Apparently, It Was Never About My Brain

When I was a freshman in high school, some of my classmates had a theory about why I got good grades.

Apparently, my teachers wanted to sleep with me.

Not because I studied. Not because I was curious, ambitious, or genuinely interested in learning. Not because I participated in class or actually had something intelligent to say.

No, obviously, there had to be another explanation.

At fourteen or fifteen, I didn't really know how to respond to that.

I knew it bothered me. I knew it felt unfair. But I didn't yet have the vocabulary, confidence, or ammunition to explain exactly why.

And the strange thing is, I think those comments actually changed something in me.

They made me conscious of something I hadn't previously spent much time thinking about: that other people might see my appearance before they saw my abilities.

Suddenly, my academic achievements felt like something I needed to defend.

Worse, I started questioning my own interactions with male teachers.

If a teacher was encouraging, was it because he thought I was intelligent? If I was excited about a subject or admired a teacher for being particularly knowledgeable, was that somehow inappropriate? Was I naive for enjoying conversations with adults who took my ideas seriously?

Looking back, I find that heartbreaking.

Here was a teenage girl who was excited about learning, and somehow that excitement had become something suspicious.

It introduced an uncomfortable awareness into relationships that, until then, had felt perfectly ordinary.

And here's the part that still frustrates me: I hadn't done anything wrong.

Other people had sexualized my academic success, and somehow I was the one left carrying the consequences.

Fast-forward a few years.

I'm no longer the student.

I'm the teacher.

I've spent years studying, earning degrees, gaining professional experience, and figuring out how to turn my curiosity and endless stream of ideas into something useful.

I'm working at a school, doing what I'm supposed to be doing: teaching.

And one day, a student accuses me of doing my makeup during class.

Which I wasn't.

Now, students say things. They exaggerate, misunderstand situations, occasionally make things up. I don't think that's particularly shocking to anyone who's ever worked in education.

What shocked me was what happened next.

A member of the school's leadership team believed the accusation.

Not because there was evidence that I'd been sitting in front of my students applying mascara instead of teaching.

There wasn't.

But somehow, the allegation was accepted as though it were an entirely plausible thing for me to have done.

Almost obvious.

And to this day, I still don't understand why.

What was it about me that made that accusation so believable?

Was it my age? My appearance? The fact that I wore makeup? The way I presented myself?

Would the accusation have been received with the same unquestioning credibility if it had been made against a male colleague?

I genuinely don't know.

And I think that's what makes the whole experience so unsettling.

Because there I was, a qualified professional, finding myself in a situation where an unfounded accusation involving my appearance was believed by someone in a position of authority.

Not a criticism of my teaching methods.

Not the quality of my lessons.

Not my students' progress.

My makeup.

Again.

Different school, different role, several years later.

And somehow, my appearance had once again found its way into a conversation about my competence.

More recently, I was told that the reason my students liked my classes so much was because they found me attractive.

Ah. Of course.

Not because I spend time preparing my lessons. Not because I genuinely enjoy teaching, or because I try to make my classes interesting, interactive, and relevant.

Not because I care about creating an environment where students feel comfortable participating, asking questions, and challenging ideas.

Nope.

Apparently, it's because I'm attractive.

And the most frustrating part is that the comment almost sounds like a compliment, doesn't it?

I suppose I'm meant to smile, maybe laugh it off, and move on.

But what exactly am I supposed to take away from that?

That the relationship I've built with my students isn't really a reflection of my teaching abilities?

That their enthusiasm has less to do with what they're learning and more to do with what I look like?

That positive feedback on my work needs to be explained by something other than the work itself?

It's almost comical how neatly this brings me back to high school.

At fifteen, I supposedly got good grades because my teachers were attracted to me.

Now, in my thirties, I'm apparently getting positive reactions from my students because they're attracted to me.

Different side of the classroom. Same explanation.

Apparently, I can spend my entire life in education, earn multiple degrees, become the person standing at the front of the room, and still have my accomplishments explained away by my appearance.

That's quite an impressive commitment to missing the point.

I've always been an ideas person.

I love identifying problems, imagining possibilities, questioning the way things are done, and coming up with new approaches.

I can get ridiculously excited about a business concept, an educational project, a marketing strategy, or an opportunity that other people might not immediately see.

I like connecting the dots.

I'm creative, but I'm also analytical. I want to know why something might work, how we could make it happen, and what would make it better than the alternatives.

Sometimes my brain moves faster than the conversation.

I know I can be enthusiastic. Intense, even.

A previous manager once described me as "hyperactive."

And maybe, from her perspective, that's what my energy looked like.

I'm not going to pretend I'm the quietest person in every room, or that every idea I have is brilliant.

Believe me, some of them are terrible.

But I do wonder.

Would a man demonstrating the same enthusiasm have been described differently?

Would he have been seen as ambitious? Driven? Entrepreneurial? A visionary?

Would his energy have been interpreted as potential rather than something that needed explaining?

I can't know for certain.

But I've noticed how easy it is for certain qualities to become liabilities depending on who's displaying them.

Confidence can become arrogance.

Ambition can become being difficult.

Enthusiasm can become being too much.

Having strong opinions can become having an attitude.

And sometimes, being visibly invested in what you're doing can be mistaken for wanting attention.

I'm not saying that every criticism I've received has been sexist.

I'm perfectly capable of being wrong, making mistakes, or irritating people for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with my gender.

But when similar questions about how you're perceived keep resurfacing in different environments and at different stages of your life, it's difficult not to start looking for patterns.

Sometimes it's simply about being heard.

I've noticed this in professional settings, of course, but also in situations where you'd think these dynamics wouldn't exist.

With friends, for example.

Imagine coming up with an idea for a group event, getting everyone together to plan it, and then finding yourself struggling to contribute to the very discussion you initiated.

You try to suggest something.

Someone talks over you.

You try to elaborate.

Your suggestion gets shut down before you've even finished explaining it.

Meanwhile, the men in the conversation seem perfectly capable of speaking in full sentences, developing their ideas, and having those ideas considered before anyone responds.

And there you are, thinking, Hang on. Wasn't this my idea in the first place?

It's such a small thing, really.

Nobody's openly insulting you. Nobody's making some grand declaration about women being less intelligent or capable.

It's just a conversation among friends.

But why do I have to fight to finish a sentence when the men around me don't seem to have the same problem?

Why does an idea need to be defended before I've even had a chance to explain it?

And why am I suddenly worried that insisting on being heard will make me seem bossy, argumentative, or difficult?

I'm not suggesting that every interrupted sentence is an act of sexism.

People interrupt each other. Ideas get rejected. Conversations are messy.

I do it too, sometimes.

But there's a difference between having your ideas challenged and feeling like you have to compete for the opportunity to express them in the first place.

And when you start noticing who gets interrupted, who gets listened to, who gets the benefit of finishing their thoughts, and who has to repeatedly reclaim the floor, it's difficult not to wonder what exactly is happening.

Especially when you realize you're having these experiences with people who know you, like you, and presumably respect you.

Sometimes I don't even think people realize they're doing it.

And perhaps that's part of what makes it so frustrating.

Because I don't want special treatment.

I just want the same amount of space in a conversation as the person sitting next to me.

Preferably without having to become the loudest person in the room to get it.

A few teenagers making inappropriate comments?

Kids can be cruel.

A student making a false accusation?

These things happen.

A member of management believing something without evidence?

Poor judgment.

Someone suggesting that students only enjoy your classes because you're attractive?

It was probably just a joke.

An employer describing your enthusiasm as hyperactivity?

Maybe just an unfortunate choice of words.

Getting talked over during a conversation with friends?

You're overthinking it. Everyone gets interrupted.

And sure. Any one of those explanations might be true.

But here's the thing.

At what point does a collection of isolated incidents become a pattern worth questioning?

Because over the years, I've been given a surprising number of alternative explanations for things that, when you think about it, really don't need explaining.

Why I got good grades.

Why students enjoy my classes.

Why I'm enthusiastic about my work.

Why I have so many ideas.

Why I apparently need to work harder to get those ideas heard.

And I'm starting to wonder how much time women collectively spend analyzing these interactions, making excuses for them, and trying to figure out whether we're imagining things.

Perhaps the real exhaustion isn't any individual comment or experience.

Perhaps it's the accumulation of all the little moments when you find yourself questioning something that should have been perfectly ordinary.

And the fact that, even now, I'm still asking myself the same question I was asking at fifteen.

Would this have happened the same way if I were a man?

There's a reason Taylor Swift's The Man resonates with me.

Not because I believe men have universally easy lives.

Not because I think every professional obstacle I've encountered can be explained by sexism.

And certainly not because I think women should be exempt from criticism.

I don't want that.

I want to be challenged. I want people to disagree with me. I want someone to tell me when an idea isn't good enough and explain why.

That's how we learn.

But I want my ideas to be challenged because of their substance.

I want my teaching to be evaluated based on my teaching.

I want my professional credibility to come from my qualifications, experience, and work.

And I want my enthusiasm to be judged by what I actually do with it.

Not by assumptions about my personality, my appearance, or what kind of woman someone thinks I am.

Because imagine how much mental energy we could save if we didn't have to second-guess all of these things.

If a teenage girl could enjoy being a good student without wondering whether people thought she'd earned her grades.

If a female teacher could be taken seriously without her appearance becoming a convenient explanation for supposed misconduct.

If positive feedback on her classes could simply mean she was doing a good job.

If a young professional could express confidence without worrying whether it might be interpreted as arrogance.

If a woman with a hundred ideas could simply be excited about those ideas without wondering whether she should tone herself down.

If she could sit around a table with friends and finish a thought without having to fight for the opportunity.

And this isn't just about me.

It's about female students, teachers, managers, administrative staff, entrepreneurs, and professionals in every industry.

Women who have to consider not only whether they're doing their jobs well, but also how their behavior, tone, clothes, appearance, and personalities might affect other people's willingness to believe that they're doing their jobs well.

And women who are constantly navigating the delicate balance between speaking up and being perceived as too outspoken.

Between demonstrating confidence and appearing arrogant.

Between advocating for themselves and being considered difficult.

It's an awful lot of extra thinking.

And frankly, I'd rather spend that energy elsewhere.

I'm 31 now.

I have a bachelor's degree, two master's degrees, years of professional experience, and a career that has taken me through different industries and roles.

I've taught, developed projects, worked on strategies, built ideas into businesses, and made plenty of mistakes along the way.

And after all that, I still sometimes catch myself wondering how I come across.

Am I being too direct?

Am I talking too much?

Am I too enthusiastic?

Should I soften what I'm about to say?

Am I being taken seriously?

And then I get annoyed with myself for spending so much time thinking about it.

Because I know what I bring to the table.

I know that I have good ideas. I know that I'm curious and capable and that I can bring real value to a project.

That doesn't mean every idea I have deserves a standing ovation.

Some of them deserve to be thrown straight in the bin.

But I'd like to be able to have terrible ideas, ambitious ideas, clever ideas, and completely ridiculous ideas with the same freedom that I imagine many men feel when they walk into a room and start talking.

I'd like to be allowed to be confident without feeling compelled to immediately demonstrate humility.

To be creative without being dismissed as scattered.

To be enthusiastic without being labeled excessive.

To be knowledgeable without wondering whether somebody is going to find an explanation for it that has nothing to do with my brain.

And more than anything, I'd like to stop feeling that I have to prove I'm serious before anyone will take me seriously.

Because there's something particularly frustrating about realizing how much of your energy you've spent trying to manage other people's perceptions of you.

Energy that could have gone into actually doing things.

Creating.

Teaching.

Building businesses.

Developing ideas.

Having interesting conversations.

Or, you know, simply enjoying an evening with friends without wondering why you can't finish a sentence.

Maybe it's that I don't want being a woman to come with so many extra questions.

I don't need people to think I'm brilliant.

I don't need everyone to like me.

And I certainly don't need to win every argument or be right about everything.

But I do want to be evaluated fairly.

I want the freedom to be ambitious, complicated, enthusiastic, serious, funny, imperfect, and occasionally completely wrong without any of those qualities being reduced to my gender or appearance.

I think about that teenage girl sometimes.

The one who was excited about school until other people's comments made her question what her academic success really meant.

I think about the young teacher who couldn't understand why someone in a position of authority found it so easy to believe an unfounded accusation about her.

I think about the educator who genuinely loves teaching, only to have her students' enthusiasm attributed to her appearance.

And I think about the woman I am today, still trying to reconcile her natural enthusiasm with the awareness that not everyone will interpret it generously.

Still occasionally wondering whether she needs to be a little quieter, a little less assertive, a little more agreeable.

Still sometimes questioning whether she should insist on finishing her sentence or just let somebody else speak.

I wish I could go back and tell that fifteen-year-old girl that she didn't have to spend so much time trying to understand other people's assumptions.

That sometimes, the more interesting question isn't what you've done to deserve someone else's judgment.

It's why they were so ready to make it in the first place.

And maybe I'd tell my younger self something else, too.

Maybe you got good grades because you were smart.

Maybe you were excited because you genuinely loved learning.

Maybe your teachers encouraged you because they saw potential.

And maybe the students who enjoy your classes sixteen years later do so because you turned that same enthusiasm for learning into something worth sharing.

Maybe you were good at what you were doing all along.

And maybe, just maybe, none of that ever needed another explanation.

xoxo, Noelle in Nantes