The Spirit of Sisterhood

When I delved into my diaries last year to write about those blearily-remembered first few months of parenthood for Night Feeds and Morning Songs, the faces that stood out were mostly female. Among them my wonderful mother and much-missed mother-in-law, and my sister, who eyed the new, raw, mad me with baffled compassion and took the baby for a walk. But also: the colleague who gathered up my baby so I could drink a whole cup of coffee during my office visit and the stranger who wordlessly packed away my buggy on the bus as I wrestled with a squalling infant. A friend – who had her own tiny children to deal with – brought me quiche: food I could put straight into my face from the box. That was worth more to me in those bewildering early days than anything else money could buy.

We are so often told that women are catty and competitive, that we judge each other and backbite or that successful women pull the ladder up behind them. But nothing about this narrative rings true in my experience. It has been women who have given me much of my strength; women who have tossed me a life-belt when I’ve been slipping under; women who have picked up the pieces of me when scattered, or given me a cheerful leg-up. The offices we perform for each other are sometimes small – the sympathetic cup of tea, the tip-off about something in our teeth, the emergency plaster – but they are, I believe, sacred.

The publishing industry in which I work is largely staffed by women, so it isn’t surprising that it is from female bosses and colleagues that I have absorbed most wisdom and confidence. (My workmates have also made me laugh until launch-party wine came out of my nose, which is equally welcome.) And it has always been women who have stuck up their hands to help with the meeting prep or the envelope stuffing. Our male counterparts, we’re told, won’t slow their own progress by helping wrap gifts for the Christmas party, but these small kindnesses forge friendships that can be lifelong, and I wouldn’t be without them for any corner office.

This instinct to bond and cheer each other on can be seen in action far from the professional sphere, too. It’s been a while since any of us were in a nightclub loo, but the fervent compliments and passionate pep talks – and believe me, he’s not worth it – dished out after a few drinks by strangers are some of my fondest memories of nights out. Somehow I can’t imagine these scenes being replicated in the malodourous Gents.

Female friends have always been there for me, whether we’re watching bad films under blankets after a break-up or toasting each other’s career wins. Their interventions might seem trivial but acts of kindness like lending me a towel after swimming, saving me from having to dry my cold and furious daughter with my coat, or sending fancy cocktails to lubricate a locked down birthday have so often saved the day. Their confessions have also given me permission to turn off the endless, pointless guilt tap: everyone had toast for tea yesterday, they have remained firmly planted on the couch without racking up 5k and, actually, they can’t face that hard-hitting experimental new drama series either.

During this past, mad year, complete strangers on social media have helped me feel sane(r) when I felt I was drowning under the demands of homeschool and work, when I fretted about letting down my children and hated being unable to take on more freelance work. Their humour and solidarity was a light in dark days and I’ll always be grateful for it.

We are all juggling a hundred balls at any moment. We are all subject to a tsunami of life admin that can feel overwhelming, without even taking into account the big things when they come: birth, bereavement, hardship and illness won’t leave any of us untouched. But the women who pour the gin, pass the good biscuits, call to listen to us chew things over or who just leave a quiche on the doorstep, won’t let you go through any of that alone. Here’s to the women who have given me strength, and to counting ourselves among their happy number.

A version of this article originally appeared in Red Magazine’s May 2021 issue.