“We were worried about our vaginas.”

This was the opening line to "The Vagina Monologues," which I went to see this past Friday, February 19, at the Chevy Chase Theatre at the Johns Hopkins Hospital. I’ve seen the Monologues before, but it will absolutely never get old, for a whole bunch of reasons.

First, I would like to applaud the women who performed the Monologues. They were phenomenal, and did an incredible job bringing the stories to life. Unfortunately, I don’t know who they were –– grad students, residents, random young women, etc. I do know, however, that they are a beautiful and brave group of women who made my Friday so much better. They turned it into a V-day (V for Victory, Valentine and Vagina).

Next, I would like to super-thank (is that a verb?) Eve Ensler, the author of the work. She is highly decorated for her work in playwriting, film, and other areas regarding body positivity and sexual violence against women. Ensler has gathered hundreds of monologues, each doing its part to start a conversation about and with women. The proceeds from each production of the play benefit victims of sexual violence.

For those who have yet to be blessed by the performance, I’ll explain briefly. "The Vagina Monologues" is a compilation of various combinations of the interviews collected by Ensler about their “down-theres,” as it’s called in one of the monologues from a 75-year-old woman. She talked to old women, young women, lesbians, straight women, bisexual women, transgender women, black women, Asian women, white women, Catholic women, Jewish women, married women, sex workers, virgins –– you get the point. Ensler made an effort to interview a wide variety of women about their experiences.

Of the things I love about "The Vagina Monologues," that’s one of them; it brings women together. The women in the audience looked empowered, empathetic and, sometimes, relieved. You could almost hear half the room thinking, “Oh thank God, someone else does that, too,” during some of the performances. During others, the female pride swelled almost to a bursting point as we heard about women who survived impossible circumstances, persevering to tell their stories.

For that matter, it brings men and women together. The number of men in the audience on Friday was kind of amazing. Watching their reactions to the skits in comparison to the women’s was almost as interesting as the performances themselves. The men looked shocked, sometimes a little frightened (a throwback to that one time the whole room was shouting the c-word in unison), and almost always a little grossed out. And, by the end, like they were in awe of what women go through just for having a “down there.”

I make no secret of the fact that I’m a (raging) feminist –– it’s pretty evident within 27 seconds, give or take, of meeting me. Being in that auditorium for two hours with around 200 other people listening to the stories of women from every walk of life let me remember the real roots behind my feminism: I believe in women. I believe in our strength, our resilience, our unity, our support and our love. I think that somewhere in all the debates flying around sexism (the wage gap, unwanted advances, treatment in the workplace, etc), I lost the real reason, the reason deep inside of me, I feel so strongly about feminism.

It’s not just because I’m a woman.

It’s not just because I’m a liberal.

It’s not just to stir things up for the heck of it.

It’s because every day, I see the strength that seeps out of the female community. The strength that has been shoved to the ground and beaten within an inch of its existence. The strength that has survived. The strength that is forced to be a quiet one because someone thinks there isn’t enough room at the top of the food chain for everyone. The strength that allows us to carry ourselves and one another through anything and everything.

It’s because I got to sit in that theatre and be proud of having a “down there.” It’s because I got to listen to conversations about female anatomy without being uncomfortable or embarrassed. It’s because, thanks to the hundreds of women who shared their stories, I got to be enveloped by a sense of support so strong that I felt like they were physically holding me.

It’s because I get to feel that pride and support every single day, and I will not apologize for it.

*All mentions of “women” in this article are in reference to all persons who identify as female, whether by anatomy or gender. The term “women” was used for purposes of concision but is meant to be all-inclusive.