Let's be honest, nothing beats the satisfaction of another woman.

PalmThere are many reasons why I admire my cousinDespite being four years younger than me, I feel it would be incredibly difficult to teach her anything. I'd be mortified to have to teach that amazing woman anything. At 26, she has the same survival instinct as a single, divorced mother of four. She seems to have been born with half her life already lived, as if adulthood arrived at 18. "It's a miracle I turned out so well," she always tells me, with that dark humor that came with her Brazilian leg. And it's true. I'd like to say I'd defend her against anything and anyone, but the truth is, she's never given me the chance. She's smart, quick-witted, and vibrant. Her life is like a "Mexican soap opera"—she also says—but she outruns the misfortunes. Perhaps that's why she's been blessed with a very small bust, but also with a sharp eye and a protective mind, which lead almost everyone to mistake her for something she's not and—quickly—realize it. In fact, my favorite photo in the world is one where we appear side by side – me, at 10 years old, and her, at 6 – with such a disproportionate level of physical development that next to her, I look like a giant, about to crush a dwarf.

I admire her self-sufficiency. Her ability to manage life, with more crutches than aids, is a mystery to me. She feels that her years are like a dog's, worth seven. Otherwise, I can't explain how she knows so much more about this world than I do. at 30 years oldAnd yet, I never find resentment in her. Any calamity is summed up in a "you won't believe what happened to me." And that's it. She has awareness and memory, but no regret or pride. She knows how to distance herself from those who aren't good for her, but she doesn't dwell on it either. She doesn't have time for that. She prefers to dedicate it to what matters: being a homemaker or going off to a festival for three days. These are her two personalities: a 70-year-old godmother, when she invites her little brother over to treat him; and the teenager she never could be, when she dresses up more slice that Bad Gyal for a concert. And that's why, too, the admiration.

Stealthily, like a fox, we gagged each other's inner voice.

I don't know if she knows everything I think. And it's not fair. She always has kind words for me, words that make me doubt even more that I'm the older cousin, words of gratitude and admiration that only maturity teaches. She's not attentive out of politeness, it's by nature, because she's had no other choice. She's proof of why I want the admiration of women, women like her. I want their approval, demanding, measured. And their recognition, sincere and humble. Like when, for example, I'm next to her and I feel her eyes scanning me, just before she says, very focused: "Your eyeliner looks great today, huh, doll," nodding, her eyebrows furrowed.

This is the level of admiration I aspire to, that of women like her, who encode their level of expectation in the precision of their compliments. We all know it: we tell each other what we're not capable of saying to ourselves. Without realizing it, we act like a mirror. We exchange reflections to see if we can find any part of ourselves in the other. We praise each other as much as we push ourselves, as if wanting to say, needily, "You're doing so well, I hope you know it." We play the role of guardian fairies, slipping—stealthily and cunningly like a fox—into each other's heads to silence their inner voice.

And most importantly: we do it both in public and in private. Lately, I feel like I've created a sounding board with the women around me, where what worries and matters to us resonates ever louder: what's happening with our friends, why we're constantly exhausted, how to rediscover the joy in the little things… I see, hear, or read how we quote what one of us said, which exponentially amplifies our voices, making the world sound a little more like us—like our songs, our humor, our books. And, for a moment, I manage to exorcise the prevailing belief that there was only room for one, that there couldn't be more than one of us doing or saying the same thing. In reality, we were wrong: it's not that there isn't room for everyone, it's that the more of us there are—admiring each other, quoting each other, listening to each other—the more space we create for everyone.