Why I’m running 5k a day in September for Women’s Aid

Why Women’s Aid? It should be easy to explain, but somehow it’s not.

It was an easy choice – absolutely – and there’s no shortage of reasons. But maybe that’s the thing. There are so many reasons, so where do you even start? How do you ever do it justice?

This isn’t personal for me. I’m not a victim of domestic abuse and I’ve somehow been extremely fortunate with the men I have known and been close to. I can’t point to one event or experience and say: This is why.

I could say, of course, that 90% of women killed in Ireland are killed by a man they know, or that Women’s Aid recorded over 40,000 cases of domestic abuse last year – but when pointing to one clear and simple fact like that to illustrate the injustice that Women’s Aid’s work combats, I can’t help but immediately feel that I’m failing to paint the full picture.

It’s not one statistic, and it’s not one story – it’s a structural, systemic, relentless oppression that’s so deeply ingrained in so much of society that we’ve almost become blind to it. And one fact presented alone could easily be mistaken as anecdotal.

For me to attempt to explain why there was never really any question about which charity I would fundraise for, I need to paint a fuller picture.

I need to tell you to go watch the Netflix drama series Maid, which is based on a woman’s real-life experience of domestic abuse and a society that let her down – a series that made me cry with rage so much, on multiple occasions, that I was unable to talk.

I need to mention the experience of writing a blog post about the mainstream media framing of the murder of Clodagh Hawe and her sons by her husband and their father – a post that went viral and resulted in countless friends, acquaintances and strangers writing to me in recognition, thanking me for putting the spotlight on a reality they were all too familiar with (whereby I realised how many people I knew who were familiar with it, who had presumably been familiar with it for a very long time without my knowledge).

I need to tell you about subsequently being invited to speak at Women’s Aid’s launch of the Behind Closed Doors report and take part in the SAFE Ireland Summit, where powerful, knowledgeable speakers helped me begin to contextualise that inherent, low-level but constant exasperation I’ve always felt simmering away somewhere deep in my gut – the one that flares and burns with every new case, every mention of another injustice, every assault and every woman killed.

I need to tell you to look, any day at all, at any news source or social media platform, where there are reports upon reports upon reports of women being attacked, controlled, raped, killed by their partners.

Last week alone, you could read about the death of Olympic athlete Rebecca Cheptegei, whose partner doused her in petrol and set fire to her, and about Gisèle Pélicot, whose husband drugged her and invited other men to come to their house and rape her (more than 50 of them did; not one of the others reported a thing).

I’m fundraising for Women’s Aid because of the relentless, brutal, structural injustice that expresses itself not only in the statistics of male violence against women and the number of women who are killed by a partner or ex-partner, but in sexual assault, in rape used as a weapon of war, in children suffering at the hands of someone who should have been their safe space.

I’m doing it because it’s everywhere, in all classes and cultures; because no matter if we close the gender pay gap and representation quotas are filled and there’s universal, free childcare and well-paid parental leave, this painful injustice remains a fundamental, ever-present threat. And as I write that, I realise that maybe I was wrong; of course this is personal for me.

I’m doing this because frankly, I’ve been feeling quite powerless in my politics recently – and, honestly, what else can I do?

This is one thing I can do. It’s basic and maybe not a huge deal to some, but it’s putting my feet where my heart is, for the lack of a better term. I can get the runners on, put one foot in front of the other, then do it again, and again, and again. It’s a show of commitment, if nothing else. And when the tiredness kicks in, I think of those headlines and use the rage.

On how you can’t win as a feminist in a capitalist patriarchy – or, the right to choose not to play ball

I remember very clearly the first time a friend of mine, a self-professed feminist, mentioned in passing that she uses Botox. At first, I was just really surprised. Soon enough, I realised that I felt disappointed. Worse, I felt deceived. I’d thought we had an unspoken agreement, a feminist pact not to engage with the bullshit inventions of patriarchy. But she mentioned it with such poise that I quickly realised she knew something I didn’t, that I was the one being naïve. What was this slippery slope I’d missed? Were we going for labiaplasty next?

I have internal battles about shaving. I know that I’m modelling a lot of things for my sons, and if I shave my armpits, that’ll be what’s normal to them. Then I cut myself some slack, knowing that this, too, is a conversation starter. They too will face all sorts of external pressures, and talking about the things people do and why they do them is probably not a bad thing. I justify wearing make-up, if far from every day, but I’ve vowed not to discuss my weight or talk about body fat as a bad thing. I draw lines in sometimes arbitrary places, justifying them to myself as I go, knowing that perfection is a goal that would break me but that, as a feminist, I have to try.

My body, my choice. It’s a pertinent slogan, utterly non-negotiable. And yet, like I’ve argued before, choice is a funny word. I’m not alone in that shower, removing body hair; I’m enveloped by every single message I’ve ever been fed by the patriarchal capitalist world that raised me. I’m self-aware and self-critical. I know that, deep down, I wish I wouldn’t feel the need to – but I only have the energy for a certain amount of rebellion, a certain number of battles. Not all of them. Not this one. Not today.

Can you use Botox and call yourself a feminist? It’s a ridiculous question, of course. I’ve yet to meet a feminist whose every action is a feminist one, and I’d hate to live in a world where we set the bar that high for each other. We’re already scrutinised by patriarchy itself and put under immense pressure to conform to beauty norms, and then judged for trying too hard and called shallow when we care. Injecting a neurotoxic protein into your face is not a feminist thing to do – but a lot of feminists do it. Their body, their choice.

On the other hand, minimising the issue by framing it as one about choice alone is both naïve and counter-productive. We make choices about scalpels and needles because we’re forced into corners. Some are left in those corners without the means to choose. Others can afford to buy their way out but are left worse off than before, already paid less than their male equivalents before they even begin to splash out on beauty treatments to stay in the game. And those who come after us start younger and younger, playing catch-up in a culture where refusing to play ball comes at a huge cost.

The takeaway? I don’t believe in shame as a catalyst for change, but I think we need to dare to consider the connection between the individual and the structural. The question isn’t whether you can have Botox and call yourself a feminist. The question is how we can break the cycle – because if we don’t, more and more of us will feel the need to play along, inadvertently perpetuating the beauty norms that got us here in the first place.

Ultimately, it boils down to this: I don’t want the right to choose whether or not to inject Botox into my face. I don’t want to have to choose either to spend money and time on beauty rituals and treatments in order to just about scrape in as good enough, or to blatantly refuse to conform and end up an outcast. For as long as that’s the choice we’re given, we’re not all in this together.  

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***This post follows on from a Bits of Me podcast episode, in which I spoke to Gillian Roddie of @evidentiallyyou about body image, ageing and Botox. You can listen here!***