As A Woman

An excerpt from Elisabeth's essay collection exploring men and masculinity, Conversations With Men.

*Content Warning: Mention of rape

I don’t notice much as I walk down the pavement with my headphones in. I’m mostly aware of my surroundings, though. I dodge lampposts, signs, men–things that don’t move out of the way, so I have to. I am the one who has to move to accommodate these things, and it makes sense, doesn’t it? A fire hydrant set in concrete can’t step aside for me. Grates can’t pick and choose where they’re put. Men feel they shouldn’t make way for anyone else but themselves. It’s clear that it’s a part of other people’s subconscious when, every day, I see us holding ourselves back as a man leans forward, pulling on a door handle to let us through first. 

This isn’t necessarily where the issue lies, of course. The issue lies on the street that I used to walk home down at two o’clock in the morning after leaving work–the same street where a man who had come into the pub a few hours prior grabbed me and kissed me without asking, and laughed afterwards. The issue lies on the couch where my flatmate had sexually assaulted me five days prior, five days after I had moved in, and less than a month after I had moved across the world. I hadn’t even come to terms with calling it what it was–rape–before a second man committed an act of sexual violence against me.

The issue sat next to my friend and I at the bar two days before that, when a man who had been flirting with her wouldn’t leave her alone when she rebuffed him. The issue watched alongside me as he smashed his bottle over her head, slicing his hand open and leaving shards of glass in her hair. She was lucky to escape with a concussion, though any form of physical injury shouldn’t be considered as “luck.” He was out of jail the next morning and faced no repercussions. 

Men are, oftentimes, a haunting entity; they are ever-present in my thoughts, my actions, and my decisions. Masculinity follows me everywhere, a ubiquitous presence that I cannot escape from. 

Men are trash. Abolish all men. Men are cancelled. These are phrases we have all heard or seen many times–ideas that are becoming more and more popular online and in conversations amongst friends. The overwhelming rage and pain that many have experienced overtime at the hands of masculinity fuels such thoughts, and can you truly blame us? 

The patriarchy has caused destruction beyond words or explanation; masculinity that is made up of brutality, repression, anger, and hate has been at the root of countless violent acts, both unspeakable and, sadly, common.

I am accustomed to being sexually harassed in the street. It is normal for me to carry my keys in my fist, to blame myself first and foremost in many situations where a man is involved, whether it be rape or not stepping aside to make way for a man on the pavement. My heartbeat picks up when I am sitting alone on a bus and a man gets on. I pretend not to hear when men shout at me that I’m a cunt from their car windows as they drive past. I bite my tongue when they call me a bitch, when I can see their fragile egos begin to shake and their muscles tense, seemingly always one step away from doing any of the things that we fear the most. I brace myself for the repercussions of the lack of education from their fathers, mothers, brothers, friends, teachers, and partners. I wonder–how have they made it this far? How is it possible for them to have been let down at such a shockingly consistent rate? Because the patriarchy and the concept of modern masculinity has allowed these men to not be held responsible for the consequences of their actions, how would they know they’re in the wrong?

As a woman, this is what I’ve noticed and experienced; it’s what’s sparked such a desperate desire to understand, to help, to construct a system where things can change. The more terrible things I encounter, the clearer it becomes to me that I want to be a part of a solution. 

My partner is someone that’s had a sizable effect on my drive to understand men and masculinity. Along with challenging my understanding of masculinity, he’s helped bring to light many of the questions I ask myself, and now others. 

Early in our relationship, we took a trip to a small city outside of Barcelona. After my first three months in London, I was starving for the sun, for a city-break, for quiet. I was hungry for the ability to stroll, not walk with a purpose; I needed conversation that didn’t include an introduction or responding to questions I didn’t have the answers to.

During those five days in Spain, he gave me this. We walked almost a mile from our airbnb on a cliff above the sea to the city centre every day, talking about simple things, sweet things, and hard ones. Having only known him for three months, I was still trying to understand him–I told him that his kindness, gentleness, and compassion make him more masculine to me than a man who may not be as kind or open as he is. He stopped in his tracks and gave me the strangest look.

“You think I’m masculine?” he asked me, incredulity leaking into his expression. His self-doubt took on a life form I had never seen before–a real, tangible thing. In that moment, the way I viewed men  shifted, igniting something in me I’m still working to understand. 

Through our discussions and experiences, I realised I had never seen men in an equally human light as I did everyone else; they were something bigger-than-life, inaccessible, irreproachable and unaffected by the day-to-day like we all are. I realised that men grapple with how masculinity is presented, and as a byproduct, themselves. 

I marvelled at the exhaustion he told me he feels when interacting with other men, that he feels much more comfortable around people of other genders because there is a certain expectation between how two men should act towards one another. That faux-macho, physical, and aggressive manner that even two best mates have towards each other has never made sense to him, and I would bet anything that he’s not the only person that feels this way. In fact, I bet more men than not harbour these exact thoughts, but have no idea what to do with them or how to move forward with them. I’d bet the possibility of changing the relationship structure that exists between men has never even crossed their minds, and that they’ve accepted this structure as rigid and unmoving.

I began to wonder what other men feel, and what else they struggle with that they never voice, even to themselves. I wondered at the tiredness I know my father feels when he lies down to sleep at night–who takes care of him when he is expected to take care of us all? I wondered at the way my male friends have broken down to me–I’m tired, I don’t know how I really feel, and even if I did, what can I do about it? I realised in those moments that they had never truly been able to ask for help before. 

There’s a trend I’ve seen on instagram lately called “#womeninmalefields” in which women are pointing out the absurdity of men’s behaviour when it comes to their roles in society and relationships with others. Women are imagining themselves doing and saying the things that men do and say to them everyday, with posts including remarks such as: “I comment ‘I don’t find this attractive’ on random men’s posts because I assume everything men do is for me”, “When he accuses me of talking to other guys, [so] I hit him with the ‘Whatever, I’m always the bad guy’”, “He was crying in bed so I said ‘Here we go again’ and turned around and fell asleep’”, and “Approaching a man whose partner is holding their child and telling him, ‘Wow, you’re so lucky your wife helps out with the baby!’”

Similarly, in light of Donald Trump’s recent victory of his third presidential election, some women are swearing off sex with men as a byproduct. At first, this may seem like a strange response. However, only a few hours after President Trump’s reelection, tweets online started pouring in, such as “Your body, my choice”, tweeted by white nationalist pundit and organiser Nick Fuentes. These ideas continued to spread online and off, sparking waves of abuse against women. “You no longer have rights” was one of many similar messages addressed to women by extreme misogynist Andrew Tate (Simmons, 2024). 

Movements such as these are making it more than clear that people are more than fed up with unchecked toxic masculinity and the misogyny that comes along with it–we want answers, solutions, and change, and we want them now.

Masculinity is being pinned down, cut open, and thoroughly examined by others–whether it be trends on the internet or groups like those that are swearing off men, people are exemplifying their indignation in ways that can no longer be ignored; nobody is listening otherwise. Experiences like my partner’s are more common than one might think; the way that masculinity and men are presented is confusing and uncomfortable for many. These attempts to force men into the mindset of other genders are attempts to help them understand that they are not singular; their actions affect others, and the actions they’re choosing to take behind the mask of masculinity numb them to their humanity and that of others. People are fed up, and the ways in which they’re expressing their frustration are growing more unignorable every day. If men could step into the minds of another gender for just a day, how much would they realise about themselves, about just being human?

Men have a gentleness that we rarely encounter because of the pressures of toxic masculinity, the idea that they must remain stoic and strong, that they must “man up”. Men have a softness under their surfaces: they’re human, but do they know this? Many either don’t know how to access this part of themselves or don’t feel safe expressing it, and it’s not just an issue–it is the issue. How many men miss out on connections with others, on their own creativity, their own selves, because of the box that they’re put into?

I am tired. Aren’t you? Of pretending that you’re not human, don’t have emotions, struggles, a heaviness you can’t quite explain? 

I wonder if men would better understand themselves if they felt freer to explore all parts of themselves, if they weren’t afraid of being “feminine”. I turn this thought over and over again in my head–if I woke up a man one day, how would I be the same; or would I be different? Would my experience as a woman make me a better man? If a man woke up a woman one day, would this help him be a better man? 

I woke up at quarter to seven today. This is nothing new. I woke up at the same time, in the same bed. This is not what’s strange. 

I woke up as a woman today. No one seemed to notice the difference but me; my wife kissed me good morning and said nothing else; my co-workers in the office brought me my usual coffee, a black americano with two sugars, and asked me again if I was going to be attending the Christmas party next Saturday? 

And d’you know what? I’m not all that put out about it. Initially, sure; I had my reservations. It seems silly now, but when I first looked in the mirror, I thought to myself, I don’t know how to do my hair or put on makeup. I felt frozen, like a child. Things that seemed so simple yesterday were suddenly insurmountable, daunting, alien. 

I didn’t know who to be when I stepped outside, how to act. If I tried to keep my head down, would it help me blend in or make me stand out even more? All I knew was fear. It rushed into my chest, my fingers, my legs, my face; a paralyzing ache stemming from not knowing what to do and knowing exactly what’s to come. I was married to a woman, I had a mother, a sister, friends who are women. I’d seen women harassed in the street, I watched the news, saw the stories. But that’s all they’d been until now: just stories

I didn’t know it felt like this. Didn’t know how women dealt with it every day.

I grabbed my first coffee of the day off the kitchen counter. Slung my bag over my shoulder. Walked out of the house. As I walked down the sidewalk, my heart pounded in my throat and I averted my eyes from everyone, everything. I felt skinned, dizzy, vulnerable. I never realized how easy it was to walk to work, pick up breakfast, and get on the bus as a man.

As my breath steadied and my eyes lifted, I realized that maybe there’s not much of a difference, after all. I can choose to not break my gaze when someone is staring me down. I can choose to not respond when the guy paying me out at Costa calls me baby. I can choose to speak up, to walk straight, to say no.

Aside from a few uncomfortable looks throughout the day, everyone treated me the same; my coworkers asked me, as they always do, to join them for lunch. They asked how I was feeling about the big project I’d been assigned that day. If anything, I felt I could be more honest about it. No one laughed in my face when I said I was nervous about it: they offered their help. 

When the man at the off-licence near my house was just as standoffish with me as usual, I felt more comfortable giving him a bit of an attitude. He seemed sheepish when I chastised him, and if anything, I felt stronger, more confident knowing my strength came from a place where I’d earned it, not had it handed to me.

Nothing changed: when I came home, my wife still asked me to fold the washing and help her with dinner. I enjoyed reading my book while she watched her show just the same. Really, I feel a bit better, living now as a woman. 

My sheets are just as soft; my wife’s lips just as sweet.

I wonder if I’ll still wake up as a woman tomorrow. I don’t think it really matters.