Category: Feminism

Learn, teach, review and practice feminism.

Feminism /

Unleashing Sacred Rage

I have spent many tragic hours wishing for my body to be other than what it is, and it has taken me until age forty-one, to realise that my thinking efforts were misdirected. Today, I long for all women to feel wonderfully empowered by the beauty of their own skin, their bodies, their minds, their talents, and their capabilities. I want this because as a young woman growing up, I rarely felt this for myself. I cannot say with great authority how common this is in 2023, but from the circles I move in, it appears to me that more women than not, don’t feel great about their bodies, and despite some delicious moments in between, my mid life is only now awakening to the pure joy of my female body and all her wonderful imperfections.

     It has been said that we often try to create that which we feel lacking or missing in the world, and I am no different. I have been burnt by the glare of others’ judgement, and as a sensitive soul with a yearning for love, and peace, and beauty, and acceptance of the glory of our female selves, I have taken on board more than a little of the harsh criticisms about what it is to be female. Yet as I transition to the full delight of my early forties, my desire to create a life full of joy, and recognition of what it is to be female is supported more and more by the women I surround myself with.

     One of these women is the artist Kat Shaw.

     To be clear, I don’t know her personally. I am a fan of her artwork which seeks to portray women in all our fabulous glory, however we look. She loves women.  She is a fierce defender of our rights to live in and celebrate our bodies whatever our shape or size. She is a bold temptress who encourages us to tap into our courage and to share our beautiful, sensual selves with the world. Hiding does not come naturally to her and thank f*ck for that.

     She is a blessed tonic in a world that shames women for existing. She deserves more recognition for her work than can ever be mustered up in words, but simply put, to be around her social media spaces, to take part in her projects, can only empower and heal parts of you, you didn’t even know needing healing, and what woman doesn’t need that?

     Earlier this year, she put out a call for volunteers to take part in her Sacred Rage project for International Women’s Day 2023 (IWD23). She was looking for women to take pictures of themselves, naked, in poses that represented Sacred Rage, and to write a story about what sacred rage meant for them. Her intentions were to use the images and inspiration provided by the women taking part to create new artwork to celebrate IWD23.

     Intrigued, I signed up, and awaited further instruction. Kat recommended setting up your phone to video mode and letting it run while you, naked, got into various poses that represented your scared rage. She then advised you could take screenshots from the video. Oh, and the light had to be good too.

     At face value, these instructions were simple and clear, and hypothetically, at least, I was happy to follow through, or at least I was, right up until the point of delivering the goods. Distracted by work deadlines and child rearing, I kept putting off the necessary camera shoot and before I knew it, there was just a few hours left between a return trip on the Scotrail redeye down the A9, and Kat’s impending deadline.

     Mercifully, I got through the bedtime routine with my son quite quickly, and soon my body became aware of what I was going to do. Sh!t was about to get real. My chest felt the sense of deep foreboding, like I was doing something wrong, or weird, or worse, disgusting. Immediately, I thought about what other unknown people might think of me for doing this, but with a few deep breaths to reassure myself, something inside me said, push that thought aside, and just play around with the poses, and see what happens.

     I was in my own bedroom, with no-one else around, in a home I feel safe in, and yet, naked, in front of a camera, I worried about whether this was too lewd (because women taking naked pictures of themselves must be, right?). I felt exposed to the world, but still I kept on. I got annoyed with the camera angle and my protective brain tried to tell me to give up, that it was too hard, and not worth bothering with. But I was determined to accomplish this part of the task at least, and not become too overwhelmed by all the thoughts or feelings that might come afterwards.

     Eventually I found a resting place for the phone that would give me the chance to capture the shots I needed. I spent the next three minutes getting into poses that I felt showed me in strong yet soft poses, images that might convey what it feels like to be a strong woman expressing her sacred rage.

     I did symmetrical poses, ones with my eyes closed or my fists clenched. I did relaxed poses with my hands behind my head, pulling my curly hair up and out of my head.  I stuck two fingers up (you know which ones). I did my version of Viola Davis’ portrayal of Woman King.  I placed my hands over my womb in a heart shape. I thrust my first skyward, while I looked deep into the camera, willing anyone to thwart the sacred rage being channeled through my body. “Who even am I?”, I mused as I smiled wryly at the camera. 

     After my earlier fears of how weird doing this might make me appear to others, I felt instantly liberated and transformed, and more than a little surprised at how good it felt. Why aren’t there more spaces or places creating these opportunities for women and girls to feel this good about themselves and their bodies?

     Why on earth did I need to randomly volunteer to take part in a project by an artist I met online, who isn’t paid by anyone to show up and do this work, in order to catch a glimpse of this liberating feeling? The fury unleashed, my sacred rage was alive and kicking now.  Frustrated and saddened by all those years of not feeling good enough in my own skin, then I watched back the video…

     …I saw myself in full naked glory pulling poses, and genuinely, for a few short seconds I was humbly captivated by my own image. I saw my curvaceous, beautiful body anew for the first time in a long time, particularly, since giving birth, and I thought “wow, you sexy woman!” No longer was my head criticising my body and telling me that what I was doing was weird or that my body wasn’t good enough, it was saying “holy shit, you look fabulous!”

     Don’t get me wrong, the whole thing wasn’t quite as bold as Betty Dodson and a hand mirror (one day perhaps…), but that delicious feeling of liberation at seeing a positive image of my own curvaceous self was arresting in its simple beauty. And if that wasn’t enough, the fun and the fear wasn’t over yet.

     Next, I had to take a series of stills from the video and attach the pictures to an email and send them to Kat, a social media and creative Goddess, but a stranger nonetheless.  I cannot tell you how many times I thought this must be a joke, or that I was going to end up on Only Fans. Fortunately for me, it wasn’t, and so I rushed out a few words about my scared rage story and sent them off with the pictures to wait and see what would happen next.

     I needn’t have worried where they’d land, because ever the caring Goddess able to hold safe space for other women, the very next day, there was a simple, yet generous message in my inbox “Received with love – absolutely amazing xxx”.  Phew, she was real, and I am safe to have done this.

     Every day since then, Kat has been posting pics into our private FB group so we can see her progress.  As well as being a bold, caring, creative Goddess, she’s also been sharing her process with us all, taking us on the journey of creation with her. The group is private so I cannot share what is written there, but what I will say is that I am not alone in feeling this way, and that many of us have thanked the courageous Kat Shaw for all that she has given us; a little bit of ourselves, in a world that too often, seeks to keep us quiet or hidden, unless we display a view of ourselves that matches the unobtainable, and frankly absurd, beauty standards of the patriarchy.  We say f£ck that.

Follow her here https://www.facebook.com/katshawartist or better still, buy her artwork here https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/KatShawArtist

Feminism /

Just Another Woman Breaking her Silence

I have tried to write this piece for over a year now. I have watched, read, and listened to endless diatribes about trans rights and women’s rights. I have tentatively responded as best I can in online spaces, I have tried a hold reasoned conversations with friends or family, strangers and acquaintances alike, but I am truly losing patience with and am tired by the new victimhood rhetoric of the national LGBT organisations that purportedly exist to make my, and other lesbians’ lives, better. What follows is therefore my personal assessment of what is happening in this debate in Scotland, and my rudimentary attempts to find a way through rather than against the tragedy that is unfolding in our children’s and young people’s lives, in our schools, our public institutions, through our public broadcaster, in our parliament, distracting us from much more concerning political issues affecting women’s and children’s lives.

    Before I do so, I should say that I am not an expert in any one of these issues, but I am experienced in third sector culture and practice, I am a lesbian, I am a mother, and I have possibly done a little more than the average person to consider what these issues really mean. I, therefore, write from my own perspective and seek simply to add to the plethora of braver women’s voices who are already, or have been doing this work for years now, some for decades (I admire your resilience and tenacity).

    I have had the somewhat unique experience of working in and with the so-called “women’s sector” and the “LGBTQ” (or whatever alphabet spaghetti is the latest “inclusive” acronym) sector. I have also held senior positions in charities, undertaken professional research on hate crimes, won awards for my trans-inclusive work in the police service and finally, consider myself to be a feminist. On the latter point, I have no academic prowess in this arena. I know only that as my experience as a woman grows with time, so too does my fury and sense of helplessness, as well as my hope that the next generation will get a better deal, but more on that some other time.

     I’ve also spent a great deal of time healing from the effects of family dysfunction, domestic abuse, and the challenges brought on by many attempts at failed fertility treatment. These experiences are too innumerable to mention but processing them has led me back to being able to trust my gut instincts, after years of ignoring the warning signals given off by people or situations I’d now rather avoid. This leads me to talk about the differences between who I was in my twenties and early thirties and what influenced my thinking back then.

     I learned early on that to get on in life I was going to need to get myself an education, earn my own money and rely on no-one for the benefits I thought these material possessions would bring to me. I was a Good Girl. I dutifully followed the script of study hard, work hard, and it worked fairly well, until I started to try to fall pregnant and become a mother. While it remains true for me that my education and earning my own money have undoubtedly help me to avoid some of the most horrendous traps that can befall a woman, it is also fair to say that these alone have not protected me from the myriad ways the patriarchal system we live in has hurt me, nor has it isolated me from the power plays of other people’s agendas.

     And so it is that I arrive at my analysis, tinged with fury, heartbreak, confusion, and ultimately sadness, that this is the quality of the political debate in Scotland. We deserve better from our elected leaders. Our children, young boys, and girls, need us to be adults in this situation, to use the best of our human and collective experience, skills and knowledge to resolve this toxic debate and find a better set of answers to our most pressing human difficulties and social problems.

     If there are a growing number of children and young people with gender dysphoria, then we must ask ourselves why, and design interventions that are free from political interference and harmful ideological assumptions. Above all, we must put our children and young people’s wellbeing at the heart of every word we say, and every action we take, informed by evidence not popular opinion.

     We must also wake up to the fact that the next generation are inheriting a shitshow of mental health crises, isolation, increasing individualism, fewer real economic opportunities, greater global instability and don’t even get me started on the status of women and young girls. Degrading sexual violence, rape prosecution rates that haven’t changed in decades, the ubiquitous nature of online pornography and child exploitation, poverty, sex trafficking, poorer health outcomes. It’s a state so depressing there are times I can’t even bear to express it fully in words. Indeed, where to begin when the adults are so busy arguing about what a woman is, that we can let months and years pass ignoring the real plight of actual women and children.

     Of course, I don’t have all the answers to these problems, but I do know that when I woke up this morning and checked my Twitter feed, I was angry enough to finally snap out of my own complacency and fear of speaking out to write this post. My earlier versions were full of the all the terrible practice I witnessed in the “LGBT” and “women’s sectors” and there was a lot, believe me. But exposing all this dirty linen would simply keep the “gotcha” point scoring alive and perhaps, there has been enough of that.

     What we really need are for our politicians, our public institutions to wake up to the facts of what are going on, and then to stop leaving the need to find better answers to the new-found women’s and same-sex rights groups or the individual women (because it nearly always women doing this work) with tragic personal stories, to shout about the tragedy of what is going on. I am not as brave as those women on at that frontline, but, I will no longer maintain a silence when our hard-won rights are being jeopardised by the very leaders supposed to protect us. Women are adult human females, and we deserve a right to single sex spaces, our own language, and our sex based rights, whenever we decree it so.

     Trans people deserve their freedoms and rights protected too, of course, but when they start to impinge on women’s rights and seek to redefine our language, our sense of self, and what our needs are, then something has gone wrong, because no social justice movement should ever, by design, be about forcing radical new theories of thought and behaviour on a group of people, who know to their very core who and what they are. Men cannot be women no matter how much they might wish it so.

     I’ll close by signposting to some of the most thorough work done by others on this very topic, and simply let you make your own mind up. If you think the tone of this piece is transphobic, then I’ll have failed in my efforts to persuade you that we need to do better to hear each other’s difficulties and find better answers to the challenge of protecting women, girls, and boys, and anyone who is struggling with their sex and the gender stereotypes, and I’ll try again tomorrow.

Feminism /

Lift a Sister Up

Queen Bee syndrome, women tearing women apart, women “behaving more like a man” once they’ve achieved a certain level of status or power, revealing or concealing sex or gender as deliberate acts of fitting in and getting on, these old tropes abound from the workplace cafeteria to the most senior positions in government. Yet who is it that stands to gain from all the backbiting? Certainly not women.

Kept outside the corridors of power in our most lauded public institutions, entitled to full suffrage only since 1928, predominantly doing the lowest paid, most insecure work and doing the bulk of all unpaid care work, I’d go so far as to suggest that women have hardly made it, while men, for the most part, have it made. Perhaps not just their tea, but their beds, their bank balances in some exceptional cases, and most often their kids raised as well.

Every once and a while, there comes across a small opportunity to be heard, taken seriously, truly supported in every aspect of our lives and it being so rare, sometimes, we don’t even notice what’s being offered. At other times, we find the weight of patriarchal conditioning so heavy that we start to erase ourselves out of the very support or recognition that we deserve. How many times have you found someone offering you help, only for you to say, “no, no, it’s fine, I’ll manage”, then in the next sentence go on to talk about how exhausted you are by the busyness of life.

I’ve often been dismissed or outright rejected when I’ve tried to offer words of support to another woman doing fabulous, interesting or important work. We are neither expected to want that recognition and nor do we know how to accept it graciously, far less pass it on. I’ve sometimes felt embarrassed when giving someone a compliment, worried that as a lesbian woman, I’ll be judged by the blokey standards of wanting something in return (and yes, I do mean “wanting something” as a euphemism). What a waste to avoid saying something heartfelt and true that would lift a sister up, because I’ve worried I’ll come across as too passionate, too intense, too much, or worse, creepy and entitled.

If COVID has taught me anything (after handwashing and the polarities of science), it is that we have lost a sense of deep connection to one another and our planet. And so it is true that pre COVID, there was plenty of room for improvement to support one another as women, it is even more essential now.

Lift a Sister Up series focuses on the cool, the quirky, or the fascinating work of ordinary Highland women. We are an exceptional and talented bunch of women living and working in rural and remote areas, so why not find ways to shout about that? The series aims to highlight some of these women in ways that might inspire and uplift others, or simply give them recognition for their contributions to life in the Highlands. Historical accounts may often reduce us to the caricature of the herring lass, or weaver, of the 1900s, but we were at Culloden too, and our skeletons live on sites of the Clearances. We burned for our talents (see Katherine Stewart’s account of witchcraft in Women of the Highlands, 2006), we worked the land, bore children, and today, we educate the next generation, we operate at Raigmore, consult at the Belford, we clean the public toilets at Garve, and serve customers at Glenfinnan. We make artworks, write books, care for elderly people at home or in homes, we shoe horses, run businesses, herd cattle and much, much more besides.

Yet despite these achievements, we are not overflowing in recognition, often scorned for self-promotion which is ironic in a world intent on living life through socials, and waiting for improvements to be handed down from up above. Since my own mid-life awakening, everywhere I look, I see the less often-told, s()heroic efforts of hundreds of Highland women and I am making it my business to write about, learn from and share their work with my audience. If you are a woman with an interesting project, job, business or hobby and would like to take part, please email lisa@thehighlandfeminist.com. Equally, if you would like to refer a woman doing fabulous things or with an insightful or interesting tale to tell, please tag her in one of these posts, I’d love to hear from her.

You do not need to be a feminist, call yourself a feminist to take part, nor are the views expressed on this blog a reflection of any of the participants in the Lift a Sister Up series. The session will usually last about an hour, then once written up, usually within the fortnight, you get the chance to review it for factual accuracy before it gets published. The whole point of the articles is to work together so that the end piece is a collaborative effort that you are comfortable with and that promotes you or your work.

What are you waiting for? Let’s chat and see if this series is right for you 🙂

Education /

Highland Suffrage Centenary Celebrations with Lizzie McDougall of Ross-shire

You might expect a professional storyteller to tell a great yarn, but to be able to do that literally through the medium of fabric and visual artistry, while also navigating the thorny topics of women’s equality with a group of unknown women to create the beautiful banner (see below) in under three months, is frankly a feat of great ability. Lizzie McDougall displayed all these skills and more when, in 2018, she stepped up to deliver Ross-shire’s emblematic efforts to mark the centenary celebration of UK women’s suffrage as commissioned by Ullapool gallery, An Talla Solais.

The project began its life as part of the London-based Artichoke Project’s vision for a giant nationwide art event celebrating Women’s Suffrage. Over 100 groups from across the UK took part in the project that culminated in mass processions in all four capitals in 2018; Edinburgh, Belfast, Cardiff and London and involved tens of thousands of women in June 2018.

Lizzie was one of three artists commissioned in the Highlands, with Alex Patience in Caithness and Heidi Soos, in Inverness each working with groups of women to develop their needlework.

Pic: Lizzie rocking the “Boats for Women” at home in Easter Ross

A highly experienced visual artist Lizzie knew immediately she wanted to take part in the commission, yet she says getting started wasn’t easy “ one of the first things to do was to find unifying themes and ways to illustrate them, An Tall Solais had invited lots of women to take part but they didn’t know each other, or have common cause, so it was exciting to hear everyone’s thoughts on women’s suffrage. What quickly emerged was that everyone felt that the journey to equality would not be over till all women everywhere have equality, and that we all felt committed to improving things for all children.”

Lizzie explained that many of the other groups in the UK had cohesion as they were already working on common goals, such as the Southall Black Sisters, [who also took part and who organize around the needs of black (Asian and African-Carribean women). Wester Ross had less cohesion around a single theme, however after the initial discussions with the group, the idea for the boat as the symbol of Highland Women’s suffrage emerged as a visual interpretation of the journey we’re on towards equality, about a boat’s metaphorical interpretation as floating above the different issues that affect women while bringing to life the idioms of being “all in the same boat” and “rocking the boat” appealed to her sense of collectivism and mischief.  Being a talented visual artist Lizzie could see how this would look in the procession as we paraded through the streets of Edinburgh.

After quickly identifying all these strands, and careful not to be overwhelmed by them, in her own words, “one of the participant’s young daughter saved the day when she said, “Can I say something? I don’t think that it’s fair that I don’t get to play rugby just because I’m a girl”, everyone stopped and listened to her story and so she became the figurehead of my imagined boat”. In stepped local politician, Maree Todd MSP, to contribute her very own rugby shirt, no doubt acting as a role model in the process and this was used in the banner.

Lizzie took me on a passionate tour of all the characters Highland female archetypes that emerge as passengers on the voyage; the crofter, farmer and gardener representing women’s connection to the land, the teachers doing it for the children and the next generation of Highland women, Mairi Hedderwick’s Katie Morag, a model Highland feminist if ever there was one, the scientist, the henwife, a traditional midwife in Highland communities helping to birth the next generation, the music-makers, art promoters, teachers, entrepreneurs, businesswomen. Each of these archetypes are carefully depicted in material by all the women who took part, telling the story of Highland women today and 100 years ago.

I ask her whether she thinks the challenges of organising women for this project can reveal something about the challenges of organizing around women’s issues more generally in the Highlands or rural areas. Far too modest, she suggests she isn’t qualified to give her opinion on that – she’s a visual artist, first and foremost, that suffrage was the topic was incidental to her interest in the project, but I am not convinced there isn’t an opinion in there. I try again, and this time, she offers, “choosing a slogan for the banner that everyone could identify with was challenging but

Boats for Women felt like it was a way of saying opportunities for women. Later she reels off a list of names of inspirational Ross-shire women who have contributed so much to Highland life, putting dreams into action and making things happen even in the face of latent chauvinism. Her face lights up when she talks of the work of Rita Hunter, Alpha Munro, Kate Martin, Fiona Dalgetty, Lesley Strang and Jean Urquhart. I make a mental note to request an interview with each of them in the future. She talks about Rona Lightfoot, the great Uist piper, who challenged every possible male norm by having the audacity to enter Mod piping competitions long before it was made the commonplace occurrence it is now, and how this contrasts with the piper on the banner who is wearing a mini skirt, fairy wings and welly boots while piping at Bella. So much of the success of the development of the arts and the Feis movement is down to the incredible commitment of women and has ensured that the Highlands are full of wonderful art and music and that young people have amazing opportunities now.

Realising she hasn’t told me about the Pictish influences on the banner she brings me back to talk about the large figure on the banner who is both feeding a baby and steering the boat, how the feminine principle was revered because creating life and giving birth were seen as both strong and vulnerable, that we have lost some of this and it’s important to bring it back and remind ourselves of women’s inner strength.

She concludes by sharing some stories of the work of women she knows have contributed immensely to life in the Highlands. Those named above featuring greatly. It is clear that whether she calls herself a feminist or not, as a woman, her experience and contributions to the Women’s Suffrage project have been strongly influenced by her own experiences of Highland life as well as the many women whose work she admires. I heard this in her voice and it’s plain to see in the banner. No woman left out, every stitch crafted with skill and patience, and the help of a great many friends, colleagues and journeywomen along the way.

There has since been an exhibition of the banners in London.

Universal suffrage was granted in 1928 so watch out for the next centenary celebration in which Highland women rise up and rock the boat.

*Ends*

Lizzie continues her voyage with the Highland Suffrage banner in schools, communities and

exhibition spaces. If you’d like to book a talk or hang the banner in your exhibition space, get in

touch with Lizzie direct here https://www.facebook.com/storyquilts

Feminism /

What Makes a Feminist in III Acts

As far back as I can tell, I have always been a feminist. A shy one, an angry one, a closeted one and now, a more compassionate one as well. In my early twenties, I remember the joy at discovering that the rape crisis service I’d applied to work for was an openly feminist organisation. What luck, I thought, to have finally found a home for my feminist views.

But alas, I was too young to be able to handle what it threw at me and as I reflect from what I hope is at least the mid-point of my career and life, I offer up some insights as to what made me into the feminist I am today and what on earth I’m going to do with the gift of experience.

Act I – The Garden of Eden Holds Few Sweet Blooms

I was about nine or ten when the local boys lined up outside a rickety old shed in one of their back gardens as they took turns at going inside to kiss me. They didn’t hold me in there against my will, they just expected that I would submit to their awkward, hard, sloppy kisses. I did submit, because I was a good girl and I always did, or at least, tried to do, what others told me to do. I felt no pleasure. But I did desperately want to fit in and by the time I was nineteen I’d had more boyfriends than girlfriends, which was a terrible shame really. No gold star for me.

Eventually, the forays of burgeoning sexuality gave way to the more serious pursuit of education on the path to young adulthood. I left the North of Scotland for the bright city lights of my family’s hometown, Edinburgh. Still the good girl, I applied myself more than ever, desperate to prove myself worthy and gained an MA (Hons) in Languages. I spent four years locked up in the “computer lab“ studying until late at night, before jumping the bus at midnight to become safely embalmed in the city’s hot, sweaty gay scene, seven nights a week with my favourite partners in crime. Life was peachy and I swapped the garden shed for the sticky basement of CC Blooms, only this time, we were all willing participants.

The day I gained my undergraduate degree, I cried hot tears of relief, releasing the fear that I was not clever enough to gain my degree. My peers made a good attempt at covering their delight at my 2:2, but I knew I had learned a powerful lesson about applying myself and I mused about what dizzy heights would await me if I studied something I was really interested in, as opposed to what I’d been good at in school.

Gradually, I set about securing a collection of certificates and degrees and scholarships I am only now beginning to appreciate. Nothing less than distinction became my mantra over the next 15 years, and I applied this in my professional life as much as to my education. I never felt the urge to compete with others in this pursuit, but I was a cruel opponent to myself. Driven to achieve, as if the external symbols of success would give me a free pass to a better, more satisfying, more successful life. And to be fair, everything did seem rosy, at least on the outside – good jobs, well paid, with opportunities to grow, learn and travel, a mortgage, a pension, holidays, festivals if I wanted them, food in my cupboards and enough to pay the bills. Then, boom, biological failure struck without me ever realising that I had been afraid of it.

Act II – Cheerio success, hello failure

I had controlled everything else in my life quite nicely, thank you very much, so why would becoming a mother be an exception? But round after round of Intra-Uterine Insemination, drug-assisted efforts, a private donor, and finally IVF, over an emotionally exhausting four years, and I had finally met the darkness that sought to defeat me. My body wasn’t cooperating, and my spirit broke a little more each month I bled.

I had played by the rules for so long, I was devastated when my tried and tested methods got me nowhere. No amount of raspberry tea, or yoga, or dieting, or abstinence, or keeping fit were going to get me pregnant. I needed the help of the cold, clinical laboratories to get pregnant and this went against everything I’d ever been taught to think about conception and motherhood. Heck, I didn’t even fully know how my reproductive organs and hormones worked back then. All I had to rely on was the familiar, punishing self-cruelty, as I blamed myself month, after month, after month, for not being able to do what happens so naturally for many women (or at least, that’s what we’re all led to believe).

Of course, I had an obvious barrier to motherhood – as a lesbian, no amorous lie-down on a Friday night was going to create the child I so desperately wanted, but beyond that fact, there were multiple barriers to be faced. I had silently coped with the chronic pain of undiagnosed endometriosis for twenty-three years, so even the strongest of swimmers would have found the journey through my tubes a treacherous one. When it came to IVF, the haul of eggs to be harvested was half the ideal crop lessening my chances further. Thirty-six years of shame about my useless, incapable, female body all bubbling up to the surface each time the fertility nurse brought out the speculum. Then there was the lack of donors. The achingly slow administration of healthcare. And to top it off, coping mostly alone, or in my own head, and out of reach of anyone who tried her best to help.

The pain and the silence became crippling until I decided I needed some professional help. I took a career break believing that I needed to have done everything I possibly could to give myself the best chance of conception, and in any case, I had tried everything else. I didn’t want to look back years from then and regret that I’d not given myself the best chance of conception, so I found a therapist to navigate the complexity of emotions. I was inconsolable and desperately sad that the script I had so dutifully followed, yielded none of the return I had expected. Being a good girl sucked if it meant that believing in the myth of meritocracy or the study-work-pension-retire narrative you’d been told for so long, especially if you still felt useless, worthless, and hopeless.

Then suddenly it all changed overnight.

Act III – The Breaking of the Cycle

Years of trauma gave way to the hope and delight of feeling my son grow in my belly. I remember each stretch of a foot or bout of nausea or insomnia, with pride. I did it. I grew a beautiful, perfect, baby boy inside my body. Today I bear the visible remnants of my pregnant body with joy and gratitude for the life I created. I had changed though and although it would take another few years before I found the grace to say what I wanted without upsetting those closest to me, I started to speak out about the overwhelm I felt as a new mother. This was not what I had learned about myself, a capable, competent, independent woman who knew what she wanted and worked hard to achieve it.

Of course, the instincts I felt as a mother were there as soon as I knew I was pregnant. I sang to him all day long, took him swimming in the ocean, gently rode on horseback for the first few months, I cradled my bump like there was no other comfort. I applied the same rigour I had learned in the university library to the treatment of gestational diabetes, only this time it worked. My blood sugar stayed low as I followed the advice to the letter. But I also started noticing the frequent disparities between the advice of different healthcare professionals and the treatment of women in the hospital or clinic. I felt gratitude for the fertility clinic, but the treatment of expectant or new mothers felt like 1950s midwifery window-dressed as modern-day management practice and it was anything but comforting or soothing to my broken spirit.

My emotional reserves were depleted until one day I woke and realised that this was my life, and no-one was coming to save me, or give me the answers, I would have to dig in and fight for my life so that my son wouldn’t have to. You see, it wasn’t just the highs and lows of down-regging or the sixteen failed attempts at conception that deflated my soul, it was the accumulation of lots of little, and too many big, events that had caused years of underlying trauma to go unaddressed. The speculum eventually enabled my son’s conception and yet it had also enabled what felt like the intense scrutiny of my vagina, my cervix, my womb, and my ovaries, in a world that had taught me I was shameful and dirty. My preparation for this had been anything but helpful. I had grown up in a materially well-provided for but frightening home, conditions that do not make for taking up the space needed to process and thrive through fertility treatment. The years of trying to prove myself had taken their toll and although it makes sense to me now that my body and my emotions were not a safe haven, back then I couldn’t have told this story or explained it in any other way, than I was a failure.

When my son was nine months old, something woke me up out of the nightmare I’d been living. I knew I had to survive because dying wasn’t in my son’s best interests. I had first-hand experience of a close family member’s attempted suicide and I simply could not allow myself to get that bad. I needed a plan.

Slowly but surely, I gathered the energy to think about going back to work and I did so in spectacular style (if I rate myself according to the Good Girl Rule Book). I took on a big job that I had no idea would transform my outlook on life completely and kickstart my recovery from a Good Girl to a Fulltime Feminist working to support women to free themselves from whatever uncomfortable situation they find themselves personally, or at work.

I had followed the rules and done what I thought was expected of me as a child, a young woman, a daughter, an employee, and by and large, it all looked good on the surface. But the hidden aspects of my life as a woman left my soul in denial about the reality of a woman’s place.

Trauma arising from domestic violence, multiple “minor” sexual assaults, undiagnosed endometriosis, fertility problems and treatment, sexism at work, patriarchal models of living forced on us by big society, governments, the media, tech giants and commercial interests are terrible ingredients to sustain and nurture women and girls. When I say it like that, it’s a wonder I didn’t reach this conclusion sooner, but it was not until I faced the full wrath of a few desperately unhappy people that I begun to realise that no-one likes a successful, capable woman, especially if her very existence causes them to take a long hard look in their own mirror. Much easier to smear another woman than address the weaknesses in oneself. There I said it. Sexism is as alive among women as it ever was, and for those who should know better, you’ll find them staring at their shoes so that you become ostracised as the angry, unreasonable, hostile woman it is comfortable for them to believe you are.

But bit by bit, we must refuse to accept anything less than our right to live our lives as the capable women we were born to be. My silence cost me dearly in the past and it is too high a price to pay for my wellbeing, for my son’s future, for the futures of the men, women, and children I may be lucky enough to connect with in future. If not for ourselves, ladies and gents, then for our children.

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