As a Woman, It Can Be Dangerous To Think
How can you know what’s true when your own brain is conspiring against you?
My 14 year old daughter was with me last weekend, and it was a special one because my partner was out of town.
I anticipated some good bonding time over bad Netflix. The usual, I’m proud to say, since I had to work hard to get here.
But what I got was a whole other predictable routine: a nuclear meltdown.
The subject this time? Her violin recital.
“Mommy, there’s no way I can perform on Sunday! I can’t keep the tempo on the shifting part and it ruins the whole thing!”
“So you’re worried you’re going to make a mistake and be embarrassed?” I asked.
“No, it won’t be a mistake. It will be me standing up there…stopped…I won’t be able to start again!” she said in little bursts, through tears. “I won’t do it! I need more time! You can’t drag me there and make me do it!”
Here’s some context to put this in perspective.
My daughter doesn’t just play the violin. She SLAYS.
She is naturally musical and with encouragement (at times slightly more) from her dad and me, has excelled at the violin and performed 4–6 times per year since she was five.
So you can imagine how tricky it is for me to respond in moments like these.
I have to balance my knowledge of the truth, that she is an accomplished violinist with a team of adults behind her who would never put her in a situation where she is likely to fail, with her view of the truth: that she is borderline incompetent at everything and guaranteed to not just fail but literally die of humiliation.
In this case, I listened to her pleas and tried to show her that I understand it’s very scary to have to perform without feeling ready, and yes, potentially embarrassing — the worst curse you can wish on a 14 year old. I shared stories of times when I felt exactly the same way.
But as always happens, she took my empathy as a sign that she would get my permission to retreat. So I had to get tougher.
I reminded her that as much as I hate to see her suffer, I worry she might not see the situation clearly. And that I know with certainty that avoidance is the surest way to increase her fear in the long run.
That went over like a lead balloon. And I was back to being the meanest mom in the world, who’s never on her side and “just doesn’t get it.” Ouch.
I can’t even count how many times we’ve had this conversation. I know all the twists and turns by heart. And it still hurts.
I want to hug her and tell her that she’s so capable and talented, and has worked so hard — at this and many other things — that what she fears probably won’t happen, and even if it did, she’d get up like a champ and keep moving.
More than that, I want her to hear me when I say those things.
And I want to hear them, too. Because every line I trot out when she’s spiralling like this is one I have used on myself, often without success.
The technical term for the kind of negative-thought vortex my daughter was stuck in is “cognitive distortions.”
A cognitive distortion is when your mind runs amok, making all kinds of predictions and judgments about you or others or the world, that may have very little to do with the facts of reality. And that as a result, perhaps unsurprisingly, make you miserable.
And before you think that people are unique in this way, know that even our talents for making ourselves miserable are more alike than they are different. Distortions tend to fall into one of 10 categories, like overgeneralization, fortune telling, or blaming.
We probably all fall prey to distorted thinking from time to time, but some of us seem unusually blessed this way.
And if that’s true, why?
Is it genetics or epigenetics? Parenting? Temperament? Evolutionary mismatch?
Probably all of those things, to some degree.
And maybe it’s also part of our female legacy.
Earlier in the week I’d had a conversation with a potential collaborator who is a community organizer and women’s mental health advocate. She has spent the last decade working closely with women in her community and hosting a well-attended, bi-annual event in Toronto designed to connect and support them.
At one point in our conversation, she told me most of the women she’s met struggle with insecurity — no matter how wealthy, whether they stayed at home with the kids or had a high-powered job. The content might differ, she said, but the feeling is always the same: Maybe I’m not enough.
A few days later, I had a lightbulb moment.
I have always struggled with the script that plays automatically in the back of my brain, which goes like this:
“If you were different, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You’d have so much more to show for your efforts. You’d be wealthier. You’d be happier. You’d be better.”
In general, I’ve gotten much better at neutralizing this kind of chatter. I know that it’s designed to keep me from taking risks, designed to keep me safe on an African savannah, really. And I don’t let it stop me from doing what I want to do (anymore), no matter how scared I feel.
BUT.
I had been so busy lately — managing single parenthood, a relationship, living far away from family, and some potentially outsized career ambitions — I had lapsed in the very important work of exposing this narrative for what it is: a garbage heap of run-of-the mill, self-hating distortions. The same ones that have haunted me since 4th grade.
The content of those inner demons isn’t new, but it was only last week that I realized they must be related to being a woman. Biologically and hormonally, sure, but in terms of lived experience, too.
My self-doubt is overwhelmingly in the career arena, probably because I had a very narrow view of success as a young adult and made many important decisions out of fear. Instead of becoming a therapist from the get-go, I cowered and pursued other things because they felt easier. Being responsible for another’s well-being? How could I ever aspire to do that??
After doing a bunch of worthwhile things that I didn’t enjoy (a great way to tank your self-esteem), I tried to claw my way back towards meaningful work. And when I experienced setbacks, or was faced with something new and scary that stretched me, I had to do it with clenched teeth and churning guts.
Self-doubt is an excruciating feeling. It’s laced with shame, fear and sadness — along with a set of physical symptoms that make you want to curl up and die.
Despite seeing 4 or 5 therapists, I spent many years living like that. And what’s remarkable is that I was so merged with my negative self-assessment, all the things that had gone well didn’t seem to matter.
That I had done well at a prestigious PhD program, earning praise from several world-class scientists (including Jordan Peterson) — gone. That I had formed friendships easily and supported my husband’s career through several long-distance moves—gone. That I had invested career-level energy into parenting my daughter with (mostly) fabulous results — gone.
It’s amazing—and not uncommon.
Cheryl Sandberg said something similar in her first book, that despite extraordinary achievements at every stage of her career, she often felt like an impostor.
How does this happen to someone like Cheryl Sandberg, with first-in-class Harvard degrees and high-level leadership positions at the federal government, Google, and Facebook?
The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced the cycle starts at home.
Like many of her generation, my mom made every decision in our house. She did all the caregiving, shopping, and cooking. She also managed the finances for my step-dad’s small business, started and closed a business of her own, and eventually went back to graduate school for a second doctorate (in psychology this time) and opened a private practice.
She did all that against a backdrop of 5 moves, 5 kids, and a marriage that I couldn’t understand.
And she never complained. She painted and drew in her “free” time. For 4 years she woke up at 4:30a to do schoolwork while the younger kids slept.
Until recently, she never told me how many times she wanted to leave the marriage. Despite feeling lonely and frustrated, she didn’t feel she could do anything about it until she had a steady income of her own. And by then, she was used to living on crumbs.
So it’s not surprising that my vision of a good life included having a large family, meaningful work, and a relationship with a “good” man.
How to do those things without losing my mind? I had no idea. How to have a relationship that wasn’t just stable but nourishing, and that could help me grow? Completely clueless.
So was my mom. And her mom before her.
My mom has often said we were missing “social capital:” knowledge about how the business world works and a community of people to love and support us. In such a community we might have found close friendships that endured through time and relocations, possibly mentors and sponsors. And we might have seen a wider range of examples of what’s possible for us in this life, so we wouldn’t limit ourselves to the model imprinted onto our subconscious by our parents.
But what I was missing most of all, I think, was the opportunity to know me.
I missed opportunities to go after things that mattered to me, that I enjoyed and was good at and that challenged me, because those things didn’t exist. I missed the chance to learn how to fail, because I didn’t want anything — except to survive.
My parents’ semi-organized chaos, my non-existent relationship with my step-father (and my own father), and switching schools every 2–3 years were hard on me. My stomach was in knots every day between 4th and 8th grade, and because I wasn’t performing at the top of my class, I concluded I wasn’t smart or capable.
While this situation wasn’t ideal, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had a home that felt safe, and decided that was enough.
Stepping back, I see all kinds of features in my history that could have contributed to my self-defeating inner monologue: isolation, mistaken conclusions that went unchallenged by me or anyone else, a nervous system that was always on high-alert.
There’s no reason to believe these conditions are unique to women and girls. Men certainly have them, too, and they can and do struggle with self-esteem.
But I would venture to say that women are more affected.
We already know that the classroom experience is different for girls and boys. Boys get more attention from teachers, both positive and negative, and they tend to interrupt and dismiss girls when they speak.
Girls and boys even play differently, with boys often engaged in battle-type scenarios from a young age. Perhaps that friendly competition prepares them well for adulthood. Boys also have greater access to high-quality sports participation in the community, especially in high-school and college.
But I suspect that parental and cultural influences and the need to belong are the most significant factors.
Boys learn from a young age that their worth depends on their achievements. This isn’t a good thing, by any means. (It’s a recipe for covert depression.) But surely many girls grow up believing their talent, drive, and accomplishments don’t matter, or could even be a liability.
Coupled with a strong focus on relationships, underpinned by biology and cultural expectations, it’s easy to see why women as a group might not have learned to focus on exploring their interests, on setting and achieving big goals, and just as important, on their success when it comes. (Sandberg cites research showing that women are LESS likely to be hired when they talk about their accomplishments at a job interview.)
What a tragedy this is. Human beings, man or woman, need to create value to survive. Whether that means growing or hunting our food, writing a novel, or selling software, we need to take ideas out of our heads and turn them into something concrete that will further our lives.
Put another way, being productive is a fundamental psychological need (whether or not there’s money attached). Without it, real self-esteem will always be elusive.
But genuine happiness requires more than self-esteem. It demands growth. That means actively seeking out challenges, and practically guarantees that we will make mistakes and sometimes fail.
This is a skill we can learn; it’s the “growth mindset” Carol Dweck writes about. But it doesn’t happen on its own, and certainly not when we’re not trying to stretch in the first place.
Because that is what happens. When you don’t learn how essential it is to work at the edge of what’s possible for you right now, how important it is to look for opportunities to do new and scary things all the time, you probably won’t.
And if you don’t learn how to talk to yourself when you fall on your face, which will happen even if you don’t stretch too hard, you will stop trying.
Just like we do with boys, we need to let our girls know that the world needs what they have to offer. Not just the individuals who will benefit from their direct care. The world.
And we need to show them that we mean it, by encouraging them to create from a young age and to share those creations widely, and then acknowledging their efforts when they do.
When it doesn’t work out like they (and we) had hoped, we should praise their courage and effort and welcome their mistakes for all their good learning potential. And when they do succeed, we should go crazy with pride. Having these experiences over and over will build confidence, and provide a model for how to treat themselves.
Believe it or not, I have tried to be this kind of champion with my daughter. She eagerly points out how many “hard things” she has done in her young life, compared with all the solo TV watching I did in mine.
But the rest of her equation is leaning towards neurosis fodder: a much too small community, partly due to my own struggles in that area; 2 years of blank space during the draconian Covid lockdowns in Canada; a sensitive temperament; and a popular culture that still views women’s sexuality as our best asset.
It’s an uphill battle.
After an impassioned plea to her teacher, my daughter finally agreed to keep the extra practice session with the pianist we had already arranged, and then see how she feels.
She was nervous about this too, but the pianist was warm and friendly and the session went well. Later, I suggested that she might have underestimated her proficiency the evening before. She said, “it got better between yesterday and today somehow.”
Huh.
When it was go-time, she walked up to the stage with her head held high. The first several bars sounded amazing. The difficult section was not as smooth as before and there were some other small mistakes that no one else even noticed.
Afterwards, she said it was the worst she’d ever played the piece (the most difficult one she’s ever had to perform), and that, had she known that would be the outcome, she never would have done it.
Her dad and I assured her it was an awesome performance, full of great moments, and repeated our mantra: that everyone was there to make mistakes and learn.
She seems to have learned from this particular experience that she will no longer allow her violin teacher to choose her recital pieces.
And hey, that’s better than hating herself or me.
So I’m calling it a win.
Erica Stevens is a journalist and coach specializing in relationships and divorce. If you liked this article and want to learn more please follow her page on Facebook: Build Better Relationships
