A friend sent my daughter an incredibly sweet care package for no reason (the best kind!). In it, among other goodies, was the bestselling children’s book, The Rainbow Fish. I was reading the story to my daughter about the most beautiful fish in the ocean decorated with shiny silver scales who ultimately gives her most prized possession scales away to the other fish so she can be happy. I think the moral of the story is about generosity which is all good but also, WTF. Why does the fish have to make herself anything less than the bling goddess she is to be accepted and fit it? Why should she have to give up her shine? Maybe my daughter takes away the message that sharing is good and possessions don’t equate to your worth. Maybe. Or maybe she takes away that she better not be more beautiful or powerful or unique or literally radiate light from the inside out or the other kids won’t approve of her. Better lock that glow up real quick if you want people to like you, kiddo.
It’s no wonder we grow up thinking it’s bad to shine. As women, it’s reinforced our whole lives. Whether it’s in words, eye rolls, or simple silent judgment, it always says the same thing and it’s deafening: Who does she think she is?
I’ve been on the receiving end of who does she think she is my entire life because I’m bold, assertive, think big, move fast, and am such an extreme extrovert that I chum up with anyone no matter their stature. I admit I got a little shell-shocked when bumping into Jude Law in a uni-sex bathroom at Pastis after consuming a bottle of champagne, but being timid about talking to a CEO of a Fortune 500 company? Nah, we cool, boo.
I’ve been told to let other kids win at math games (cut to: I now count on my fingers). I’ve been told to lower my voice and cover my legs with pantyhose. I’ve been asked to keep knowledge to myself lest someone think I’m a know-it-all. I’ve been encouraged to sign ownership of things I created over to men at companies who had nothing to do with them. I’ve been asked if I’d like to be an assistant to my own role (the day after I landed that company’s biggest sale of the year). I’ve been called entitled by plenty of middle managers who didn’t know how to rein me in. (Can I get an amen for the great leaders who know it’s a leader’s job not to rein you in, but to unleash you?). And, unfortunately, there have been plenty of people paving the way ahead of me that almost instantly decide to sound the warning bells when it’s clear I don’t walk the same path.
I’m sick of it. We are expected to work our asses off, blaze trails, sell millions of dollars, and launch new innovations, all while keeping a nice house, looking pretty, and raising a HUMAN CHILD all alone, but by God, you better be meek and smile sweetly and never be late and exude pure patience and graciousness and always ask for permission like a good girl.
Fuuuuuuck. That.
Be strong, but not too strong.
Be sexy, but not too sexy.
Be powerful, but not too powerful.
Women are constantly walking this tightrope which feels more like a rope around our necks sometimes. I just want to act like I’m soul sisters with Taylor Swift and shake it off but my haunting problem is that I CARE. It’s such a disability to need to be liked, yet here I am like some kind of sad, adorable puppy meme begging for attention.
Today I say to hell with it. Rock your freaking glitter scales. Don’t you dare hide them or God forbid pluck them out of your bleeding body to pass them out to threatened turds like party favors. Yes, you can shine your light on others. Yes, you can help others learn to shine themselves. But you don’t need to do so at your own expense.
Who does she think she is? How about she knows who she is. She’s a motherfuckin’ shiny ass shark.
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