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Hi there. I’m back. I’ve been trying to write this piece for almost two months now. I’ve started and deleted and started again so many times. I knew what I wanted to say. The truth was never the hard part—what was hard was allowing myself to say it. Every time I sat down to write, I felt the sting of old wounds rise up again. I had to stop, breathe, cry, walk away. Because remembering isn’t neutral—it hurts. Revisiting the things I’ve been through was like touching bruises I thought had faded. But today, I’ve decided: enough. I’m letting it go. I’m telling the story—not because it’s easy, but because it matters. It’s time to speak. Originally, I thought I’d begin this entry with data. You know the kind—about how women in science are abundant in classrooms but rare in boardrooms. How our work is cited less, funded less, celebrated less. How our presence thins out the higher up we climb, like air in the mountains. I wanted to show the leaky pipeline with charts and reports and bullet points. But then, on International Women’s Day, my institute screened a documentary: Picture a Scientist. And one image from that film tattooed itself onto my memory. It was called the "Iceberg of Academic Sexism". You’ve seen that iceberg too, haven’t you?  At the top: the loud stuff. Harassment. Groping. The grotesque. But beneath the waterline lives the real mass—the quiet stuff. The being passed over, the invisible no’s, the polite exclusions. The meetings where you speak and nobody hears you until a man repeats your point. The collaborations you’re not invited into. The feeling of being in the room, but never belonging there. And when I saw that iceberg, something in me said—Oh. There I am. Because I have lived every layer of that cold, heavy structure. Not once, but over and over again, across continents and titles and job descriptions. And in that moment, I realised: anyone can write about statistics. But not everyone can write about what it feels like to be swallowed by the iceberg. So here we are. I am writing this for two reasons:
The Whisper: “Am I Overreacting?”Not that long ago, sexism didn’t even try to hide. It swaggered through the halls of academia, bold and bored, fully aware there would be no consequences. Things are changing now. Slowly. There’s more awareness, more training, more eyes on behaviour. But the sexism didn’t disappear. It just changed shape. It got quieter. It started dressing up as decorum. It learned how to whisper. And the worst part about whispers? Sometimes you’re the only one who hears them. So you start wondering: Was that comment inappropriate, or am I being too sensitive? Was I left out of that project, or did I just imagine it? Should I laugh it off? Should I “be cool”? Should I be grateful? This inner dialogue will eat you alive if you let it. Because here’s the dirty little secret: we are taught to be pleasant. To be accommodating. To be grateful. So when we experience harm, we smile through it. We doubt our instincts. We question our reactions. We become our own silencing agents. But something powerful happens when another woman looks you in the eye and says, “That happened to me too.” Suddenly, your shame shrinks. Your gut grows louder. You start reclaiming your own voice. That is the first spark of revolution. Speak Up… They SayHere’s the thing they don’t tell you about speaking up: it costs. Every time I’ve spoken, someone has warned me. Be careful. They might come after you. Don’t name names. Don’t tell stories. Don’t ruin your career. Don’t be “that woman.” And here’s the gut-wrenching part: they’re not wrong. Not entirely. Especially when you don’t have tenure. Especially when your future depends on recommendation letters and closed-door conversations. So yes—I thought about backing down. I thought about watering down the truth. I considered writing a neutral little blog post full of statistics and soft edges. But then I remembered what silence does to the soul. Silence doesn’t keep you safe. Silence keeps you small. I’ve been to therapy. I’ve healed some wounds. I’ve stared down shame and told it to go to hell. And what I’ve learnt is this: Speaking costs. But silence costs more. So I’m writing this. Not to name names. Not to seek revenge. But to reclaim my story—and to make space for yours. I have been told I’m not clever enough to have my own ideas—this, whilst sitting at the top of my class. I’ve watched my male colleagues get praised for work that was objectively less thoughtful, less rigorous, less original than mine. And the voice in my head whispered: Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m just good at memorising things. Maybe I don’t have real ideas. Maybe I’m only here because I try hard—not because I belong. All lies. That was sexism. Wearing a nice tie and using your first name like you’re friends. I once entered a poster competition. One of the judges—a man with too many titles and not enough shame—told me he wanted to talk more about my research. I was over the moon. I was a student. A senior scientist cared about my work! I waited beside my poster with notes in hand, heart thudding with anticipation. He came back and offered to give me higher marks if I danced for him in his hotel room. He wasn't interested on my research at all. I was crushed. But the real heartbreak came later, when I told people. They shrugged. “Did you really think he wanted to talk about your science?” they said. And the voice in my head whispered: Of course not. You’re just a girl. Not even a clever one. Again: lies. That was sexism. Ugly, sharp, and familiar. I’ve been harassed whilst teaching. A senior professor—well-known, well-liked—used to sit in on my classes “just to stare at me”. He said so openly. He bragged about it. Other professors knew. No one intervened. When I said I was uncomfortable, they laughed. Told me I was overreacting. So did the voice in my head. Too emotional. Too sensitive. Don’t make a scene. Never mind that this man already had a stack of complaints in his file. Still my fault, apparently. Still my drama. Lies. All of it. That was sexism. Polished and institutionalised. I could fill a book with stories like these (and worse ones too). I wish I couldn’t. But I could. And the worst part is—they don’t go away. Now, when someone asks to meet me later to “talk science,” I freeze. Now, when someone says my work isn’t good enough, I wonder if it’s my ideas—or my gender. The voices haven’t left. But here is something you want to hear, they’ve been joined by new ones. Kinder ones. Wiser ones. Louder ones. The more I speak, the less shame I carry. The more I name, the harder it becomes for others to look away. We Need AlliesWe are still so far from equity. From being believed. From being safe. I wasn’t going to talk about statistics—but let’s not pretend the numbers lie. Every time I tried to report abuse, there were no gender committees. Just men. Lots of men. Sitting behind desks, listening with crossed arms and closed minds. So I helped build something different. A gender committee. A safe space for women to talk, report, be heard. And would you believe it? We met resistance. Because the moment you try to centre women’s voices, someone always asks: “But what about the men?” Listen. Equity isn’t about giving women extra. It’s about restoring what’s been stolen. Men have had a head start for centuries. We’re not attacking—we’re correcting. And we can’t do it alone, because unfortunately, most of the people in power are still men. We need them on our side—not just with slogans, but with sleeves rolled up. Hire us. Mentor us. Fund us. Believe us. We are already doing the labour. We sit on committees. We mentor students. We rewrite entire cultures in our spare time. We shouldn’t have to survive a broken system and be the ones to fix it. We need shared responsibility. That’s what justice looks like. So if you’re a man reading this: lean in. Show up. Be safe. Be kind. And if you don’t know where to start—ask. We’ll figure it out together. There Is a LightI’ve read this piece so many times, trying to make it sound less heavy. But here’s the truth: It is heavy. And yet—there is a light at the end of this long tunnel. Things are changing. There are more policies now. More consequences. More brave people in rooms that used to be closed. Personally—I am changing too. I was raised in a culture that taught me to shrink. That taught me to smile through pain. That made me doubt myself even when I was winning. Those voices are still in my head. But they no longer get the final word. Now, there are other voices. Gentler. Braver. Mine. Sexism in academia is real. And every woman I know has faced some version of it. It’s not you. It’s the system. And systems can be rewritten. To the Ones Still WhisperingIf you’re still whispering your pain—I hear you. If you’re afraid to speak—I believe you. You don’t need to shout. Start with a whisper. Tell a friend. Tell yourself. Find someone who will say, “Me too.” Because here’s what they never told us: You are not alone. They say women “leave” academia. We don’t leave. We’re pushed out—by a thousand tiny cuts. So if you’re thinking of leaving, let me say this: You belong here. You deserve joy. You deserve safety. You deserve to be heard. And if the system says otherwise? Then it’s the system that’s broken—not you. Let’s keep going. For us. For each other. For the ones who haven’t arrived yet. We are not just surviving. We are building a new world. Final note: if you’re a man reading this, thinking I might be talking about you — I hope you’ll sit with that discomfort. Reflect. Grow. Change.
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