Don’t Swear, It’s Not Ladylike. For Fuck Sake.
You are probably wondering why I have become so noisy.
Why I have become so busy in the advocacy space.
Why I keep writing.
Why I keep speaking.
Why I keep turning up.
Why I don’t just let it go, move on, step back, enjoy the quiet life.
Some people will say I am outspoken.
Some will say I am loud.
Some will say I am difficult.
Some will say I make everything about myself.
I’ve heard it all before.
But what I am doing now is not new.
The truth is, I have always had opinions.
I have always had strong instincts about fairness.
I have always noticed who holds power, who gets listened to, who gets dismissed and who gets told to be grateful.
The difference is that now I am saying it out loud.
And that shift did not happen overnight.
It took a lifetime.
This post is not directly about football.
But it is absolutely connected to football, because sport reflects culture and football reflects culture as loudly as anything.
If you want to understand why women hesitate before speaking in meetings, why they soften every sentence, why they apologise before disagreeing, why they get labelled “emotional” or “difficult”, here is one version of that story.
Mine.
I was taught to be quiet
When I was a girl, I was told to be quiet.
Not because I had done something wrong.
Not because I was being rude.
Because I “didn’t know what I was talking about”.
It’s amazing how early girls learn that speaking is risky.
That having an opinion is something you should earn.
That the safest thing to be is pleasant and silent.
I learnt it early.
And I learnt it well.
What school trained into me
At school you had to put your hand up to speak.
Even that simple rule teaches something deeper.
You don’t speak when you think of something.
You speak when you are permitted.
You wait.
You consider whether it’s worth it.
You measure whether the room will approve.
I went to boarding school.
We were made to go to chapel.
And you had to be quiet.
Quiet was not just behaviour.
It was virtue.
Quiet meant good.
Quiet meant obedient.
Quiet meant acceptable.
The kind of quiet that keeps the peace
I got married young.
Actually, more than once.
I got married young.
Actually, more than once.
And in those marriages (not Ken, he is my wonderful number 3) I stayed quiet for the sake of happiness and peace.
Not my own.
That sounds noble when you say it like that.
But it’s not.
It’s not peace if one person is always swallowing their own thoughts.
It’s not happiness if you are constantly managing yourself so the atmosphere stays calm.
It’s compliance.
It’s self-erasure dressed up as maturity.
It’s the quiet women do to survive.
“You’re loud.” “You’re outspoken.”
All my life I was told I was loud.
Or outspoken.
As if that was a character flaw.
As if it was a warning.
As if my job was to soften, not to speak.
I look back now and realise something.
“Loud” is rarely about volume.
It’s about permission.
Women are “loud” when we stop whispering.
Women are “outspoken” when we stop editing ourselves to keep everyone comfortable.
The careful years
When I became President of South Hobart Football Club, I had to be careful.
Careful not to bring the game into disrepute.
Careful not to say the wrong thing.
Careful not to upset someone important.
Careful not to ruffle feathers.
Careful not to offend a politician who might one day decide to give us money.
Careful.
Careful.
Careful.
If you’ve ever sat in leadership as a woman, you know this feeling.
You can feel the invisible line.
Speak too plainly and you’re “unprofessional”.
Speak too strongly and you’re “emotional”.
Speak too often and you’re “dominating”.
Speak at the wrong time and you’re “difficult”.
So you learn to manage yourself.
You learn to read the room.
You learn to phrase truth like a question.
You learn to use the polite voice.
And you become very, very good at it.
I was good at it.
Weaponising speech
At a Football Tasmania AGM I was told it was all about me.
Not my points.
Not the substance.
Not what I was raising.
Me.
That line is designed to do one thing.
Shut you up.
It’s a tactic.
A way to turn advocacy into ego.
To make the person speaking the problem, instead of what they are saying.
To embarrass you in public and warn others not to align themselves with you.
It is not a rebuttal.
It is not leadership.
It is speech used as a weapon.
And I have seen that tactic used on women over and over.
Not just in football.
In meetings, in organisations, in families.
You keep speaking and instead of engaging with the issue, someone says you’re “making it about yourself”.
It is a cheap line.
It works because it creates doubt.
And doubt is often enough to silence a woman who has spent her entire life trying to stay acceptable.
The fear underneath
I was afraid to speak.
Afraid to have an opinion that seemed loud.
Afraid that speaking up would backfire.
Afraid of the consequences.
Afraid of being disliked.
Afraid of being “that woman”.
I let myself be pushed around.
I heard versions of the same message over and over.
You better not do that.
It might backfire.
What will people think?
Maybe just let it go.
Maybe don’t stir things up.
And because I was trained to seek approval, I listened.
What happens when you get older
And then something happens.
You get older.
And you stop caring.
Not in a sad way.
Not in a defeated way.
In a free way.
You stop caring if your clothes aren’t perfect.
You stop caring if you carry too much weight.
You stop caring if you say the wrong thing.
You stop caring if someone thinks you’re too much.
You stop living your life like a performance for other people’s comfort.
You stop shrinking.
You stop apologising.
You stop editing.
You stop asking permission.
And at some point, you look back at all the years you spent trying to be “good”, trying to be “nice”, trying to be “ladylike”, trying to be quiet and acceptable and palatable and manageable, and you just think:
Fuck me.
I am not available for silence anymore
This is not just my story.
It’s a story many women will recognise.
Women who were raised to be good.
To be polite.
To be modest.
To not make it about themselves.
To keep the peace.
To smooth things over.
To be grateful.
And if they ever stepped out of that role, they were called loud.
Outspoken.
Hard work.
Too intense.
Too much.
But “too much” is often just what a woman looks like when she’s finally living in full size.
I’m not interested in being quiet anymore.
Not for comfort.
Not for permission.
Not for approval.
Not for peace that only exists when I swallow myself.
I have opinions.
I have earned them.
I have lived them.
And I will say them.
Football taught me many things.
One of them is this: