reach her little hand up to steady me. And last week at a concert, Grace protectively put her arm around my shoulder many times. I feel they are more than just sisters and nieces, these little girls. They offer comfort and assurance and watch-care for me which is greater than just sisterhood. I love these little women.

On motherhood - contributed by Tonya

To be a mother is to be uncertain. I spend a staggering percentage of my time unsure if I was too strict or too lenient or too enabling or too detached or too smothering or too serious or too flippant. But there is one moment that is so clear, so obviously wrong that a couple of times a week I find myself wishing for a second chance to say the right thing to my daughter. Like most kids at seven years old, she loves to hear about her beginnings. Unlike most kids, she is adopted. One night during our last conversation of the day, she asked me, "Did you wait for a long time to get a baby in your tummy?" A little off guard I replied, "Yeah. Daddy and I tried for a long time, but Heavenly Father wanted us to have a family in a different way. He brought you to us in a different way. We adopted you, and it is just as good." Her sweet, open face registered immediate confusion and alarm. She blurted out, "No Mom! I'm fantastic! The best! Amazing! Not just good." She certainly is. I'll never tell her less than exactly that.

My mother, Susan - contributed by Matt

This is the story of the last lesson my mother taught me. She taught me to love my self, and how to forgive my self. It was her final lesson, and one that will last me the rest of my life. She was the strongest woman I have ever known, and I miss her every day.

So the story goes like this.  I wasn't there when my Mom died.  Not in the room, not in the house.  I'm never there when people die.  I used to think it was an unforgiveable sin.

So they tell me that he parked his car in the garage, and left it running.  Changed his mind, apparently, got out of the car, walked to the door that led into the house.  Threw up in his mouth, choked on it, passed out and died from carbon monoxide poisoning at the threshold of the kitchen.

My sister gave me the details over the telephone.  I was in Georgia.  My dad had just told me the news about my best friend.

"Matthew," he said, he couldn't look at me, he deliberately looked away.  "Matthew, I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just going to tell you.  Mike S********* is dead, he killed himself yesterday."

So we stopped at a gas station, and I push my way past all of the truckers manning the phone booths and I call home collect and my sister answers the phone and I say "Is it true?" and she's silent and then she says "Oh, sweetie" and I know it's all true, he's dead and I wasn't there because she's never nice on the phone.

So Dad and I get back in the van.  We were in Georgia because we'd just cleaned out his father's house because he had just died.

Five years later I remember using his words.  "Ray," I said, I looked Ray in the face, "Ray I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just going to tell you.  Joe C****** is dead, he killed himself this morning.

Ray collapses in my arms.

The truth is, I went out and got shitfaced, and high, see Mom had gone into a coma.  I spent her last lucid day with her, reliving my childhood at her favorite shopping mall, going to her favorite stores and lugging her bags around for her like we used to do.  Only I paid for lunch this time.  Big boy.  That night, before she slipped away into a drug-induced coma, she stayed up all night looking at old photos and treasures and stuffed animals and albums and all the shit you accumulate in a life.  Dad and Elise were frustrated with her, but I knew something was up.  I knew she was afraid.

So she went into a coma the next day.  We kept her at home.  We changed her diapers, Dad, Elise and I.  No one would ever be allowed to see her so vulnerable and weak-not nurses or friends, so we did it.

And the story goes on like this.  We waited.  Friends and family came by and we went into a trance.  I remember coming home from work.  I'd strip off my gun and uniform and hug my 2 year old nephew Jake and then I'd go sit next to Mom in my undershirt and those goddamn blue dickies.  I'd hold her hand and say nothing, or I'd tell her I loved her.

After two weeks, I went over to a friends house and got shitfaced.  I drank until I couldn't think, until my mouth tasted like vomit.  Slept right through all the phone calls and when I woke up, I saw I'd missed six calls from my sister.  I called her and she sounded stoned.  I asked her how everything was "Fine," she said, she sounded like a ghost. I asked her how Mom was.  "We lost her," she said.  I told her I would be right home.

The ride home was dull and grey, like the sky sucked all the color off the ground.  Her body was already gone.  The house was quiet like I didn't know it could be, ever again, not after that goddamn parade of sympathy over the previous weeks.

Dad and I went into the backyard, I gave him a cigarette, and we both lit up.  It was totally silent and my mind rose up out of my body and floated over the neighborhood, the city a sea of roofs, the state the country past stars and infinity.  Dad was holding my hand, we were both smoking and quiet.  And I was sad, and relieved, and so tired, just so damn tired.  And I wasn't angry anymore, like I had been since Mike died, ten years earlier, it just snuffed out.

Years have passed and I feel like I know who my Mom was better than I did when she was alive.  My Mom's mom died when Mom was just a little girl, and I only wish I could tell her I  know how bad it feels, and that I love her and thank her for raising me to be strong and courageous, and giving me the love she missed so badly.

Just last night I told my wife the whole truth, and it set me free.  The night she died, our caregivers told the family to tell her it was allright to go, that we would be ok.  Only I wasn't there, and she clung on, hour after hour.  I always thought it was because I wasn't there to tell her I was going to finally get my shit together, and be the man she wanted me to be.  Now I am married, a teacher (like Mom), and happy for the first time in my 35 years.  And I know she knows, and I love her.

My daughter, Regan- contributed by Leslie

I became me with exceptional love and support from the opposite gender.  Starting with Dad.  I was his only daughter. My life was secure. Because of his confidence in me I could and would handle all that my young life would throw my way. Because of Dad's love, my next most important relationship was with my brother. He continues to be my "bestie". We laugh, we run, we hike, we cry, we exchange parenting strategies, we bitch about Mom, and we solve the problems of the world together. But, in spite of all this love, I have always craved a sister--another girl to share my life with. 

While raising a young family I tried multiple times to find this sought out relationship with a multitude of other women--college roommates, co-workers, sister-in-laws, neighborhood friends, even Mom.  Nothing stuck--I am lame with other women. Then, a crisis hit. I turned to well intended women in my life. They helped tremendously. But, at the end of the day, when the creepy-crawlies came out in full force, I found myself seeking protection in my teenage daughter's room.  Laying on her bed, listening to teenage girly music, my heart found its long lost sister. She is what I had craved for my whole life. What I used to daydream about came true--we can do all those silly girl things--share clothes, eat ice-cream out of the container, talk boys, talk books, cry at sad movies (although we usually are laughing at those crying), and sit on the couch for hours talking about nothing. 

We have been accused of shutting the rest of the world out when we are together--it's the two of us and then the rest. We have our own language, spoken or quiet. We share thoughts without voicing them.  We can also sit silent and just be. I can be me. And she loves me. That is all anyone (at least this one) needs.

My Molly - contributed by Jamie

My wife. She is a survivor, my best friend and my copilot in life. Since she came through my front door for our very first date, I was instantly smitten. I am proud to be a part of her world and look forward to growing old together. Without her, well, life wouldn't be as rich. I love you, Molly.

Clementine

The news and topics that sear me are the ones related to and about more than half of us.  The female half.  Of the universe.  I love men, believe in men, support men and adore them.  I'm married to one.  I gave birth to two. I never had a daughter, but if I had, I would have named her Clementine.  So until then or instead of a daughter, this will be "her place."  A place for all of the "hers" and "shes" and their mothers and daughters and lovers and friends.  And the men in their lives and worlds.  To tell their stories, to use humor and intelligence and honesty to put forward the real feminism.  The kind that unites.  The kind that empowers.  The kind that honors and celebrates and encourages everything women bring and bear in this universe that all too often sees them as less.  Share your stories and ideas with me by messaging me at whitney@wordsmith-brand.com. My intention is to compile these stories into a beautiful book that will be illustrated and produced by some of the most talented women I know.  And provide funds for women's initiatives worldwide.  THANK YOU.