“We Have Always Saved Ourselves”

“I like stories where women save themselves.” – Neil Gaiman

When I was little, I adored Disney princesses. I loved their beauty, their charm, their wit—but mostly, I loved the prince. He always arrived just in time, sweeping in to save the day, rescuing them from whatever peril they faced.

Somewhere along the way, I absorbed the idea that love looked like that—protective, present, aware, unwavering. A kind of safety that came from someone else showing up.

But the truth is, that kind of hero rarely exists outside of stories. And yet, we keep handing those stories to our children, wrapped up like gifts they may never open. We grow up believing someone will come, someone will notice when we’re drowning, someone will pull us from the fire. But for many of us, that person never comes.

So when I came across Neil Gaiman’s words, they stopped me cold: I like stories where women save themselves.

I realized—I prefer those stories too.

Because that’s what women do.

We save ourselves, over and over again.

We spend our lives in quiet resurrections, rescuing ourselves from the versions of us that no longer fit—shedding old skins that once felt like safety but now only feel tight.

The wife who was told her beauty was her worth.

The mother who was told her exhaustion was her proof of love.

The worker who was told her value was measured by what she produced.

The woman who stayed too long, believing her love could heal what was breaking her.

We save ourselves from the masks we once wore to keep the peace—the yeses whispered when our insides screamed no, the smiles through gritted teeth, the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel as we carried on anyway.

We save ourselves from grief, too. From watching our children slip silently into new stages, their small hands letting go without ever asking permission to grow stronger.

We save ourselves from the echoes of broken vows, from the weight of stereotypes, from governments and systems that demand our compliance. From dark alleys designed to make us afraid—and from the consequences that would surely come if we dared to fight back.

And still—

we do not shatter.

We pick ourselves up and keep going.

We birth babies while reassuring older children of their place in our hearts. Sometimes we return to work before our bodies have even begun to heal. We manage the invisible threads that hold life together, quietly keeping everything on track.

We are the well-oiled gears in the machine, the unseen backbone of everything—and yet, we’ve been told all our lives that we need rescuing.

But the truth is this: every woman you know has already saved herself thousands of times. And she will save herself thousands more— our struggles mostly invisible and our strength often quiet.

Which is why the stories I like best are the ones where women become their own rescue.

They remind me that I can, even when the world whispers that I can’t.

And my favorite part?

It’s watching my daughters write their own versions of those stories.

To see them claim their voices, shape their identities, and walk out of shadows without waiting for anyone else’s hand.

That is my hope, my prayer, my quiet rebellion:

to raise girls who know they are their own rescue—

and to remind myself, again and again, that I am too.

Because women have always saved themselves.

And we always will—while balancing a thousand things at once…and still managing to cook a dinner that (hopefully) everyone will eat.

With You in the Saving,

Emily

Ash and Bloom