I would make a really great husband

The other day I saw a note by Abigail Austin asking for words of wisdom regarding resolving resentment towards parents who raised us under the very fashionable progressive socialist model that many Gen X and Millennial women found themselves in. You know, the whole men and women are equal, third wave feminism thing.

It got me thinking and now I’ve written what appears to be part memoir, part tribute to my dad. So here you go!

First I want to say, this is not a direct answer to the note, but rather a story that was inspired by it. I recognize everyone had very different experiences growing up and moving through the layers is part of the journey. This simply inspired me to think about mine.

For something like this, it’s only appropriate to start at the beginning. I am the eldest daughter, born in January of 1989. I have one brother, three years younger than me. I was raised in a time where girls could do everything boys could and my dad and I have always been tight.

Because I was first born, he took a big interest in my life and the main arena where that began, was sports. I played soccer, he coached it. I then began to play hockey (he pushed me to go every Sunday when I didn’t want to because I had no friends on the team but always got off the ice excited) and eventually I became a varsity and provincial lightweight rower and he supported me every minute along the way. He had been a marathon runner and canoe racer himself in his day, even running races with me in the baby jogger and still kicking everyone’s ass. I ran my first 5k at 11 years old and we’ve done multiple races together over the years.

Growing up, he taught me fun factoids about the world, and in school I excelled in math and sciences (except chemistry because the way it’s taught is so gay.) By all accounts, I was a good kid. Part of what contributed to that was my younger brother was born 3 years after me and he had a LOT of energy. He was, by some parenting standards, a bit difficult in his toddler years, and so, as the older sister, I told myself very quickly that I would be a dream. I would be the mature one who wouldn’t put extra stress on mom and dad. I would take care of him and really, I would take care of the whole family. We can all imagine how that transferred into my adult life in a totally healthy way…

I grew up to become extremely capable. I was driving a stick shift at 17 (a 1998 BMW 328i convertible which was super sexy) and also I was getting my ass up on my own at 4:30 am to drive myself to rowing practice throughout high school. By the time I was in my twenties, I was so capable that one night I found myself at my dad’s side at 2 am, bailing out liters of water from our basement as the sump pump had broken. My mom and brother were…somewhere (sleeping?) and my dad looked at me and said, “you’re going to make a great husband one day.”

It was true. I was.

I was dad’s eldest daughter, not daddy’s little girl. And honestly, I was really proud of it. I liked how capable I was. But, that did not always bode well for my relationships with men, women or even my career because there was always a part of me missing. The part of me that was immeasurable- my creativity. I remember having it as a young kid. At 3 I would walk around doing accent impressions of different countries. I was bold and expressive. I drew and made up stories and sang. I did it all.

In grade 6 singing class, I loved singing in front of everyone. Until that all started to dwindle as a pre-teen. I auditioned for the school musical in grade 7 and 8, singing Can You Feel the Love Tonight and Reflection from the Mulan soundtrack. I didn’t make it for either and that really hit me hard. In high school, I don’t even think I auditioned and resigned myself to being the head of make-up crew (also, can we talk about the cruelty of all school theater productions being musicals??)

It was also in high school that I became best friends with a girl who had an incredible singing voice. She was blonde, sexual and the guys loved her. At this point, I still sang, but I did it on my own, recording myself in my basement just for me. Until one night, in grade 9, this friend and a boy a year older than me who I had a big crush on (and who liked my friend) were over and we were fucking around on my computer. Somehow she discovered an mp3 file of me singing Beautiful by Christina Aguilera. And yes, it was a very ~serious~ attempt and not one that should EVER be heard by the public. It felt like it happened in slow motion. The mouse hovering over the name and her going “oh what’s this!” Me jumping up, turning around and beginning to sprint up the stairs, traveling up 3 floors to get as far away as possible, lying on my bed with the door slammed, plugging my ears, somehow STILL hearing my own voice blasting out all the way from the basement.

That was it. Over.

I would focus on school, and sports, the places I naturally excelled in. I would feel the longing for my creativity to find its way out, nagging at my chest and I would shut down what felt like the very best parts of me for many years to come.

It wasn’t until my final year in business school in the highly coveted Advanced Presentation Skills class, that I found myself standing in front of the room with Elton John’s Princess Diana version of Candle in the Wind playing. I was frozen. I had forgotten the lyrics. This time though, I had chosen it. This time, while everyone was doing power point presentations that made me want to eat sand, I decided I would sing a song (75% of the final mark was for stepping outside your comfort zone.) I blanked and forgot the words, and as soon as it became clear I had completely left my body, my guy friend who had a crush on me looked over at the sheet on my desk and started mouthing them to me. Other people joined in and thankfully I returned to earth. I asked to restart and got through. Was it great signing? No. Was I humiliated? Not a bit. I was fucking proud. I thought about this story last summer and realized it is the exact essence of what I truly care about in this world. Meeting in the space where it’s messy. Where you open and feel the blast of attention and decide to let people in anyways. Where you care more about the truth of a moment than doing it right, because how fucking boring is that. I didn’t realize it all started there, and honestly, in some ways that was the beginning of the long journey back to myself, discovering who I was as a woman.

Which brings me back to this question about being raised in this progressive era where masculine traits like mental prowess, sports and academic success were coveted and the feminine aspects less so. Where girls were told we could be just like boys and were never taught to revere that which made us girls. I know many women who grew up like that and have spent a good chunk of their twenties or thirties finding themselves beneath the conditioning. I understand how it can be frustrating to realize that mom and dad didn’t really treat you like a girl. I had a big healing experience years ago with my dad when he broke down saying he wished he had spoken his mind more about how my last boyfriend was treating me but he didn’t want to push me away and wanted me to learn what I needed to learn. I didn’t always have the classic masculine protection that I might want for my daughter now, but here’s the thing- I had (and have) a Dad who truly did believe I could do anything. And he prepared me as such. I grew up in a time where masculine ideals were celebrated (and still are, although there is a rebalancing happening.) He prepared me to meet the world as it was. And why would I expect or even ask for anything else?

Who I am at essence has always been there. My womanness is innate and biological. It has never needed to be learned. Sure, maybe it wasn’t nurtured in the way it could have been, but I have been on that journey and now, not only do I feel like a creative, expressive, tender woman, I also know how to drive stick, lead teams, and build shit. I have acquired a shit ton of skills that did need to be TAUGHT. And without the upbringing I got, I don’t think I would have learned them. Sure, some of these things are also instinctual and natural, but I was pushed to expand into them. My dad could have easily let me off the hook every time I said I didn’t want to go to hockey. But he didn’t because he saw me beam after every game. I have a resilience that was supported and because of that, the way I can create and serve in my life is big. I can work with men and connect with them in a way that many women cannot. Because of how much my dad supported me, I fucking love men to the core. And I wouldn’t trade that for the world. It is the exact recipe that has me be the woman I am now.

Connecting with myself as a woman (and in turn creating tons of space and permission for my creativity) has felt like the missing puzzle piece that makes everything else better and more impactful. I am capable. And, I am continually learning how to unwind and become a puddle of water, held by God. I sing and I dance and I bring my creativity through every fucking thing I do in my life. Even when I’m sanding down a piece of furniture, I feel like a woman, because I am.

So, yes, would I raise my daughter differently now? Probably. Because the world is different now. But there is no part of me that would change a thing about what has made me the woman I am today. Thanks, Dad.