You ain't gotta pray for me

The healing powers of a girls' weekend

The image one conjures up of a girls’ weekend likely follows a theme of wildness and masked inhibitions. What’s pictured: A group of girls getting rowdy, plane rides with $15 mini bottles of champagne at 8 a.m., outfit variations strewn across hotel rooms, makeup and curling irons covering every surface of a bathroom countertop, and more shoes than anyone would ever need on a three-day vacation. 

This is, at least, what first comes to my mind upon picturing a stereotypical gathering of girlfriends. It’s the scene that’s been depicted in films and shows for ages–women becoming completely unhinged when they get together. 

I can’t say the unhinging part is wrong, but it does require context. For me, the unhinging isn’t getting wasted in Vegas, dancing in a club until the sun comes up then going back to a hotel with some guy I just met. I’ve lived out more subdued variations of this story. But now, the unhinging is intentional and welcomed. As soon as I’m surrounded by my trusted sisters, the door I’ve used to shut myself out from the world falls off its hinges, and a flood of me pours through the opening and into the room. And there they are, my favourite women, ready with buoys and ropes, ready to pull me back to safety, but not without first addressing the thing I was trying to hide behind closed doors.