“She remembered who she was and the game changed.”
– Laleh Ahmadi

I want to tell you something I don't think you hear enough.

Not about what you do. About who you are.

There's a version of Women's Month that celebrates achievements. The firsts, the breakthroughs, the women who changed history. And I love that. I genuinely do.

But this year I keep thinking about a different kind of woman. The one who isn't in the headlines. Who isn't breaking records or making history in any way that gets written down. Who is just, quietly, showing up.

Every day.

I think about the women I meet in my work. And before I ever hear about their job title or how many years they've been teaching or what certifications they hold, I notice something else. Something that was there before any of that and will be there long after.

The way they listen. Really listen, in a way that most people don't, the kind where you can feel that the other person is actually receiving you. The way they hold a room, not by commanding it but by being so genuinely present in it that everyone else settles. The way they carry other people's hard things alongside their own without anyone asking them to, because that is just who they are.

That is not a skill they learned. That is not on anyone's CV. It is not measured in any review or recognised in any pay grade.

It is just her. The woman herself. Before the role, before the qualification, before anyone decided she was worth anything based on what she could produce.

I want to stay here for a moment because I think we rush past it.

We spend so much time talking about what women do. The invisible work, the emotional labour, the impossible balancing act. And all of that is true and worth naming. But underneath the doing is a being. A quality of personhood that is not the result of her efforts. That she arrived with. That no difficult year or thankless term or season of being overlooked has managed to take from her, even when it tried.

The curiosity that makes her keep learning. The warmth that makes children feel safe before she's said anything of consequence. The humour that surfaces even in the hardest weeks. The stubbornness, the beautiful stubborn refusal to stop caring even when caring costs her something.

That is who she is. Not what she does.

And here is the thing about that woman, the one reading this right now.

She has spent so long being useful that she has forgotten she has worth beyond her usefulness. So long being needed that she has stopped asking what she needs. So long being the one who holds it together that she can barely remember what it feels like to be held.

She defines herself by her roles. Mother. Teacher. Caregiver. Partner. Professional. And all of those things are real and good and part of her.

But they are not her.

She was someone before she was any of those things. A person with her own particular way of seeing the world. Her own sense of humour that existed before she was responsible for anyone. Her own dreams that arrived before life got so full there was no room to remember them. Her own quiet knowing that has been right more times than she has been given credit for.

That woman, the one underneath all the roles, she is the one I want to celebrate this Women's Month.

Not for what she has achieved. For who she simply, already, is.

I hope this March has felt like a small act of remembering. Of coming back to yourself, even briefly. Of recognising the extraordinary in what has started to feel ordinary.

Because you are not ordinary. You have just been doing something remarkable for so long that you forgot to notice.

Thank you for being here this month. Truly. Each one of you.

See you in April. 🌿

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