Every August, South Africa wraps itself in purple ribbons and vibrant sashes. This echoes the courage of 9 August 1956. On this day, over 20 000 women marched to the Union Buildings against pass laws. It is a month of remembrance, pride and public tributes.
Speeches are made, hashtags trend, and the bravery of those who came before us is celebrated. This month has always carried extra meaning for me. Not only is it Women’s Month, but it is also my birth month.
I turned a year older on the 4th, and in the days since, I’ve found myself reflecting more deeply. What does it mean to grow older as a woman in this country, not just in years, but in experience? There’s something about a birthday that invites both celebration and introspection. You measure not only your milestones but also the progress and the gaps in the world around you.
As I mark this new age (nine and twenty), I feel both proud and restless. I am proud because we come from a lineage of women who refused to be silenced. Restless, because I know that too many women still carry a quiet weight. This is a weight that history books rarely capture. They face daily negotiations of safety, dignity and equality.
The wage gap persists
Our victories are real. We have more women in boardrooms and more breaking into industries once closed to us. The names and faces of women leaders are no longer rare in the public arena. Yet, alongside these gains, the cracks remain visible. The wage gap persists. Gender-based violence continues to cast a long shadow over our freedom. We are celebrated for breaking glass ceilings, yet expected to sweep up the shards with our bare hands.
The weight of womanhood is not only in public battles but in the small, exhausting calculations of everyday life. These are the moments when we show up at our best. We meet every expectation, even when battling ovulation pains, menstrual cycles, or the fatigue that comes with our bodies’ monthly rhythms. Choosing where to park at night and sending a quick “home safe” message to friends after a late meeting. Checking over your shoulder while walking, keys clenched between your fingers.
Rehearsing the tone of an email to ensure you are taken seriously. You don’t want to be branded “emotional” or “difficult”. These are not quirks of habit; they are survival strategies. They form part of the invisible cost of being a woman. It’s a cost rarely mentioned during the speeches of Women’s Month.
Removing limitations
This is why the 9th of August must be more than a ceremonial nod to the past. The question is not whether we will remember the courage of the 1956 marchers. It is whether we will honour their courage by creating conditions. These should make it easier for the next generation of women to live without fear or limitation.
In my work, the answer lies in storytelling. My role is not only to report what happens. It is to interrogate why it happens and to amplify the voices that are too often sidelined. I carry the stories of the women I meet into every newsroom I enter. Some of these women will never see their names in print, yet their resilience is profound. A single mother holding her household together on a minimum wage. Or a community health worker who walks kilometres daily to reach patients. A survivor who refuses to be defined by what she has endured.
These women remind me that heroism is not confined to grand gestures. It is also in the daily acts of persistence and care, often invisible to the world. They are proof that the narrative of Women’s Month must include ordinary women. Their strength is no less remarkable because it is unseen.
Promoting women’s rise
We must move from commemoration to commitment. That means advocating for policies that do more than look good on paper. It means holding institutions accountable for the promises they make. It means ensuring that when a woman rises, she leaves the door open for others to walk through.
It also means listening to women whose experiences are shaped not only by gender but by race, class, disability and geography. The challenges facing a rural farmworker are not the same as those facing an urban professional. Yet both are valid and urgent. Intersectionality is not an academic buzzword. Instead, it is a lens to better understand and address inequality.
Women’s Month, then, should not be a pause for reflection before life returns to “normal”. It should be a launchpad for sustained action. The legacy of the women of 1956 is not just in the march they undertook. It is in the way they imagined a future in which their daughters would walk freely. That future is not yet here. Their example shows us that it is worth fighting for.
As I step into this new age, I am reminded that time is both a gift and a responsibility. My birthday was a quiet recommitment to the causes I care about. The stories I will tell, and the women whose journeys deserve to be seen and heard.
Our foremothers marched so we could stand here. The least we can do is ensure that the ground we stand on is solid enough for the next woman to run. When she runs, may she do so without the weight of keys between her fingers. Without the fear of being called “too much” or “not enough”. Without needing to calculate her safety before her dreams.
That, for me, is what Women’s Month should be about. Not just remembering the past, but reshaping the present so the future looks different.
