I Shaved My Legs for This

There was a time in my life when I shaved my legs every other day.
Not because I wanted to.
Not because it felt good.
Not because it mattered.
I shaved because I was programmed to.
Because somewhere along the line, I absorbed the message that a woman’s worth was tied to how smooth her skin was.
Ah, youth.
Programming at its finest.
But as I’ve aged — as I’ve softened, strengthened, awakened, and reclaimed my body as mine — I set a boundary with myself:
I am no longer shaving off my insulation.
I live in Wisconsin, where winter hangs on like an old man who passed out after too much wine and Mother Nature forgot to take her meds.
We don’t get “seasons” here.
We get survival arcs.
So I follow No Shave Winter, while others follow No Shave November.
My legs, pits, and chin hairs (yes, the “wisdom highlights”) stay right where they are until the sun returns with enough warmth to justify the ritual of shedding.
Yesterday, the air shifted.
The sun had that early‑spring confidence — the kind that whispers, “Go ahead… shave. It’s time.”
So I did.
I shaved the hairs off my legs, my pits, and yes, the chin hairs that sprout like tiny reminders that I’ve lived long enough to earn them.
And as I stood there afterward, smooth and sun‑ready, I laughed.
Not because shaving is funny.
But because I did it for me.
Not for society.
Not for a partner.
Not for an expectation.
Not for a performance.
I shaved because the season changed, and my body said,
“Alright, let’s shed a layer.”
This is what sovereignty looks like in the smallest, most ordinary moments — choosing your body on your terms, in your timing, for your reasons.
I shaved my legs for this season of my life.
For this version of me.
For this warmth.
For this joy.
For this woman who no longer performs femininity — she chooses it.
And honestly?
It feels damn good.