#storieswehaventbeentold

[sheisherestories-blog]

Through Adversity

Written by Tijana Huysamen

“I used to cry from the pain, I hated it! But, repeatedly said to myself… keep going, you can do this!”

Being different yet confident is the magic that makes Kirsten Huysamen the woman that she is. Growing up on the African continent, in South Africa, Kirsten learned from a young age what it means to be diversified: “I believe self-discovery is the key factor to finding happiness, once you know who you are; you discover your dreams, passions, inspirations and become unstoppably driven, “ she says.  

Born with inverted hips, Kirsten faced many challenges as a child. Not only was she teased for wearing inversion boots, but doctors also believed that she would never be able to participate in sports or recreational activities. Additionally, Kirsten had to undergo speech therapy, and was identified with possible learning disabilities.

Remarkably, in primary school Kirsten began to show extraordinary ability in a variety of sports. Against all odds and medical advice, Kirsten had a natural talent that exceeded everyone’s expectations about her capabilities. Although she still tripped over her feet at times when she ran, she soon became the new sports star at her school, St. Cyprians.

In middle school, Kirsten entered the world of competitive swimming and that is when she met Karoly Von Toros; the coach who corrected her inverted hips. Karoly worked on Kirsten’s legs weekly, tying her legs together with a band. Kirsten had to swim breaststroke, kicking the band outwards. 

“I used to cry from the pain, I hated it! But, repeatedly said to myself… keep going, you can do this!”.

Kirsten is known for her fighting spirit. She went on to become the sports captain of her high school; St. Andrews and a world-class triathlete! “Anything is possible as long as you believe in yourself,” Kirsten pointed out, as she tells a story about when she completed the triathlon national championships at 15 with a fractured arm! “A week before champs I had a bad fall and fractured my forearm. I was advised not to race, but being the stubborn and determined person I am, I went against both medical and parental advice. I wanted to race and win! After a terrible swim and extremely painful and tough cycle, I ran my heart out into 2nd place, with tears streaming down my face. It was one of my most memorable races”.

As a sponsored Nestle Pure Life triathlete, Kirsten afforded herself the opportunity to travel both the country and world, which included representing South Africa at two Triathlon World Championships, one in Japan and one in Switzerland. She recalls these as being her most memorable moments doing triathlon. Being exposed to an array of different cultures and nationalities, Kirsten met many unique people from around the world; which she says enabled her to become more mindful and interested in others.

However, towards the end of high school, Kirsten reached a crossroads as she questioned whether sport would continue to be a part of her life.  

There are few fond memories that Kirsten has of school and she struggled to relate and befriend the other girls; “I felt like an outcast and that something was wrong with me, almost like being trapped and out of place” she says. For instance; after winning a national championship title, Kirsten was verbally abused for having an eating disorder. Although this accusation was false, rumours were spread, which eventually were picked up by teachers and led to meetings with parents, principles and counsellors. Additionally, she was told repeatedly by teachers and mentors that she would not amount to anything academically; “Thank goodness for your sport”, they would comment.

This created a lot of doubt and a low self-confidence in her academic abilities. Kirsten believed she would never amount to anything outside of sport.  At this time, sport began to feel like a job, not an activity that she once loved.  As university life approached, Kirsten saw this as her scapegoat.

However, Kirsten was soon to find out that she was going to face her darkest years yet. After entering Rhodes University, and giving up triathlon, Kirsten enjoyed a whole new life of partying and socializing. A combination of choosing the wrong degree and her newfound lifestyle, Kirsten failed her first year.

“When exams came around I had failed everything and my triathlon career was over. Not only did I disappoint my family, coach, and sponsors, but mostly myself. To make matters worse I was on academic probation”.

“Some would say my first year at college was a disaster. I would say that it was the best thing that ever happened to me. It made me realize that I was lost. This jump started my journey of self-discovery. Ultimately, it made me into the person I am today”.

Despite all of Kirsten’s shortcomings she enrolled herself into a BSc and persisted to prove everyone wrong. Gaining confidence, self-belief and ambition, she soon realised that nothing was impossible: 

“If I wanted something, I would take the risk and go for it! What did I have to lose besides regret? At the end of the day I am the only person that can make a change in my life and make my dreams become a reality”.

From here on, her academic career flourished – getting three degrees (BSc and BScH in Human Kinetics and Ergonomics and a MSc in Ergonomics) as well as scholarships and publications! Kirsten was soon placed on the Dean’s List and became a member of the Golden Key International Honour Society (World’s largest collegiate honours society).

“I realized my passion was helping people, making a difference and problem solving,” Kirsten says, “I love research! Thus, deciding to pursue a PhD was an easy decision. However, choosing the location was not. I had progressed so much as an individual, however I felt like I was still not being completely true to myself. I had a strong desire to travel, be put out of my comfort zone, meet people, explore cultures, face challenges and go on adventures. But mostly I wanted to release and embrace every part of my weird and unique inner self. I knew to do this, I needed to start fresh somewhere else, where I could be myself without any facades or societal influences.”  

This led Kirsten to where she is currently living and finishing her PhD in Ireland at the University of Limerick. Kirsten is working on exoskeleton research with a focus on human-robotic interaction. Kirsten believes she’s living the dream; not only is her research aimed to help people and advance current technology, but she has also had the opportunity to travel all over Europe to work with various like-minded intellectuals on various exoskeleton projects.

“It should be noted I am in a man’s world. Whenever I travel abroad to other countries for work I am usually the only female. The men judge me at first and treat me differently. However, as soon as they see my skills and work ethic they change their opinions and respect me,” says Kirsten. “Prejudice is one of human’s biggest faults.”

Kirsten has learned a lot from being placed in challenging situations and this has shaped her into a woman who can handle pressure and accept criticism. Despite what everyone said about her academic abilities, Kirsten has proven them wrong and has excelled in what she is passionate in and continues to do so.

“I found what I love and who I am through all the adversity”.

Kirsten has begun triathlon again and has recently returned from a Triathlon Ireland training camp. 

“It’s funny how life works out, but I found my way back to the thing that balances my life out perfectly. My first year in Ireland was a year of self-discovery and exploration. I soon realised who I was, what I wanted and the type of person I wanted to be. However, there was still a part of my soul missing, so I knew it was time to reopen the door and see whether triathlon was still part of who I am. For the first time, I am in control and doing it entirely for myself. I love it and I doubt I will ever give it up again”.

So what is next for this remarkable young lady once she completes her PhD at the end of the year?  

“I am not sure of what I will be doing or where I will be going, but I cannot wait to start a new chapter in my life. It is scary but at the same time extremely exciting! The world is my oyster and the sky is the limit. If I follow my heart, help people, make a difference, problem solve and do what I truly love, I will be happy and what more can I ask for? As I always say, I want to live a life worth remembering”.

For anyone out there that feels that they can relate to the story of Kirsten Huysamen, here is her advice:

“It is okay if you do not know who you are and you get lost along the way. It is the realisation that you are lost and acting on it that is important! Having the courage to take a risk to be the best version of yourself is the first step to self-discovery and ultimately happiness. It is natural to experience tough times and dark moments where you feel like you are going to break. However, these are just moments that will pass, it is how we come out the other side that is crucial. You either choose to fight and learn, or to give up. Honestly, as long as you believe in yourself, have courage and not be afraid of failure, anything is possible. But, most importantly, never let anyone dull your sparkle! As when you become an adult and get into the real world, the things that seem like weaknesses and weird things that make you strange are ultimately your greatest strengths. You are beautiful just way you are! Never doubt it”.

[sheisherestories-blog]

It’s Never Too Late

Raya Kozirenko. 08/12/1941. USSR/Latvia/Israel/Canada

Written by Dana Kozirenko

“Raya got a small piece of land in the city of Ariel, almost sitting on the edge of a desert. She started to work on several jobs in order to build a house of her own on this piece of land. After many years of carefully calculating every shekel earnt, she built it - a three-storey house - almost entirely by herself and exactly as she saw fit.”

Read the same story in Russian: Никогда не поздно

This is a story about my grandmother Raya. It's about those times when Raya wasn't yet a grandmother: a long time ago, she was younger than I am now and she was making mistakes I too could easily make. 

When Raya was 19 years old, she met the love of her life. Back then, she was living in Riga and had gone to Crimea for holidays, where she met him. He was noticeably different from everyone she knew: unlike the other men Raya had met before. He had an aim - he wanted to become a scientist and Raya liked that a lot. 

As this was during the Soviet era, going back to Riga alone would mean losing each other, most probably forever. Raya didn't want to lose him. For that reason, they decided to get married and to go to Riga together. 

In Riga, they moved into Raya's parents' apartment: it had three rooms and, besides Raya's parents, both of Raya's older brothers lived there too, together with their families. All together, they were eight people in total. After a while, Raya had her first baby, then a second one, and eventually ten people lived in the three-room apartment. 

He spent all his time on his scientific work, and Raya was not only trying not to disturb him but also to help as much as she could: with two children in her arms, she was typing all his academic works so that he could do his intellectual job easily and not spend his time on nothingness. On top of that, Raya attended classes in order to acquire an education and profession. After a while, the family began to lack money - it's quite difficult to earn enough for a family of four with academic work. So on top of everyday helping her husband, taking care of the children, housework and studying, Raya started to work during the evenings as a cleaner. She would bring the children to work with her, because he had to work at home, and he needed peace and quiet to do his job. 

Over time, Raya began to have health problems. Asthma developed and her problems with thyroid began. Still, she didn't have time to rest. She had to support the family and help her husband incarnate his dream. 

One time, when Raya needed to go run an errand, she asked him to keep an eye on the young children. Raya had literally only left for an hour but when she came back, she found him still sitting at his desk, turned away from the children, writing another academic article, while their toddlers were investigating the sewing kit and trying to see how needles tasted. 

It was one of those moments when Raya started to understand that her husband was not going to sacrifice his time for the family. At the same time, she understood that not only was he not ready to help, but he also wasn't able to understand the sacrifices that Raya was making for him. In his opinion, everything was exactly the way it should be: he, smart and ambitious, was doing his intellectual job and she, loving wife, was supporting him - even if the price was her health. After all, his aim - to become a scientist - was much more important than any aim Raya could have. 

Back then Raya thought: to hell with it, let him finish his work, defend it and then we will start to live like normal people do. She started to wait. After a while, she thought she was getting rewarded for her patience; he finally finished his big scientific work. However, she didn't get a chance to breathe a sigh of relief: he announced that he would begin writing a new one and Raya finally understood that it would never end. 

At the time, Raya couldn't see any escape from the situation. She couldn't divorce him, because then he would stay in the apartment and she would have no place for her and the children to go. So, she stayed with him. 

One day, she learned that there was a vacancy at the university in Norilsk - a city in the north of Russia and one of the coldest cities in the world. She convinced him to apply for the job and after a while, he got the contract. Despite the deep freezes and polar nights, Raya and her children recall the years spent in Norilsk as the best ones: their family of four lived in their own separate apartment, with their own rooms, and they had enough money for food and everything they needed in life. The money earnt was even enough to buy a summer house at the seaside in Latvia. The children participated in sports and attended different classes. Raya had time for herself. 

But then, the contract expired and it was time to go back to Riga, to the three-room apartment inhabited by ten people. It turned out that her husband perceived the time spent in a good position in Norilsk as damaging for his scientific career. He blamed Raya for convincing him to move temporarily. He didn't want to hear that the family liked living in Norilsk. He believed that he had unproductively wasted time better spent on science instead. 

Since then, Raya could never convince him of any other changes. He wasn't worried about the circumstances in which the family lived. Actually, the family itself didn't worry him either. Science was the only thing that mattered. 

Time was passing by and life wasn't getting any easier. The first grandchildren were born and the Soviet Union collapsed. 

After the Soviet Union collapse, Raya learned that, as a Jew, she had the right to repatriate to Israel. She offered him to go with her. 

When Raya told me this, I asked her - why? 

Raya replied: "I didn't want to hurt him". And then she added, "I knew that we would refuse. He's afraid of changes." 

So Raya repatriated to Israel. At a very mature age already, she had to adapt to a completely new life in a new country. This new life was no less severe than the previous one - but this time it was a life for herself. 

Raya got a small piece of land in the city of Ariel, almost sitting on the edge of a desert. She started to work on several jobs in order to build a house of her own on this piece of land. After many years of carefully calculating every shekel earnt, she built it - a three-storey house - almost entirely by herself and exactly as she saw fit. Behind the house, she grew a garden. She rented the upper rooms to students who were studying at the local university. Raya made new friends, started to travel around Israel and Europe, and discovered a talent for photography and interior design. 

This year, Raya will turn 76. She has lived in Israel for more than 25 years already, but she's not going to stop there. Now she is doing the paperwork to move to Canada under the family reunification program. There, she plans to start doing photography on a more serious level. 

Of course, looking back, Raya can't help but think that something could have been done differently. She could have met another man, or started thinking of herself much earlier on, not only after 30 years of marriage. 

But one cannot change what has already happened, and life goes on. Now, she has a completely different life, a much more real one. In her new life, Raya is not going to put up with circumstances anymore or wait for things to change. Now Raya tells me that it's never too late to change something. 

Everybody has their own life, and no one should be afraid of leaving a person who doesn't take it into account. No one is worth sacrificing your own life for, and it doesn't matter how honourable or great their aims seem compared to your own. 

Raya showed resolve and went her own way. She started to live the way she sees fit. I am very grateful to her for this lesson and I am infinitely proud of my grandmother and the strength of her mind.

Written by Dana Kozirenko

PS: By the time when this story got published, Raya received Canadian visa and now is packing her belongings to start another new stage in her life.

[sheisherestories-blog]

Talk

Nancy-Jane Bulfin. Irish. 20/08/1992

“I needed to go home and cry but instead I smiled and ignored the weakest saddest and most soft part of myself. I went home that night and opened my mouth to let the screams out, but the sound just would not come”. 

People tend to think I’m carefree and I hate it, even though it’s basically all I let people see, so why wouldn’t they? Then again, at what point in a conversation or a day do you begin to tell people that you were mentally abused, manipulated and controlled by your father until the age of 16? That you struggle to deal with relationships? That you wanted to die?

How do you begin to explain all the sad little facts that your childhood left stamped into your personality? Why would you even tell people this, when you yourself don’t want it to be part of who you are? Why would you need to say it, to explain things, when you believe your present and future behaviour is under your control and yours alone?

It has become important to me in recent years to talk and share, having gone through several hectic periods of crashing depressive episodes, dependency on everything from approval of others to sugar and alcohol highs, emotional instability and suicidal thoughts. So I want to share this story today, with anyone that might need to hear it and because I think a culture where we accept and talk about our faults and problems is a healthier one.

I told myself when I was younger that I would not need someone’s love ever again, or let anyone hurt me like my father did. What resulted was a systematic distancing of myself from all the people that were willing to love me. I built walls on purpose, thinking I was protecting myself, when actually I was digging myself deeper into a hole with nobody but myself as support, a person that I increasingly hated. I wanted to travel and leave and be independent and make myself happy without the help of others.

In college, once I had a few more funds to do with as I wanted, I ended up drinking most days of the week, always reaching out to friends to maintain a constant façade of happiness. I would go home and stare in the mirror and hate every inch of myself. I didn’t want to be alone or sad or myself, so I danced and laughed and danced some more instead. My mental health got progressively worse as I ran myself into the ground as I attended countless social events, tried writing my final year project, pursued people that weren’t meant for me, and tried to stay on top of assignments – all with a smile.

I ended up broke. I didn’t know where I was going to live the next semester. I didn’t want to tell anyone that I had failed once again at simply being an adult. I didn’t want to face my mother and my family and let them know that I had no control over my own life. I just wanted to stand alone, but I couldn’t.

I honestly didn’t know what I was doing to myself. The sad part of me I associated with weakness and my father. I didn’t want to be a version of him. I thought that the smiling perfect facade was the healthiest best part of me that I should try to be all the time, because that was the good part that I should share with the world. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I ended up hurting myself.

I was losing control of my own sanity – spending insomniac nights trying to hold myself still in my bed, lying in fear of what I would do if I went to the kitchen where I was horribly aware of the knives in the drawer. I would hide my razors so I wouldn’t see them when I went to the bathroom. I would find myself mid-conversation with friends imagining myself dying, and wanting the relief of it. When I couldn’t sleep for all these thoughts rushing around my brain, I would go for runs at 2am, sprinting across the campus and trying to drive the anger and fear out of me.

Running was the first thing that saved me – my own body pushing me to fight my brain.

One night I was out dancing surrounded by friends and things went completely upside down. A guy I knew vaguely through other friends tried dancing with me. I tried push him away because he was mauling my body with his hands and it was all sorts of creepy. He wouldn’t let me. I shouted in his face to let me go, he kept feeling me up and down and wouldn’t let me go. I slapped him in the face, as he wouldn’t stop. He slapped me back. He hit me hard across the face.

It wasn’t the fact he got mad at me afterwards and it wasn’t the fact he didn’t understand that he’d refused to respect my decision about what I wanted to happen to my own body that hurt me most that night. What hurt me most was my reaction. I knew everyone in that club. I organised the event I was attending. I was surrounded by friends. I could have got him kicked out in a second by security. But I didn’t want to be a problem for anyone. So, I told him it didn’t matter and we were still friends and I went and found my friends and laughed and danced for the rest of the night with my own voice screaming and crying inside my head the entire time. I needed to go home and cry but instead I smiled and ignored the weakest saddest and most soft part of myself. I went home at the end of that night and opened my mouth to let the screams out, but the sound just would not come.

The second thing that saved me was talking.

That night pushed me over the edge and I was afraid of myself and how I simply could not listen to myself. The lack of control that I was experiencing sent me straight back to my childhood. At this time, I was also organising to see my father again for the first time in six years. I needed to talk to someone.

I went to the free counselling service provided by my university and cried and cried and cried. It’s not that just saying it suddenly solved everything. I couldn’t explain why this one night had been so horrific for me. I didn’t learn how to balance my emotions or need people’s approval less. But I did learn that the weakest parts of me were the parts that needed most to be listened to, that people don’t automatically hate you when you’re sad or not financially stable, that I was the only person whose love I needed and that sharing this part of yourself with people is what life is about. I learnt that sometimes you cannot do it alone, you will need support and that is why you need people around you. They will help you and you can help them and that is how we get through everything this mad world throws at us.

I talked to my mother and in the years since have been able to share a much more genuine and happy relationship with her. Even after all the distance I had put between us, at the end of the day, she loved me and was there to give me a hug and chocolate, support and advice when I needed it. I didn’t know that I had that before and I am beyond grateful.

The counsellor told me I needed to tell a few people and take slow steps to trusting people, to letting people help me. I told two friends about what happened that night and their fierce reaction and support was incredible. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but they made sure to check on me whenever the guy from that night was in the same house party or event as us. I even managed to tell those friends a little about my father and how much I was desperately trying to move past all the sadness I was left with. They didn’t run away, they listened.

I still haven’t found a solution to my mental health, my impulse to smile things out and my aversion to sharing negative emotions, but I have learned to ask for help when I need it and to take care of myself. I actually truly love myself now, even the messy confusing brain that I have been given. My anxiety is still with me, but I am honest with myself about it and I have people that I can talk to about it. That is the best thing of all. I know I am incredibly lucky to have reached out in those moments to people and to have had them reach back. I have come a long way in the last few years and it is one hundred per cent because of the people that held my hand or listened in those times when I thought I was worth less than nothing. There is no way to thank those people properly for the chance at change that I have been given.

I am writing this in acknowledgement of the fact that no one is perfect and because we should stop trying to be just that. No one is strong enough to go it alone, and why would you want to when the best part about life is sharing?

To anyone out there struggling with mental health, depression or the general madness that is life, I hope that my story shows you you’re not alone, never ever alone in this world full of people that go about caring for each other all day long. I hope you know that somebody cares, and you should care about yourself too, and that part of that is talking and letting yourself be heard. The ugliest saddest weakest part of yourself needs to be given time too. If you keep it all in, that’s where it will stay.

[sheisherestories-blog]

Sorry!

Emily Paul. Canadian.

“My therapist challenged me to prove to him that I was a failure, so I listed all the ways that I thought I was just a waste of space. When I had exhausted my list of reasons, and my tear reserves, he said “to me it seems like the only thing you’ve failed at, Emily, is proving you’re a failure.” 

It’s a pretty standard scenario, I think. Someone looks at you, shakes their head, and in a tone of praise and disbelief says, “I don’t know how you do it!” But then, standing there, looking into the eyes of this person, you realize that you have no clue how you do it either. School, work, life. Any of it. 

Then, since the human brain loves seeking out patterns and answers oh-so-much, you reach the “only” logical conclusion: “oh, I have no clue! I don’t know what I’m doing at all. I shouldn’t be here. Any minute someone is going to look at me and they’ll realize I’ve been playing the long-con all along. I’ve somehow managed to cheat and charm my way through life. I don’t deserve any of the things around me.” I think they call it Imposter Syndrome. 

Have you heard of it? If you haven’t, the term was first coined by Pauline Rose Clance & Suzanne Imes from an article in 1978. They used the term to “designate an internal experience of intellectual phonies, which appears to be particularly prevalent and intense among a select sample of high achieving women.” I don’t know about high achieving, but boy does that definition strike a personal chord.

While the term seems to be in the zeitgeist lately, I had never heard of the concept until this past fall when I started my Graduate degree. In the course of the program, which I’ve deemed “intellectually stimulating, emotionally crippling,” I’ve had the pleasure to study under two mind-blowingly awesome women, who I’ll call Dr. E and Dr. S. Now, these women are knowledgeable and funny academic badasses, and I think any sane person studying under them would question their own worthiness. Although my sanity hasn’t quite been confirmed or denied yet, I personally felt like every class I had with them, and even those I didn’t, required triple the amount of work I had done in my undergrad just to construct a semi-articulate thought in class. Every time I spoke I would preface my thought by saying something like “I’m sorry if this is stupid,” or “this probably doesn’t make any sense,” or “if this is ridiculous, just ignore me.” Eventually, this got on their nerves. Which is fair enough. If you were a badass in academia, don’t you think a chronically self-deprecating grad student would eventually get on your nerves too? One day in class, Dr. S finally had enough and asked me to, “please, stop putting your thoughts down before you’ve even voiced them.” Another time I went to see Dr. E in her office and I swear I apologized for something or other in every sentence I spoke right from the minute I knocked on her door. “Emily,” she basically said to me, “you have to stop apologizing for everything.”

You can take my word on this: when these women speak, you should listen. I didn’t want to seem like I had written myself off before anyone else could. So I wanted to change my ways, but I was at a loss. I didn’t have the tools to identify what was going on, what the root of it was, and what could be done about it. Then, I serendipitously came across the term Imposter Syndrome while listening to the radio, and it got me thinking.

The concept of Imposter Syndrome intrigued and resonated with me. This is what I’ve learned: the women studied by Clance and Imes attributed their successes to either luck or “a temporary internal quality,” basically they believed their achievements were a fluke and didn’t reflect any inherent capabilities. Clance and Imes noted in their study that women who experienced the Imposter Syndrome came from two types of backgrounds: either a girl was told she was artsy and not intellectual, and so strove to prove herself in academics, or she was told she was inherently brilliant, so when she encountered difficulties she came to believe she was a fake. 

Clance and Imes outlined four types of behaviour women fall into that reinforce the Imposter Syndrome as adults. The first type is a cycle wherein women worry about their intelligence, so they work hard to mask their perceived failings, which gains approval and positive feelings, but only temporarily before feelings of incompetence return. Rinse and repeat. The second type is women who believe they behave inauthentically as they adapt to please those around them, which undermines their confidence in their own thoughts, beliefs, and personality. The third type is women who use charm and perceptiveness to gain approval, these women wish to be liked and recognized as intellectually special. These women seek approval from authority figures, which reinforces the Imposter Syndrome because they either gain their mentor’s approval but don’t believe their authority figure’s praise because the women think they’ve tricked them, or the women believe that if they were truly intelligent they would not need external affirmations. Finally, the fourth type is the result of the negative consequences that successful women experience in our society. The women in this type believe that, if they can maintain the belief that they are not intelligent, then they can avoid societal rejection.

Are any of those sounding familiar to you? I know they are to me.

Two years ago I had the pleasure of spending a semester in Ireland. While there, I found myself taking an embarrassing amount of pride in my Canadian heritage. Did I mention that I’m Canadian? Well… I am, eh? Anyways, while in Ireland, I became addicted to being a positive ambassador for my country. “As God as my witness, I will be the ultimate Canadian!” I declared to the heavens, Scarlet O’Hara style. You may or may not know the stereotypes that surround Canadians, though I’m trusting you know some (or the eh? joke I made earlier will have made absolutely no sense). Well, among the better stereotypes, in my opinion, is that we are a relatively meek and polite nation, and I did everything I could to be the human embodiment of timidity and kindness. People seemed to respond well to my pleases, thank yous, and sorries. It almost felt like Sorry! had become my catchphrase. With time, my personal background, and my experiences abroad, I think I internalized that Sorry! mentality and came to think that it was best to apologize for everything. I mean, people seemed to like me and found it kind of adorable and really funny when the Canadian girl apologized for random things, so what could go wrong?

Well, evidently, thinking you should apologize for even using up oxygen can lead you to think you don’t deserve oxygen. Ah-ha, my dear Watson, I believe we’ve begun to put the pieces of the puzzle together! However, Clance and Imes speculated that the Imposter Syndrome is incredibly difficult to overcome. So what could/can be done?

For me, after Dr. E and Dr. S’s admonishments, and the deaths of two influential women in my life this past October, I realized I needed to do some serious re-thinking. At the end of last semester I went to see a therapist. I eventually confided that I didn’t think I deserved any of the good things in my life and that I was, really, a failure in all aspects. My therapist challenged me to prove to him that I was a failure, so I listed all the ways that I thought I was just a waste of space. When I had exhausted my list of reasons, and my tear reserves, he said “to me it seems like the only thing you’ve failed at, Emily, is proving you’re a failure.” Usually being called a failure, even in a joking way, would throw me into a spin of panic and despair. But rather than feeling inadequacy wash over me in that moment, I laughed and felt a spark of catharsis. Supposedly the American theatre directer Harold Clurman once said that the truth is like medicine, it can be “difficult to take and hard to swallow, so we get them to laugh and while their mouths are open, we pour a little in.” Oh, how I’ve found that to be true.

In writing this all out, my intention is not to tell a story where I show I have all the answers. This is definitely not a “look at me, I’ve overcome all obstacles, my life is perfect, I’ve made a million dollars, have a big house, a genius-model husband, and 2.5 perfect children - and if you do everything I did, you can too” story. The truth is that I don’t have answers, but I think that’s an important thing to be okay with. For a long time I thought that to be of worth I would need to know everything inherently. I thought that truly intelligent people just know things. However, while working to curb my apologize-for-everything-I’m-a-waste-of-space-god-I-hope-no-one-notices reflex, and in doing my research for this little piece, I’ve learned that it is in fact the norm to be without answers. In writing this I also wasn’t trying to pen some dramatic  unveiling my true Imposter Syndrome-self to the world piece. Honestly, I don’t particularly feel that I do for sure have “clinical” Imposter Syndrome, and my therapist has never “diagnosed” me with it.

No. In writing this piece, I simply wanted to throw a spot light on the temptation to undervalue oneself. Cycles of self-doubt, like those associated with the Imposter Syndrome, are pernicious: but if they can be identified, well, that’s half the battle. Clance and Imes speculated that if a woman can begin to escape from the burden of believing she’s a phony, she can begin to “more fully participate in the joys, zest, and power of her accomplishments.”

Doesn’t that sound nice?

Cited in Essay

Pauline Rose Clance and Suzanne Imes. “The Imposter Syndrome in High Achieving Women.” Psychology Theory, Research, and Practice, Vol. 15, No. 3 (Fall 1978).

Recommended Reading

Mark Manson. The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck. New York: HarperOne, 2016.

[sheisherestories-blog]

The Other Side

Jane Bulfin. Born 11/11/1968. Irish.

“I spent a lot of that summer crying and exhausted. Ironing tea towels, overwhelmed by the responsibility and all the changes, hardly able to function.”

Growing up in a family of eleven, my parent’s main focus was just getting us through school. The two eldest went to college but for the rest of us apprenticeships seemed to be the best we could aim for. 

Actually since my mother (in common with most women who reached adulthood in Ireland in the 50’s) didn’t work outside the home – though she worked very hard there - she didn’t really consider careers for us girls… There seemed to be an underlying assumption that we would marry and have children etc. The marriage bar (where women had to give up employment once married) was in force in Ireland until 1973 and since rural communities change slowly, it was still in practice in the area I grew up in until much later.

In school, we were given direction on applying to train as nurses, secretaries or in the hospitality trade, (one friend was actually discouraged from applying to train in childcare and was told to settle down and have a family of her own by the guidance teacher)! There was no mention of college or any direction on applying for third level support or even applying to colleges.

So, lack of information (in a pre-google world), lack of finance and even lack of encouragement were my main blocks. Also to be honest, I knew I wanted to get out of rural Ireland but didn’t have any clear idea what I wanted to do or any clear picture of what a career looked like and how to go about getting one. I had always been top of my class without any effort and had tended to downplay my abilities to avoid standing out. It didn’t help that I was chronically shy and had been bullied mercilessly in 2nd and 3rd year. I found it easier to coast and lived in a make believe world of books and art and let my schoolwork go to hell.

As a result, my leaving cert results were less than glowing. I hadn’t thought beyond school and hadn’t applied to any course so my only option was to take a factory job.

This was one of the most motivating experiences ever. I have never been so bored in my life. I’d had vague ideas of applying to art college but in the year I worked in the factory soldering wires endlessly, I met an couple of art students home for the weekend in Birr. Their picture of Art College and a realistic look at what I could earn made me think again.

One other huge influence in my life as a teenager was my grandaunt May. She left Kerry to immigrate to London after finishing secondary school at 18 in 1917. She worked in London for her entire career, living through two world wars and only coming back to Ireland to settle near her sister in Birr. She never married and made a good life for herself, travelling extensively and having a comfortable income. I got to know her very well from about the age of 15. I used to go in to Birr on a Saturday morning to help her with housework; in return, she paid me enough to go out and taught me to have some ambition. We became great friends and she encouraged me to go to college. I was unaware that she had put aside money for my college education until I told her that I had submitted my application form and had applied for an education grant. I was also saving everything I could from my wages, as I knew that my parents were in no position to help me. I bought a bike and cycled the 6 miles to Birr every day (I worked shifts so sometimes this meant cycling around midnight). I gave my mother some money for food and all, and the rest I saved (well I bought my first music system and went on a holiday to Holland as well).

Anyway, I arrived in University College Galway (now NUIG) as clueless as possible. I was staying with my Aunt and Uncle (a professor of medicine) in first year and in a houseful of cousins who were all graduates from doctors and engineers to Archaeologists. I remember going to register for my course (arts degree because I didn’t know what to aim at) and standing in line, I realised I needed to choose my subjects and with no more preparation than that, I ticked off my subjects: English, Italian, psychology and archaeology. Once I settled in, I loved college. I’d missed learning so much and this time I was prepared to work. I never wanted to work in a factory again. I made the top 25 in psychology but didn’t think I was suited to it so my degree became Archaeology and Italian. I had always wanted to travel and this seemed an ideal combination.

Unfortunately, I became pregnant in September at the start of my second year. I was 19. I was terrified. I came from a culture where being an unmarried mother was a huge stigma. I couldn’t tell my parents for months. I considered going away and giving the baby up for adoption to someone who could care for her better than a student might. My boyfriend decided to stay so we discussed marriage. I refused to get married until after the baby was born because I wanted him to have a chance to see what the reality of a child was. I finally got up the courage to tell my parents at Christmas and they were brilliant. My father didn’t want me to rush into marriage but I dug my heels in and said that if they didn’t give their consent I would marry without them as soon as I turned 21.

Another challenge was finding somewhere to live when the baby was born. I had moved out of my Aunts house in September, but most landlords wouldn’t want a student with a baby. Luckily, I had the money my grandaunt had given me for college and my boyfriend had a lump sum from an assault case. We bought a rundown house in the centre of town and started doing it up on a shoestring. I had my daughter Alvy on Saturday 20th May and sat the first of my Summer exams on the following Monday. The university had given me the option of deferring until the autumn exams but I was afraid I wouldn’t finish if I didn’t continue. I had the work done and somehow got through the next two weeks.

The exhaustion took its toll and the stress of new baby, exams, doing up a house and preparing for a wedding caused me to slip into depression. I spent a lot of that summer crying and exhausted. Ironing tea towels, overwhelmed by the responsibility and all the changes, hardly able to function. My boyfriend had no idea about being a parent. He was an only child and was studying for a PhD at the time. The care of the baby fell entirely on me and since I was on summer break, it seemed fair at the time. We married in September and I was back in Uni in October to tackle my final year. I think getting back into a routine, having childcare and having a focus outside the house helped me bounce back from my post-natal depression. 

That final year was a struggle. I wasn’t going to be able to go to Italy so my Italian was definitely going to suffer but I was determined to get a good archaeology degree. It meant getting up at 5 or 6am to study even though the baby woke up every night at least once. Getting pregnant again at Christmas didn’t help the situation. I spent the next few months dealing with morning sickness and a baby while trying to do final year projects and exams. It was just a case of putting my head down and getting on with it.

I managed to graduate with an honours degree and went on to work in archaeology for a few years before life took another turn. In case I haven’t made it clear, having children so young and while in full time education was a challenge but I loved being a mother. Overcoming those early challenges have made me very adaptable and fairly fearless when it comes to change. I know I can deal with anything that life throws at me and come out the other side smiling and stronger than ever.

[sheisherestories-blog]

Blueprint

Marion Kerr Houston. 06/10/1959. Canadian

“Driving to meetings on her motorbike, she met with bank managers who told her, in no uncertain terms, that they would only lend to her if she came back ‘with a husband’.”

At 23—the same age that I am now— my mother bought her first house. She was born in Toronto, Canada to Irish parents and grew up in Raheny in North Dublin. By 23 she was qualified as an occupational therapist and had been working for two years. She enjoyed work, which surprised her as being a student had not been easy or enjoyable. 

In her final year of secondary school, her teachers went on strike, leaving only three nuns to get her 100-strong class through the exams and her dyslexia went undiagnosed until she was 22. Sexism and classism was deeply ingrained in the education system. Of her graduating class, only ten girls were encouraged to go on to further education (by comparison, the majority of my father’s class, only a year younger, went to university). Typically, the girls chosen were the ones who were seen to come from better families, more affluent addresses or had been at the school since before it changed from a private to a public institution. Academic encouragement was not a big feature of her home life either. Neither of her parents, nor anyone in their immediate family, had gone to university. My grandfather was a printer and my grandmother left school at fifteen. Their sole expectation of her was that she would ultimately remain at home to look after the family.

By 23 my mother and father had been going out for seven years. They weren’t engaged at this point but knew that they wanted to get married once my father, who was studying medicine, was qualified. For the two of them, still living at home, privacy was hard to come by. My father’s home wasn’t a very welcoming place by any means and life at her house, although they were welcome there, was chaotic, with people fighting and televisions blaring.       “We felt like we were living in a fishbowl”, she explains. It made sense then—given that they were planning a future together, my father being in need of a quiet place to study, and my mother having a permanent job—that she would buy a house.  For her it was about having a sense of independence and getting on the property ladder on her own terms was the way to achieve that.

It was an unconventional move for the time. Most women did not—at least officially—buy their own homes. Their husbands did. Many of her friends and girls she had known at school were married by 21, but to older men with good salaries. So for my mother—unmarried and the main breadwinner in her relationship—to be buying a house was seen as downright unusual, even subversive. She remembers both of my grandmothers being confused as to why she was buying as house:

“They couldn’t understand why I, as an individual, would want to buy a house when I wasn’t married and surely, when I was married to a doctor, I would be able to afford a much better house than this…It seemed like madness to them.”  

Censure did not only come in the form of friends’ and family members’ bewilderment. It also came in the form of financial institutions. It was when she started looking for a loan to buy a house that she came up against the sexism that permeated Irish society in the 1980s.

“I was probably pretty oblivious [to sexism] up to that point…If somebody was sexist towards me, I kind of chose to ignore it”, she admits.

Sexism was so engrained, she remembers, in everyday life, in entertainment, and the way men (and even other women) treated women. Until she started working she did not see it as overt or conscious. It was just the way the machinery of the world operated, as mundane as the caliber of a clock ticking away.

Driving to meetings on her motorbike, she met with bank managers who told her, in no uncertain terms, that they would only lend to her if she came back “with a husband”.

“I was incensed to say the least. I was really so mad…I decided I was going to get a loan one way or another”.

She began researching other options, eventually securing a loan through the Housing Finance Agency (a government body that allowed people on low wages to afford housing at reduced lending rates) and bought a scrappy three-bed terraced house in Baldoyle.

Looking back on the time now my mother says:

“I was a feminist even though I didn’t know I was. Feminism, at that stage, hadn’t actually permeated through any layers of Irish society. And you were not encouraged to think like that, you weren’t encouraged to challenge authority, you weren’t encouraged to think your way around …If there was any anomaly, for example if you were a woman buying a house, then people were like ‘What? I don’t understand this!’ and you had to find a different way around. It didn’t change any great laws or anything like that but certainly, on an individual basis and if you were ready to fight it, you could challenge them”.

Although I am a long way from being able to afford my own house and some overt sexism has ebbed away, I am struck by my mother’s story. As always, it is her determination and independent spirit, her unwillingness to accept unfairness that shines through. She has always encouraged me to challenge injustice and to think for myself and it is because of her that I am a feminist. It is from her that I have a blueprint to follow.

Written by Dearbhaile Houston

[sheisherestories-blog]

Stepmom

Máire. Irish.

“For a while, I thought she’d won. I was making plans to visit her for a storytelling festival in Sneem that winter. I now know I would have been four months too late.”

To a nine-year-old growing up in small town Ireland, Máire seemed a cut above the other grown-ups I knew.

As my mother’s boss and close friend, she intimidated me at first.

She was a matter-of-fact career woman. She was fashionable, and did not suffer fools. She wore high heels on nights out with my mother, in spite of the notorious cobbled streets of our little town. They would come home in the early hours of the morning, her laughter and click-clack of her heels unmistakable.

Though she scared me a little at first, I soon came to know Máire as one of the kindest and liveliest people in my life.  She would often stay the night at our house, never arriving without gifts from an exotic destination – whether it was Mexico or Marks and Spencer. She was always interested in what was happening at school, no matter how dull I thought it was. She was part of the family.

She sang along to her car radio, making everything from 70s disco hits to Kirsty MacColl albums her own. Máire was also the first proper lady I knew who could burp the alphabet.

She was, as they say in her native Galway, ‘unreal craic’. Simply saying that she was “fun” doesn’t do her justice. 

Máire wasn’t married, so my parents would often abuse her offers to babysit us. ‘Stepmom’, the nickname my brother and I gave her, stuck.

As I grew older, Máire was always the first to text to wish me a happy birthday or to wish me luck ahead of State exams.

Later on, she introduced me to the culinary masterpieces of savoury pancake lasagne and microwave granola.

Máire became something of an inspiration for me. She was head of a department in a busy hospital. She had an immaculate house, free of the messy chaos that young children can bring.

There were men on the scene of course, but she never seemed too wedded to the idea of settling down. And if she did like the guy, he would soon be made aware.

She encapsulated what I thought a modern woman should be. As I embraced feminism in my teens, she was a heroine.

You can imagine my surprise when she told us she was getting married in her late 40s. He was a pharmacist from Sneem, Co. Kerry, one of the most rural areas of the country. She wanted to settle down with him, and give up her job.

I was happy for her, but confused. She made a decision that seemed completely at odds with my own (albeit simplified) image of her. Would this woman, who seemed so cosmopolitan to me, really be content in a quiet village for the rest of her life? 

I should have known better. Not one to be underestimated, Máire embraced and excelled at her new life. In fact, I had never seen her happier before she was settled in that kitchen behind Sneem Pharmacy, making the most amazing meals for anyone who popped in. Within a few months of being there, she brought as much joy to her new neighbours as she had to us.

In doing all that, Máire made me question my own ideas about being a woman. Through her, I saw that domesticity and marriage were not the shameful shackles that some of my peers railed against. Máire made the choice herself, and I believe it was one of the best choices she ever made.

This backdrop made her cancer diagnosis all the more tragic. Shortly after settling in Sneem, they found a lump in her leg. What at first seemed benign soon spread, and threatened to kill her.

Treating the tumour was difficult. It involved long trips to Dublin on public transport, losing her blonde hair, severe exhaustion and other awful side effects. I imagine she was in a lot of pain. If she was, Máire never let it show.

She battled the illness with all the strength she could muster. If courage is grace under pressure, Maire had it by the bucketload. Instead of giving up, she got a wig and sang Michael Jackson classics. Her reworked ‘Blame It On The Boogie’ was one of her favourites.

During those dark days, Máire did her best to stop people worrying. She had an almost eternally sunny disposition that put me at ease. For a while, I thought she’d won. I was making plans to visit her for a storytelling festival in Sneem that winter. I now know I would have been four months too late.

The call finally came on a sunny July morning. I was floored. I didn’t know what to do because we were all in a wordless, listless grief. When I asked my boss for a day off to attend the funeral, I struggled explain how I knew Máire. Was she my friend? A family member? In the end, I just went with “stepmother”.

Her funeral, on one of those wonderfully rare sunny days in Ireland, was massive. Locals and blow-ins lined the streets of Sneem to say goodbye, and gathered to share stories of their great friend. Her final resting place is on a suntrap of a hill overlooking Sneem. I think she would have approved.

In her absence, I flagellated myself with questions. Why didn’t I visit her more? Why hadn’t I offered to help more? I berated myself for never repaying her with the generosity she showed me as a child.

After a while, I realised that Máire would never have tolerated this behaviour. She would have grabbed me by the shoulders and told me to get a grip.

So I did. I resolved to keep Máire alive, even if it was just by imitation.

I would work hard for what I wanted. I would travel, but never forget where I came from. I would fall in love. I would always value the power of kindness.

But for now, I pay tribute to her by coming home at all hours, immensely proud of the click-clacks of my heels.

Written by Jane O’Faherty