When I was in high school, I won a regional poetry contest. It wasn’t a Pulitzer, but fourteen-year-old me was proud of it. When my parents and I arrived at the recognition ceremony, a receptionist scanning the list of invitees asked my name. “Maureen Mahoney,” I said. “I won first place.” She smiled warmly at me and offered her congratulations.

My father was noticeably piqued throughout the ceremony. During the car ride home, he said, ostensibly to my mother, “I don’t like that she told that woman she won first place. It sounded like she was bragging.” My mother nodded in sober agreement. Neither looked at me. I got the message. 

Stating your accomplishments is poor form. Check. 

Had they been asked about this little sideways exchange, I think my parents would have shrugged and said they wanted to raise humble kids. An important and laudable goal, in my opinion. But I knew that my brother was not constrained by this stricture of self-deprecation. And no one would ever dream of calling my father meek. The truth was that my parents wanted to raise humble daughters. And not because they valued humility. Because they valued propriety and understood that it looked different for men and women. 

Growing up, I saw that, for men at least, confidence, aggression, and control were valuable assets and hallmarks of leadership. 

This was in the late 1970’s, when women’s rights were still a new and evolving thing. The Equal Pay act was less than twenty years old, though, obviously, rampant pay inequality persisted. Title IX had only just passed in 1972, the same year single women were first legally assured access birth control. Women had only been able to get credit cards in their own names since 1974, a development which opened the possibility for credit scores. And credit scores open the possibility for everything else. 

(Thank your mothers and grandmothers, ladies. They did you a solid. Be sure to pay it forward.)

But, as we all know, legal rights are one thing; social and professional norms are another thing entirely. And in the social and professional realms, an assertive or – God forbid – aggressive woman faced repercussions. Owning her achievements was . . . unseemly. Openly acknowledging her talent or skill was overconfident. Even a forthright “thank you” in response to a compliment could be seen as somewhat boastful. A demure “Oh no. It was nothing. Anyone could have done it,” was considered much more appropriate. 

We may have been entitled to equal pay and equal opportunities and equal access to power, but no one told us how to ask for them. 

For women, though, they weren’t always considered a good look.

These old attitudes about decorum proved shockingly tenacious, extending far into my professional life and, I would argue, even into my daughters’, whose careers are just beginning. Women still earn less than men, still have to be reminded to know their value, and still seek coaching about how to ask for a raise or promotion without being labeled as pushy, demanding, or difficult. 

Add to this the fact that women often don’t respond well to or feel particularly included in the masculine, hierarchical, top-down model of management that has had a stranglehold on business structure since the industrial revolution. It values assertiveness and dominance. It’s a model in which self-promotion is not only encouraged but expected, seen as a mark of confidence, competence, and commitment. 

Yet it’s not considered a good look for a woman who, adopting the same approach, might be labeled “bossy.” Cold. Sharp-elbowed. A poisonous b**ch. 

I offer you Sandra Bullock in The Proposal. 2009. 

And many women prefer to work and lead in a more collaborative, compassionate style.

Plus, that style of interaction doesn’t always sit well with women, who tend to lean into empathy, inclusiveness, collaboration as a means of achieving goals. They often emphasize process, coalesce around a growth-oriented mindset, and strive for collective success by ensuring each member of the group feels valued and understood. Crowing about personal achievements or making bold declarations of superior ability can introduce an unhealthy dose of ego into those works, threatening the fragile ethos in which synergetic, reciprocal teams of equals thrive. 

Obviously, these are super sweeping generalizations. They’re not true for every person or group or dynamic. But studies have borne them out and, maybe more relevant to me, I’ve seen them myself. I don’t know where these interactive styles come from, whether there are innate differences between men and women or whether generation upon generation of strident gender-based expectations just make it look that way. 

But I do know it starts young. On the soccer field. In the classroom. On the playground. Boys learning to hang tough, project confidence and independence, and keep their feelings to themselves to avoid losing face with the other boys. Girls desperate to be part of the group, looking for acceptance and connection and inclusion with the other girls.

I wanted to equip my daughters to work and collaborate and succeed in a way that felt authentic to them.

Actually, I tried to teach this to all my kids, but I’ll leave my boys aside for the moment. My efforts to insulate them from the emotionally stifling aspects of boy world were really about their personal growth. I wasn’t particularly concerned that they would be locked out of the boardroom because they were seen as too confident. 

My girls, I knew, would have a trickier time in that arena. They would need models, experiences, the mindset, and the language to make them comfortable asserting themselves without fear of repercussion.  So, I set out to give them that. 

I deliberately pointed out and praised strong women who owned their power.

When I was raising my girls, there was no strong black woman raising her Emmy to the sky and thanking herself for believing in herself and doing what they said she could not do and reminding all the beautiful people to “go on, girl, with your bad self. You did that.” 

And even now, there’s only one Niecy Nash.

But I knew the importance of role models. As a stay-at-home mom, I worried that I wasn’t setting a personal example of professional power. So I was mindful to point out women who were – among our friends, in the news, in politics, even on Disney. 

I was also careful to point out the support system that helped those women achieve what they did. I did not want my girls growing up with the unrealistic expectation that they could “have it all” without carefully surrounding themselves with trusted people to support and guide them. 

I coached them on how to interact with teachers, coaches, and other authority figures rather than interceding on their behalf myself.

Since the time they were little, I have made it a policy never to intercede on my child’s behalf unless my child was unable to handle the situation themselves. If they were unhappy about their playtime on the field, I helped them figure out how to approach the coach. If they felt that an assignment was unclear or a grade was unfair or a project too difficult, we brainstormed ways for them to speak to the teacher. If they thought that their school should adopt a better recycling system, I talked to them about how to request a meeting with the principal. I even asked them, at the end of every doctor’s visit, what questions they had for the doctor.

This policy has done so many great things for my family. It helped my kids find their voices, learn to communicate concerns, make requests in a healthy, direct way, and develop the poise and confidence to interact with authority figures. It allowed me to shift from protector – a short-term gig at best – to trusted advisor – a tenured position. 

The policy had one other, unexpected benefit. Interacting regularly with people who they saw as more powerful than themselves taught my kids that powerful people are just like everyone else: generally well-intentioned, frequently very knowledgeable, and almost always happy to help if approached in the right way. 

Not a bad mindset to bring to a job hunt, mentor request, or plain old everyday ask.

I gave them language that made them feel comfortable acknowledging their own skills and abilities.

Even now, as a woman of a certain age, I still find it much easier to advocate for others than I do for myself. I think a lot of women feel that way. So, when it looked like one of my girls might need to do a little self-promotion or express overt ambition, we came up with specific language to help them do that honestly and comfortably, and, as they grew in their ambitions and careers, we continued to do that.

I think I should be elected class president because I spend a lot of time listening to my peers and really understand their issues and concerns.

Coach, I want to be the best player on this team. What are your thoughts about how I can get there?

I’m organized, thoughtful, and efficient. I think I could be a real asset to this company.

This would be my first time managing a project of this size, but I have done a, b, and c, which taught me the skills I need to take it on successfully.

I guess what I’m most proud of is my ability to get meaningful input from everyone in the group.

I tried to teach them authentic humility, which is not about understating the value of your own contributions; it’s about honestly acknowledging and lifting up the contributions of others.

I firmly agree with my parents about the importance of humility. Just not the I’m-too-coy-to-acknowledge-my-own-gifts-unless-someone-else-points-them-out-first version.

Authentic humility is not about dimming your own light; it’s about drawing out and acknowledging the light in others. Which, of course, is honest. Everyone brings something to the table. Everyone has something valuable to contribute. Including you. Don’t be afraid to let people know what it is.

It’s a lesson I worked hard to inculcate in all my kids, but especially my daughters. And, not to brag, but I think I did a really good job.