In the hushed corridors of modern relationships, there’s a whispered myth – “girls don’t poop.” This is a badly kept secret (let the toilet air out, am I right?). 

I recently watched Trevor Noah’s standup special “Where Was I”; of course, it was hilarious (and of course, that’s an unpaid advertisement). The superstar, jet-setting, met Gala attending host with the most, globally recognised funny guy did a bit about this shitty myth, and it got me thinking. Thinking about the deeper truth underneath the relatable laugh, about the cardinal expectations that give way to the pervasive struggle of women to be seen as flawless, ethereal beings untouched by bodily functions. 

By the by, this is only about those natural, yet foul to the senses, instincts that occur regardless of biological sex: pooping, peeing, farting, sweating. I have resisted starting on the perceptions, attitudes, and consequences of menstruation – we would be here for hours. 

As I digested this comedic revelation, what came out the other side was a realisation that it mirrored in my own life. The reluctance to acknowledge the reality of my body, even to those closest to me, particularly men, and especially in its most real form, is a symptom of a deeper fear. Women are conditioned to strive for an unattainable standard of perfection, to maintain an illusion of otherworldly beauty. But in this pursuit, we risk losing touch with our humanity, with ourselves.

I spit in the face of this fear! 

I pooped at my boyfriend’s house, one of the few times I allowed myself that relief on a seat I am not accustomed to (when you got to go, you got to go!), and dear reader, I blocked the toilet. 

Unlike my poop, I will let that sink in.

As you read this, it’s obvious that I did not die. The earth did not open up and assimilate me into the hidden dirt to live forever in a place where that most dreaded thing, the punchline of scads of sitcoms,  the dreaded discussion in the group chat, would be as far away from reality as possible. But dear reader, I did not die. Really, it was quite funny. Verily, it was truly freeing.

The second – a number two joke – revelation that came from this meditation propelled me to embark on a journey to reshape my relationship with my body by embracing its inherent humanity. Women have been taught to nip, tuck, hide, and shy away from everything real and natural – from everything human. “Here is what a woman should look like, smell like, act like; if you are anything less than that then I don’t know what to tell you.”

It’s time to break the silence, shatter the myth, and acknowledge that girls do poop. Most recently, I have been crudely and candidly announcing that I’m going to poop, and let me tell you, it’s been quite funny and truly freeing. 

This is not a revolution in any way, and I don’t think it has to be. I think any action, however small, that brings us closer to the apodictic truth of our existence is worth pursuing. In doing so, we reclaim our right to be imperfectly human. Girls do poop; girls need to poop, and that poop will smell, and sometimes it won’t flush. Let that linger.