I’ve been told years ago to wear gloves when I work out. That callouses on my hands ill befit a woman. But when these gloves made my hands slip and nearly drop the weights on myself, I took them off. The metal dug into my skin, but the pain made me stronger.
Ironically, I was told to develop calluses for guitar. Make my fingers rough to better pluck the steel strings. But isn’t that just as ugly as the calluses that form on my hands from working out? The same tissue in a different place makes all the difference for those people.
Rowers can’t wear gloves in eights, I was told. They will get ruined from the water splashing onto the wood. I came home with bloodied, cut-up, calloused hands, and I knew those cuts would turn into more calluses. Again, I get yelled at. Sand down those calluses. They ill fit a woman like you.
The calluses on my hands have only multiplied since then. As has my strength in both body and mind. But in fear I ask my partner if he’s okay with rough hands. The answer I get? Calluses are just fine.
The calluses on my hands are a testament to my growth. The work I have put in to get where I am now. I wear the lessons of my journey like some wear their hearts on their sleeves. There’s no need to hide.
The calluses on my hands tell a legacy of women who understood that achievement comes from hard work. There is no such thing as free favors in this world. A woman with rough hands toiled for her goals, just as I will always do for mine.
These calloused hands fit me perfectly. For without them, I would have lost my battles a long time ago.
This was written by our contributing writer, Lauren DeSantis.
Image Credit: Lauren DeSantis
Cover Image Credit: Pexels, Juan Pablo Serrano
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