Growing up, I never thought my gender would be a barrier for me.
I genuinely believed I had equal opportunities.
I compared my generation to my mum’s and my grandma’s, and it was undeniable—we had made massive progress.
Sexism, I thought, belonged in history books.
But over time, I saw it hadn’t gone.
It had simply learned to hide—behind jokes, microaggressions, outdated traditions, and unspoken rules.
I studied engineering.
I wanted to prove everyone wrong.
Yes, even a girl can do it.
And I didn’t just do it once—I did it twice.
But it meant I was often the only woman in the room—first in uni, then at work.
I laughed off sexist jokes to fit in.
I learned to blend in—to behave like one of the guys.
Until I stopped being us, to begin being them.
I became a mum.
And the double standards hit hard.
The veil lifted.
And suddenly, I could see sexism everywhere.
Crumbs scattered through my whole life.
The same opportunities?
No longer available to me.
I was passed over, underestimated.
In leadership?
I was the only woman.
My male peers led with authority.
I had to lead with strategy.
Assertiveness made people defensive.
Boundaries got crossed.
And I felt like I wasn’t allowed to have them anymore.
I had to constantly gain buy-in, navigate egos, and play politics.
Just to not be left behind.
Just to have my voice heard.
Once, a client praised my work.
A colleague joked he just wanted to sleep with me.
Suddenly, my success wasn’t mine anymore.
He humiliated me, he erased my hard work.
When I asked others why it had been ignored?
“It didn’t strike me as sexism — I’ve never been targeted before.”
That’s the thing about sexism —
It’s invisible if it’s never aimed at you.
This is what it means to be a woman today.
To constantly walk the tightrope between competence and likeability.
To be interrupted, excluded, overlooked.
To clean up after meetings.
To smile when you’re tired.
To be expected to host, organise, accommodate.
And the sexism doesn’t stop at the office door.
In court in Scotland, women are still addressed by their husband’s name—regardless of if it was ever theirs.
A quiet reminder of the belief that women belong to men.
Proving rape or domestic abuse is near impossible.
Victims blamed. Lives dissected.
And if justice comes?
The punishment rarely fits the crime.
So we live cautiously.
We avoid shortcuts.
No headphones in the dark.
Keys between fingers.
“Text me when you’re home.“
Just in case.
So we know you’re safe.
At work. In the street. In our homes.
We’re shouted at, groped, infantilised.
Flirted with by professors who should know better.
Strangers comment on my body.
Tell me to smile.
Say thank you for “compliments” that feel like violations.
You’re exotic. You’re easy. You’re too needy.
I’ve internalised the lie that I’d never be whole without a man.
That controlling, jealous behaviour was love.
That we should ignore red flags.
That we’re too old, too young, too single, too loud, too quiet, too much.
On dating apps, be open, but not vulnerable.
Swipe right, but be cautious.
He might be charming now—until he’s not.
Until the texts won’t stop.
Until your photos aren’t private anymore.
Until your trust is weaponised against you.
Be warm, but not flirty.
Be confident, but not bossy.
Be smart, but not too ambitious.
Try not to send the wrong signals.
If you enjoy your sexuality—you’re easy.
If you protect it—you’re a prude.
We carry the weight of contradictory expectations every day.
You must be everything — but not too much of anything — at the same time.
Even taking a taxi is a calculation.
But remember, you’re alone in his car.
And he controls the doors, the route, the locks.
Even safety feels unsafe.
People ask me when I’ll have kids.
They tell me not to wait too long.
But no one asks that of men.
Held the door for me—not out of kindness, but condescension.
Assume I can’t hang a shelf.
And when I do it myself, I loose my womanhood.
We grow up learning to be desirable.
To be seen through men’s eyes.
Told dressing in almost nothing on a night out is empowerment.
But real empowerment?
It’s walking in with no makeup, in trackies, and not giving a damn.
Let’s be honest:
Whether we’re in high heels or hijabs — so much of it has always been for men.
The makeup.
The hair.
The extensions.
The endless rituals of improvement, refinement—correction.
We were told our natural selves weren’t enough.
That our pleasure didn’t matter.
That our pain didn’t exist.
Women’s health? Ignored.
Our bodies? Policed.
Our worth? Negotiated.
In some places, girls are mutilated so they’ll never enjoy sex.
Our bodies are shamed.
Our desires erased.
Their sexuality is normalised.
Sometimes even weaponised.
Religion, too, has played its part.
God is a man.
His messengers? Men.
His laws? Interpreted by men.
In some places, animals have more rights than women.
Why?
Maybe they fear losing their status.
Maybe they fear we’ll laugh at them.
Maybe they fear we’ll outrun them—once we’re no longer held back.
Whatever the reason—oppression isn’t divine.
It’s deliberate from a small group of men.
Men enjoy sex. Women get pregnant.
They walk away. We deal with the aftermath.
In more places now, abortion is illegal.
It’s just another reminder:
We don’t own our lives or bodies — they do.
And sexism?
It’s rarely loud.
It whispers.
It hides.
It gaslights.
You’re too sensitive.
You’re imagining it.
You’re not good enough.
You’re not assertive enough.
You’re too emotional.
Your work is picked apart.
Your ideas doubted.
Your mistakes amplified.
Your achievements diminished.
Had I been a man, I’d be praised.
But I am a woman, so I am crucified.
It’s exhausting. It’s maddening. It’s deeply unfair.
But I wouldn’t trade it for anything —
Because I am a woman.
And I am powerful.
We are not weak.
We carry the weight of life — quietly, constantly.
We hold families together.
We keep the world turning from its foundations,
While rarely being seen.
We are not naive.
We learn to succeed in systems that aim to erase us.
To speak in rooms that try not to hear us.
To rise —
Not despite the barriers, but through them.
And once you see the truth —
You can never unsee it.
That’s where the breaking starts. That’s where the building begins. That is where change is born.
How have you navigated the subtle and overt forms of sexism in your life or career?
Have you found strength in your womanhood, despite the challenges?
💬Please, share your thoughts in the comments below — let’s continue the conversation.
✨And if you’re interested in diving deeper into these topics, don’t miss last week’s episode of Intersecting Voices, where Kim Sabate and I explore the wider definition of womanhood—beyond biological sex. We also discuss how so-called “female safe spaces” often ignore the root issue no one wants to confront: misogyny.✨
But together, we can make our voices heard.
The Intersectional Hub 
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