A reclamation of self

And other thoughts on 'All Fours' by Miranda July

I used to describe myself as “a girl, but in the same way that a boat is a girl.”

Does that make sense?

This is not to say that I don’t identify as a woman—I’ve never questioned my gender in that way—but my connection to womanhood has been stunted, severed by menstrual nightmares, hormonal acne, and the general woes of being a girl (like, you know, sexism). I have never doubted my womanhood, but there have been times, especially in my 20s, where I have felt disconnected from it. Like I am more the idea of a woman but in practice, I’m not that great at it. But as I sprinted my way through Miranda July’s All Fours, I found a new, deeper appreciation for womanhood, every stage of it.

Here’s the gist: the unnamed protagonist is a semi-famous artist in her mid-forties. Her husband suggests going on a cross-country roadtrip to realign herself creatively. She leaves her non-binary kid and her husband, and one day (or 30 minutes) into the trip she gets sidetracked in a nearby town. She meets a 31-year-old Hertz employee and begins a rampant, beautiful, non-sexual affair (or, sort of sexual, depending on your definition of the word) with him while redecorating a room in the motel. Her life is flipped upside down, her and her husband explore non-monogamy, she goes through menopause, and she finds herself. In that order, mostly.

This novel left me different from the person I was when I opened it. July has a unique, beautiful ability to unearth the messy and profound truths about feminine identity and relationships. All Fours was a mirror, a guide, challenging me to rethink my own relationship with womanhood. I was left feeling renewed about my future as a woman with a deeper appreciation for the richness of transformation, the liberating chaos that can exist alongside midlife self-discovery.

I found in All Fours both a mirror and a matchstick—a reflection of latent, lustful, feminine desire and a spark for change. It was destabilizing, coming to terms with a whole section of my life that I have very rarely contemplated. The grace and safety of being in my 20s, right? Despite the amount of time I think about my menstrual cycle, femininity, and motherhood (the possibility of it, the fear I have around it, et cetera), All Fours made me realize that up until now, menopause has barely crossed my mind, and it forced me to think about it in ways I have not before. I am going to experience it someday, and the sooner I come to terms with it, the less scary and unsettling it will be. Or, at least, that’s how All Fours made me feel.

Menopause is treated with radical empathy in this novel. It presents this phase of womanhood not as the loss of vitality but as an opportunity for rebirth, where desires and autonomy can coexist with transformation. The protagonist starts experiencing the menopausal crucible and begins to ask around for testimonies on it, and wisdom comes pouring in from friends, acquaintances, strangers:

“All of the hormones that made me want to seem approachable so I could breed are gone and replaced by hormones that are fiercely protective of my autonomy and freedom.”

“I heard about your survey from Joslyn! As someone treated a certain way their entire adult life because they were voluptuous and pretty, it’s become a joy to be unseen. But it was a bit of a journey, letting go, and boy how I wish I could tell other women struggling with the fade of their bloom how great life is once you let go of the flower.”

God. “How I wish I could tell other women struggling with the fade of their bloom how great life is once you let go of the flower.” I have thought about that every single day since I’ve finished this book.

All Fours also shows a profound bond between the protagonist and her best friend, Jordi. Their friendship is a sanctuary, a space where vulnerability is met with unwavering support. She can call Jordi and say, “Hey, I’m going through menopause and also I’m going to throw my whole life away for this 31-year-old,” and be met not with judgment, but understanding. Female friendships are lifelines in this book, and in my real life. I think this is why I felt so deeply connected to not only the protagonist but to her relationships as well. The protagonist’s connection to female friendship is a study in intimacy, in humor, in resilience.

The protagonist seems to be polarizing. I can understand that, to an extent. She’s annoying, and July does not hold back from that—but I admire that. Everyone is annoying, even when they try their hardest not to be. July just wants the whole of this character to be visible, and she’s better for it. She also seems to have no clue what she’s doing. No idea what her next move will be. She wakes up and steps into her own unpredictable choose your own adventure life, and she consistently chose something different than I was expecting. It kept me on my toes, it kept me turning page after page. It also made me want to choose differently.

The protagonist is so quick to abandon her normal, stable life for a barely-affair with someone considerably younger than her. If you can’t understand her, you’d judge her, but this is what I found: her actions speak to a rare, visceral exploration of autonomy. She sacrifices comfort and certainty for the chance at something raw and transformative. Her decision to abandon the familiar, to me, is not reckless, but instead an act of fierce, almost primal self-preservation. She needs to break out of her normal life to survive. But for someone who is deep in her own comfort and certainty, this willingness could be scary, or even unsettling. There’s a palpable discomfort in confronting the idea of a woman who doesn’t apologize for her messiness, a woman who dares to suggest that upheaval can be a form of growth. But I love this character, and I see myself in her. Or, more likely, in her I see who I want to be when I’m her age.

“I felt untethered from my age and femininity and thus swimming in great new swaths of freedom and time. One might shift again and again like this, through intimacies, and not outpace oldness exactly, but match its weirdness, its flagrant specificity, with one’s own.”

The power of All Fours lies, at least to me, in the way it summons discomfort in its readers. It forces the woman holding the book to come face to face with her future, or with her experience in womanhood, or with the reality of her boring, normal life. How much are we willing to risk for our own happiness? Can a woman prioritize her desires without being deemed selfish, or crazy?

This book didn’t necessarily open my eyes—I’ve been keenly aware of my own womanhood for my entire life—but it did widen them. It turned my head in directions it has not been turned. I feel freer through the mistakes, the wisdom, the experiences of July’s protagonist.

All Fours is a stunning journey into, through, and outside of womanhood. It’s a journey through reinvention, through discovery, through self. It asks questions about womanhood and desire, and it isn’t afraid to answer them. Describing it as “unhinged” feels like a disservice to the care put into the protagonist’s character, but that’s exactly how it made me feel: unhinged, untethered, unburdened by the past and future of my womanhood.

“Nobody knows what’s going on. We are thrown across our lives by winds that started blowing millions of years ago.”