I’m not a good communicator.

That’s what he said.

I studied Professional Communication (a degree combining journalism, PR and media), but: 

I’m not a good communicator.

I spend my days storytelling for a living, through video, words, images, but:

I’m not a good communicator.

I’ve built my life around communicating, but:

I’m not a good communicator.

And somewhere along the way,

between trying to satisfy what everyone else thought was success,

scaling the business, joining the club, worshipping at the Temple of Entrepreneurs,

and trying not to drown,

I forgot my values:

that women should take up space with their stories and their lives, and 

that wealthy women will heal the world.

Happiness to me was showing women the limelight, holding the space for them not to be afraid of red ‘recording’ lights shining in their eyes or slates clapping in their faces. 

Hell, most of the time they didn’t even notice them as they sat down for me to film, trusting me with their precious stories, conversations and life lessons they were led to share with the world.

But somewhere along the way, 

I lost touch. 

While hoping to generate enough revenue to be allowed into exclusive entrepreneur clubs, that, wouldn’t you know it, tended to be led by men, I walked off this path I planned for myself, and, when I turned around, all the breadcrumbs were gone.

I can admit now that I took any opportunity that would help our bottom line. 

At first this made sense, to provide for my little family, but then… what?

Why?

To look good? 

To qualify for an award? 

To impress the royal ‘them’?

Yes, 

I do want you to be proud of me. 

But this wasn’t it, 

Chief.

And somewhere along the way, 

I found myself wandering further and further from the magic of women. 

I was surrounded by masculine energy, and 

on the few occasions people asked how I was,

“So busy, it’s great!”

“Okay, but seriously?”

…

I likened it to drowning. 

Every time I thought I had my head above water, another wave pushed and pulled me back under. 

“But they work with women!” 

I rationalised. 

Justified.

Defended and

excused.

They work with families, and 

divorced women, and, 

and… 

okay, 

but,

they have wives, 

so, 

I mean, 

obviously, 

that’s… 

something?

Suddenly the female CEO of one of our clients stepped down and her male cofounder stepped in.

And more men were added to teams we worked on.

And I found a poem I wrote less than a year ago that described how at one I felt with life, work and the universe.

And I realised how off course I’d gotten. 

And a man called me a bad communicator.

And that shouldn’t hurt so much. 

But,

I’m exhausted from trying to keep my head above water.

I’m exhausted from watching the news and being reminded 100 times a day that the female experience is less than.

I’m exhausted from doing the work, only for men in the meeting to repeat what I’ve said and get the credit for it.

I’m exhausted from swinging my doors open, giving shelter to all who need it, but more often to those who just want it. 

I’m exhausted from setting myself on fire just to keep everyone around me warm, a pattern I’ve repeated for the last decade but can’t seem to break free of.

And I’m exhausted from worrying about how I’ll make it work if I start again, 

but,

I’m more exhausted from worrying about what will happen if I don’t.