It feels hugely meaningful to me personally that today a statue of Millicent Fawcett was unveiled in Parliament Square - joining 11 male statues as the only female representation of strength, inspiration and dedication. Fawcett was a tireless campaigner for women's right to vote in the early 20th century.
As I do with all amazing women, I immediately researched her to see if she had been a mother. I became a feminist during the birth of my first child; writhing in pain in terror I connected in a visceral way with the hurt and anguish of women everywhere. The labour that brought about the delivery of my son brought with it other unexpected gifts; a deeper connection with the suffering of all life, and a certain loss of innocence that can be spun into wisdom if processed correctly. When I read stories about women who achieve great feats I wonder if they went through this rite of passage and, on a more practical level, muse about how they found the time to grasp hold of worldly events with toddlers tugging at their skirts. I noted that yes, Fawcett had been a mother on top of making the world a better place - not satisfied with raising her own daughter - she had also helped to raise four orphaned cousins.
So whilst wielding banners and writing works of inspiration, she had also been knee deep in the every day, as so many women are. This juggling of greatness with the entirely mundane has a strange kind of wabisabi beauty - transient, imperfect and utterly wonderful.