I Am More Than Just a Person – I Am a Woman

It was not my intention to write a blog about women’s issues, but after the post about my health, I was suddenly faced with the challenge of appearing not just as a person navigating the world outside of traditional employment, but as a woman facing unique challenges. I felt so anxious about how referencing my struggles with women’s health issues would be received that I almost deleted my post. Fortunately, I chose to sleep on it, because I woke not only messages of gratitude, but one blatant request that I had written the word “vagina” (there it is!). There were many reasons why I chose to be vague, but the main one was a desire to avoid alienating male readers. And I admit that this choice repressed the full-expression of my truth in favor of honoring what I perceive are the needs of others – the very pattern my current journey is intended to challenge.

So why do I find my sexuality, or lack thereof, and my experience of moving in the world specifically as a woman, so difficult to fully own? As I reflected on my life, I discovered that much of the teasing and bullying I experienced as a child, and the criticism I have received as an adult, was loaded with gender-based messages, sometimes overt and sometimes cloaked. As a child, I never considered myself a girl. I thought of myself as a person. But because my brother gave me easy access to the physical play of boys, my mother encouraged my broad creativity, and I was bright and unafraid to speak my mind, I was labeled a “tom boy.” As I got older, the label of “tom boy” shifted to teasing about being a “lesbian”, implying that because my interested included what boys did and was willing to disappoint them to speak my truth, I was not a candidate for their affections. When my first crush gave me a painful twist on my arm so I would stop following him around, and I was painfully teased when the secret of my second crush got out, I learned that it was safer to be receptive and pine from a distance.

Further confusing me was an elderly man down the street who would pay me quarters to let him kiss me. I felt disgusted, but frightened by his authority and too embarrassed to tell my parents. By the time I reached high school, this type of attention from men became the norm as men on the street began cat-calling and the teasing at school, from both boys and girls, began to focus more on the curves I did or didn’t have. This attention left me feeling deeply alienated from my body, which exposed me to both derision and the threat of physical violation. I also realized that although I had possession of something I could use to gain approval and affection from men, it had nothing to do with who I really was and I knew I would ultimately be rejected once the parts of me I had always been teased for were exposed. The only guidance I received from other women was on how to keep small and quiet to avoid attracting extra attention. I learned to stop talking back, I didn’t make eye contact, and I hid my breasts any way I could.

In college, as I began to gain confidence and explore, my fear of being fully seen, violated, and rejected transformed into a sense of obligation for meeting men’s expectations and a confusing mix of thrilling danger and debilitating shame when being overtly sexual. I used my sexuality for risky excitement and stubborn rebellion, loving where I could both prove myself worthy and remain emotionally guarded, all the while seeking a fragile sense of affection and security. This increasingly attracted men who were drawn in by my vitality and scared off by the slightest hint at my emotional pain, solidifying my belief that my true self was flawed and my emotional needs would never be met. The few older male mentors I found for guidance pursued me romantically, deepening my sense of mistrust and suspicion men’s unspoken intentions.

While traveling abroad, I had my first unquestionably sexist experience in the workplace, being overtly shut down and ignored by customers in favor of male colleagues in Scotland. I was harassed for going out alone at night in the highlands, groped on a train in Italy, and cornered in a bedroom in Sarajevo. Surviving these assaults relatively unharmed increased my confidence in my own adrenalin-induced wit, but also escalated my mistrust of men into a visceral understanding of a quote I once heard: “Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid men will kill them.” Being unwilling to hide in the shadow of a male protector, I had to rely on myself for safety, but denying a man often escalated the danger.

In my mid-20’s, I met Andy, a man who was happy to offer me emotional support through a committed relationship and a safe, stable home. I was able to grieve many wounds and as became more confident about managing both my romantic and professional relationships, I came to realize the life I was living was one I had largely borrowed from him. As I rebelled, he became resentful, and we could not find common ground for building a future together. A few months after our divorce, Andy shared with me about the moment he had decided to propose. I was working at a menial job and growing corn in our backyard, and he saw me in that moment as an ideal partner for building a stable, long-term home. This man I had worked hard to love for a decade, who had taught me to censor my eloquent mind, exuberant spirit, and expansive dreams, had really only wanted tasty meals, polite conversation, and domestic contentment.

Being suddenly single in my mid-30’s was eye-opening. I felt casual comments from men at work about my looks, which I never received while married, totally erode my sense of trust in them professionally. I felt surprised and stung by men I had dated comfortably for weeks who suddenly accused me of being selfish and needy when they had never voiced their boundaries or expectations. I was misled and manipulated by men in relationships trying to get close to me. And I continue to feel intrigued by how being a woman may have contributed to my disproportionate professional success. My preferred leadership style of emotional authenticity, collaboration, and compassionate accountability enabled me to rise quickly to a formal leadership position on an all-female board, while I floundered for years in various attempts to advocate as a middle-manager for strategic changes to a co-ed team of executives seasoned in male-dominated institutions.

It has been a struggle for me to stay present to my needs and boundaries, and navigate platonic, professional, and romantic relationships with men in an assertive and kind way. While I have come to meet more and more men who are aware, respectful, and compassionate, and have my deep gratitude for supporting me in becoming more bold and vulnerable, I cannot escape the larger lens of being a woman in a society founded on male principles that marginalize my body as something merely entertaining and my leadership style as something idealistic and impractical. My new commitment to myself is to notice and adjust when I am dimming the best of who I am to appease my old fears and assumptions. When I am curbing my enthusiasm because I don’t want to invite advances from a man, I open up fully and embrace my right to set boundaries with him at any time. When I am going to a party and feeling anxious about what to wear, I grab my faithful cargo capris so I can relax my core, kick up my heels, and trust that the right people will stay near me. When I want to apologize to someone for taking up their time and space, I adjust my language to clarify my expectations and express my gratitude for their help.   And the praise I share with other women is for who they are and how they impact me instead of how their outfit and manners are pleasing.

A woman’s ultimate success in our culture is tied to her usefulness to others – her beauty, her nurturing, her support. Even the increasingly popular notion of self-care implies that the goal is to refresh us to reinvest in the task of catering to others. And the term “selfish” is venomously applied whenever a woman’s behavior strays from their priorities. But on a recent beach retreat with two older women, we laughed full-bellied at our rebelliously selfish decision to allow that weekend of self-care to benefit no one but us, because our personal bliss at being fully ourselves is enough. And when they shared with me that the increasing sense of invisibility a woman experiences as she age in our society can fuel desperation to retain attention and affection by emulating youth, I felt a sense of impending relief. I can imagine myself missing a degree of admiration, but it would be well worth the freedom to move unobserved and fully immersed in the experience, and to know that when I am loved, as rare as it may be, it is for who I truly am.

Nancy

“Every time a woman stands up for herself, without knowing it possibly, without claiming it, she stand up for all women.” – Maya Angelou