A paranormal phenomenon occurs at the gym: in most of the group classes, the men disappear. Like that old legend from the eighties, the Bermuda Triangle, that space that swallowed airplanes, the classes swallow the male beings. And I'm not talking about Zumba classes, although that happens too. I'm talking about classes where women lift weights and make them go up and down (body pump) or we do boxing and martial arts punches (body combat), or we do arm and chest strength training while hanging from straps (TXR), activities that in the collective imagination wouldn't be considered "women's activities," but have become so. Then there are classes where women are present, but they are a minority, like yoga, Pilates, and classes to activate the body in general. And there is equality only in CrossFit classes. And where are the men at the gym? Massively, in the weight room, doing individual exercises and lifting waaaaaay heavier weights than in the classes.

I confess that I only joined the ranks of active feminists less than ten years ago. And that until then I'd never even set foot in an 8M demonstration. What's more, as a young woman, I disliked the most active feminist activists. I've always considered myself a feminist. I almost spontaneously combusted with indignation when my parents argued that household chores could be different depending on whether you were a man or a woman. But to be lumped together with the feminists who called for the manios of March 8th, so little mainstream (and now I know how necessary) of my youth, well, no. Time had to pass for me to understand that a defense mechanism had been activated in me, one that is triggered in many women, consciously or unconsciously: not wanting to be identified with the problems. With the badasAnd I fell for it too.

If anything defines me, it's that I'm a bread lover. I'm passionate about that wonderful bread from the good bakeries and ovens in my neighborhood. My goodness, what a gift from heaven. When I go shopping, I can't help but eat it before I get home. I take a big bite and enjoy it with a pleasure I can't hide. People often look at me. It's not normal for a woman to express so freely that she enjoys eating almost orgasmically. At the table, I also don't hide the pleasure I get from eating. That I like it. That I'm hungry and I finish my plate. That I spit it out. That I ask for bread so I don't leave a single drop of that delicious sauce.

My indispensable friend Imma Sust posted a video on Instagram explaining that she wasn't having a good time due to some of the symptoms of menopause. The video received a lot of comments, and what surprised us most was the number of women who had been suffering from certain health issues for years and years and the resignation with which they lived with them. Both Sust and I sought good medical advice to navigate menopause well, and it was shocking to read so many women who normalized feeling unwell. But I recently realized that no matter what I do or say, I'm not immune to a certain normalization of physical pain either.

I can't get it out of my head an interview in this same newspaper I spoke with an expert on ageism, and she explained that she hides her birthdate because it harms her. She knows what she's talking about. Ageism, especially against women, discriminates against us in every area. But I'm shocked by the act of hiding one's age. I've spent the last few years championing maturity, and it pisses me off to see age become another kind of closet. I'm convinced that being 56 is a blessing—the experience, the maturity, the freedom—and I'm very happy about it. But I'm no one to judge another woman who hides her age because discrimination exists. If I were an actress, for example, I wouldn't talk about my age so casually.

It's October 2025. We're in the 21st century, and at this point in life, there are still those who aren't clear on what feminism is. I get asked this often. The other day at lunch, someone who had just met me, knowing about my career, asked me the question as if to say, "Let's see how you do it." I was surprised by the tone, but it wasn't the first time I'd found myself in a similar situation, and I know it won't be the last. And in some Instagram posts, I'm also asked to explain, like in this video Imma Sust and I shared about the feminist section we do on Wednesdays at The afternoons of Catalunya Ràdio ("The proper ladies' tutorial") and in the comments they wrote: "It needs to be explained so it's understood!" And from time to time they also ask me with genuine curiosity: "But what do you consider feminism to be?" And, honestly, I'm amazed.

I spend a weekend in good company away from home, just being, sharing, going to the theater, reading, watching series, walking, letting myself be cared for, and I realize I've rested like never before. And if I'd been home, it wouldn't have been that way. I can't help but do everything I have pending: non-urgent but necessary household chores, writing, accounting, getting ahead on preparing for a future short trip, calling, meeting up, catching up on so many things... Do, do, do. And even though I learn to stop and rest, I realize I do it, but not enough. That I always have an endless list of to-dos in my head and that it's been like that my whole life. I even use a to-do list app so I don't forget anything. And I always have the same fantasy: that one day I'll open the app and it'll be empty of to-dos. That I'll have done everything and I'll be able to lie on the couch and be like those people who can sleep in the blanket without the anxiety of thinking about everything left to do. But it's never like that, of course.

My mother is eighty-six years old and lives in a nursing home. She's been suffering from severe dementia for years, and the woman who read Tolstoy has become a three-year-old girl playing with a doll. She no longer remembers who she is. She no longer remembers who I am. She no longer remembers that I write, or that I appear on TV or the radio, and she can no longer boast about it because she no longer knows what "boast" means. She also no longer remembers what she thought of Anna Karenina, that it was absurd to fall in love with Count Vronsky, with the man she should have been. So much for the bad news.

Activity 1: Outing. Take photos of the countryside together. The location doesn't matter. You can choose one of your shared apartments or a room and make it look like a paradise island, or you can choose a paradise island. But share vacation days. You'll get extra points for every laugh you let out when Antoniu, on duty, tells you: "And you'll have to put up with it, so many women together all these days?" Take photos of yourselves drinking daiquiris with or without alcohol. Send them fifty-three times "by mistake" to all these narrow-minded Antoniuses. Don't apologize.

Introduction. Welcome to the club of those who defend that two plus two equals four. Most of us women belong to this club, and have for a long time. We're glad you're here. The more men there are who embrace the word feminist, but not to tie and look good, but de facto, there will be fewer who embrace the word sexist, to flirt and... whatever. So, go ahead, and now I could tell you, sit down and get comfortable, but no. No one here is yours, we have jobs, and as you've already seen, we didn't come here to be comfortable either. And you'll say, dude, and what's the club's advantage? Infinite. Not looking like Elon Musk. Or Donald Trump. Or Margaret Thatcher, or Ayuso, or Abascal. Or Koldo and Ábalos. Or Dani Alves. Or Errejón. Or Bertín Osborne. Or Rubiales. Or Saúl Gordillo. And also being more free. If that's not enough, go to the complementary activity you'll find at the end.

Activity 1: calligraphy. Take a blank sheet of paper. Copy the phrase: "If you're not a feminist, you're a sexist" a hundred times. The phrase isn't mine, it's from the late Itziar Castro. Copy it until it's integrated. No, dear, there's no middle ground. No. There's no middle ground. There's no middle ground, I tell you. Damn it. I know, it sounds awful when you say it like that. And you'd make me feel a little sorry for that puzzled expression on my face that clearly indicates you don't like the word. feminist nor the word sexist If it weren't for the fact that the macho thing about penis doesn't give me a drop.

A few weeks ago I attended the Xona Show, a theatrical performance by Marta Pontnou and Laura Fa in support of powerful women with a sense of humor. And I did it wearing a stunning gold dress. My back was bare, and instead of wearing one of those bras that look like they were designed by NASA to hide them, or sticking adhesive circles on my breasts, I chose to wear nothing. And of course, my nipples were visible, which for many people is terrible, terrible. Absolutely terrible. But there, surrounded by powerful and wonderful women, I was not at all shy about declaring that in my world, unashamed nipples (which is to say, all of them) are welcome. Everyone thought it was perfect, and we started talking about the absurdity of hiding nipples and preventing them from showing under clothing. Some of these women admitted that under their T-shirts and tight bodysuits, they wore adhesive strips that only serve to cover the nipples, and that it made no sense at all. Nipples are part of our body, of our anatomy, and masking them under stickers, stiff fabrics, and other traps just to hide them sends the message that those inches of skin are absolutely undignified.

Dear Amparo, you write so well, damn, you write so well.

I walk into a cell phone store to buy a cable for my phone. I choose, pay, and he says, "Thanks, darling." I tell him the pretty It's not necessary and she looks at me badly. A girl edge, it should be said. On top of that, I'm kind. I go shopping at the supermarket and another man says the same thing to me at checkout. And also to a woman at a bar. And yet another man at a restaurant. And so on, in a non-stop stream of beautiful women. It has nothing to do with my physical appearance. Or with any other woman's. Because it happens to all of us. I try to ignore it. I try to think of it as a kind gesture. That if I complain, it's an act of politically correct Talibanism gone mad. That you don't have to be Donald Trump destroying all progressive thought, but that people say it with good intentions, and you don't have to be a fundamentalist of gestures and words.

Following the series Adolescence, Valencian professor Gemma Lluch takes me to the book The will to change, men, masculinity and love, by feminist Bell Hooks (Paper Tiger), and I'm struck by many of the concepts she presents. One of them is the amount of time men and women allow themselves to dedicate to work and romantic relationships. And it's not the same amount. Most men prioritize work, while women prioritize time spent on relationships (family, friends, love). And all of this, of course, comes with nuances.

I meet up with my friend Rosa one day, and she arrives indignant. An acquaintance of her mother's asked about her and wanted to know if she actually had children. And when she said no, the man was deeply disappointed. Rosa has had to hear this question all her life, but she thought that now that she's over sixty, she shouldn't be the object of that curiosity, which comes loaded with pressure and prejudice. Because, let's not fool ourselves, behind the question and the surprised reaction to a "no" is the idea that, because you're a woman, you must have given birth.

How I love going to the gym, my gym. And how I love the naturalness of the women's locker room. The bodies there are just like that. Without labels or adjectives. We women undress and go naked to the showers and put on cream everywhere and dry our bandages with a hairdryer to avoid getting yeast infections and urinary tract infections. And no one gives you dirty looks. And no one is embarrassed about anything. It's a utilitarian space where you make friends (or not). Where if you leave your shampoo, someone will lend you, and not just the shampoo, whatever you need.

I'm leaving the play. Women of Radio, written by playwright and screenwriter Cristina Clemente, and I get emotional and can't stop thinking about Gisela, the fantastic woman who died at 51 from breast cancer. And how she would have loved the play and how we would have peed ourselves laughing together because the play also makes you laugh a lot. Because just as the women the play is inspired by say, the important thing is to laugh at yourself, even in the worst moment. Gisela avoided support groups, but I would have convinced her to see it and she would have agreed 100% with everything explained: the experiences of three women going through breast cancer. A play with three female protagonists that is absolutely universal. And although it shouldn't be pointed out, I want to, because when this happens, when there are three women on the bill talking about a medical issue that almost 100% affects women, there is a tendency to classify it as fiction "for women." And no. Stories with female protagonists are just as universal as, for example, a play like The inheritance in which all the protagonists are men and the problems only affect them as a homosexual collective. And no one considers that The inheritance It's a play "for men."

We women are accustomed to our anatomy including mysterious parts that are rarely or late in the discussion, or are discussed but not adequately. Health bias has long been denounced (read the latest book on the subject, You're exaggerating, by Blanca (Coll-Vinent and Isabel Muntaner) and women experience and suffer it in our daily lives.

This weekend was March 8th, I'll say it or I'll explode: I'm sick of the word feminism either feminist either feminismsI wish it wasn't necessary. I haven't lost my mind. The word feminist It is part of my life, it is part of me. But it is tiring to be a feminist. It is tiring to demand. It is tiring to have to be alert. As the great Moran says (yes, Caitlin), women always have one more job and no remuneration: feminist activism. You can be a writer and a feminist. A president of a ladder (yes) and a feminist. A cultural activist and a feminist. A screenwriter... and a feminist. #Whatever... and a feminist.