Grip Grit and Grace

Girl Grip is the latest viral trend on Instagram and TikTok, spotlighting the extraordinary number of unrelated objects a woman can pick up and carry in one hand. Phone. Keys. Wallet. Lipstick. Coffee. Sunglasses. Water bottle. Sweater. Possibly a small appliance.

The objects don’t need to be compatible. They don’t even need to obey conventional physics; if there’s a finger, there’s real estate available. Men will look at the pile and say, “Why don’t you get a bag?” Because, George, I am the bag. But Girl Grip is amateur hour. Any mother can destroy Girl Grip with Mommy Grip.

Once you’ve had children, the human hand develops additional joints that medical science hasn’t recognized. I had three kids, and like every other mother, I became masterful at carrying my wallet, keys, phone, lipstick, snacks, books, tissues, a juice box, somebody’s tiny sweater, one shoe whose mate had disappeared, and a plastic object of absolutely no discernible purpose that the child would nevertheless experience profound psychological trauma over if I threw it away. All in one hand. Because the other hand was holding the baby.

Do you know what Cirque du Soleil without applause is? Motherhood. You don’t learn Mommy Grip. It arrives hormonally. Somewhere between childbirth and the first time you realize you’ve successfully closed a car door with your ass. You begin using body parts for purposes evolution never intended. Your chin becomes a third hand. Teeth become scissors, armpits become clamps, hips become shelves, and God help anyone who asks, “Do you need some help?” after you’ve already loaded yourself like a Sherpa approaching Everest. No, no. I’ve got it. Obviously.

But then the children grow up. And something fascinating happens. Your hands get emptier. Your grip gets bigger. Welcome to Mature Woman Grip. Mature Woman Grip has very little to do with what you can physically carry. It’s the astonishing number of things a woman can hold at once in her life without dropping dead in the vegetable aisle. Three adult children, each with a completely different life. Parents who once looked after you and then suddenly need looking after. Marriage. Grandchildren. Work. Finances. A house with a new, indiscernible noise. Friends going through divorces. Friends finding love again and behaving oddly like teenagers.

There’s someone’s medical appointment, someone else’s emotional crisis, and, of course, the contractor who promised Tuesday but neglected to specify the year. A government department that requires Form 15B to establish that you previously submitted 15A. And somewhere underneath all of this, your life is waving politely from the bottom of the pile. Helloooo? Remember me?

Mature Woman Grip is when one child calls with a crisis, another needs advice, somebody you love is sick, the plumber hasn’t arrived, there’s something slightly threatening from Revenue Canada sitting unopened on the counter, your husband can’t find the thing that’s directly in front of him, while you’re standing in the kitchen wondering why you came there. And yet…you handle it. Not necessarily gracefully. Let’s not romanticize this. Sometimes Mature Woman Grip involves standing completely still in the middle of a room whispering, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” That’s part of the process. But then you make the call, write the letter, find the doctor, move the appointment, help the kid, challenge the bill, comfort the friend, feed the dog, find the husband’s thing that was directly in front of him yet again, and continue. The remarkable difference is that when you’re younger, you think strength means carrying everything. When you’re older, you discover strength also means knowing what to put down. That may be the most sophisticated grip of all.

By this stage of life, we’ve learned that not every problem belongs to us, not every argument deserves us, not every relationship requires saving, not every invitation requires accepting and not every opinion requires answering. And some things don’t need a better grip. They need to be dropped, preferably from a considerable height. That’s the great evolution of the female grip. Girl Grip says, “Look how much I can carry.” Mommy Grip says, “Look how much I can carry while carrying another human being.” Mature Woman Grip says, “I can carry an extraordinary amount, but I’ve finally learned I don’t have to.” That’s not frailty. That’s load management.

Middle-aged women have spent decades becoming emotional air-traffic controllers, family historians, emergency contacts, negotiators, caregivers, bullshit detectors, finders of lost objects and the person everyone calls because, apparently, she’ll know what to do. And most of the time, strangely, we do.

So by all means, celebrate Girl Grip. It’s impressive. But come back in thirty years when that same woman can carry a family crisis, an aging parent, a difficult conversation, three people’s secrets, a mortgage renewal, a menopause-fuelled existential revelation and absolutely no tolerance for bullshit while still remembering where she left the car. Well, most days.

That’s Mature Woman Grip. No extra fingers required. Just a lifetime of discovering what’s worth holding onto and finally having the wisdom to know what you can now let the fuck go.