The Unapologetic Act of Taking Up Space as a Woman

I used to be the girl who would move her chair in closer to the table so she wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. My voice would drop when I disagreed with someone. In group photos, I’d tilt myself slightly behind the others, smiling in a way that didn’t pull too much attention. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be seen — it was that somewhere deep down, I’d been taught that taking up too much space made people uncomfortable, and making people uncomfortable meant I was doing something wrong.

One night changed the way I thought about that. I was at a small dinner party with friends, the kind where conversation hums like background music and you lose track of time. I had something to say — something that felt important — and I could feel the moment slipping away as louder voices took over. Normally, I would have let it pass. But instead, I spoke. Not quickly. Not quietly. I said it with my full voice, and when a few heads turned, I didn’t shrink back. I met their eyes. I stayed in that moment.

It was subtle, but I felt it. My shoulders didn’t curl in. My legs stayed where they were instead of crossing tightly. I didn’t apologize before or after. And in that instant, I understood: taking up space wasn’t about being the loudest or the biggest presence in the room — it was about refusing to disappear in it.

Growing up, I was praised for being “easygoing” and “low-maintenance.” What i didn’t realize was that part of this praise came from my willingness to take up less space — physically, emotionally, and even in my ambitions. It was in the way I never wanted to inconvenience anyone by voicing my needs, the way I’d avoid raising my hand in class unless I was sure I had the “right” answer, the way I’d hesitate before telling someone my dreams in case they sounded too big for me.

The world rewards woman for shrinking. For being agreeable. For smoothing out their edges so no one gets pricked. And the cost of that is high. When you fold yourself smaller, you stop showing the world what you’re capable of. You trade authenticity for acceptability. You live within walls that no one else asked you to build, but that you’ve been decorating for years.

Taking up space unapologetically is an unlearning. It’s shedding that quiet instinct to move out the way, to make yourself lighter, softer, easier. It’s remembering that your body is allowed to be here without apology, that your ideas are allowed to land in the air without apology, that your ideas are allowed to land in the air without being softened by disclaimers, that your energy is allowed to fill a room.

I think about that dinner party often. How small it was in the scheme of things, and yet how big it felt to me. That night, I didn’t just say something — I let myself be seen saying it. I didn’t care if I was too much. I didn’t measure my words in teaspoons to make sure they were palatable. I didn’t shrink to make room for someone else. And that small defiance sparked something in me: the quiet certainty that my existence doesn’t need permission.

Taking up space, for me now, looks like walking into a room and letting my posture take its full height. It looks like laughing without covering my mouth. It looks like ordering what I actually want instead of what feels daintier. It looks like telling someone, “I disagree” without padding it in politeness I don’t actually feel. It’s a daily practice — and some days I still fall back into old patterns — but it’s a choice I’m making again and again.

When a woman decides to take up space, it’s never just about her. It sends ripples outward. It gives silent permission for other woman to do the same, to stop apologizing for existing, to speak even when their voice shakes, to stretch their dreams beyond the limits set for them. Maybe that’s the most radical part — that one unapologetic act can turn into a chain reaction of woman reclaiming their place in the world.

I am not sorry for my presence anymore. And if someone is uncomfortable with the space I take up, I let them be uncomfortable. That’s their work to do, not mine. My work is to keep showing up fully, to keep holding my ground, and to keep telling the truth of who I am — loudly, clearly, and without apology.