If we’ve learned anything over the past few weeks, it’s that we need more women in politics, not less.
It’s no secret that women are held to a different standard to men in politics. The gendered criticism of Julia Gillard is an example that still sits at the forefront of many of our minds. Countless female staffers and politicians are reflecting on how they are treated everyday solely due to their gender.
But one thing that some don’t realise is that gender disparity affects women long before we are even elected to our parliaments. There’s something holding us back from trying to get there in the first place.
Being a millennial with a digital footprint, a topic that regularly comes up in conversation with other women with political aspirations, is our pasts becoming the subject of public discussion in a way that would never happen to a man.
I know many women who are scared to nominate for candidacy or enter public life because they have sent consensual nude images or are concerned that their private sex lives would become a topic for public discussion.
The irony is not lost on me that this fear exists for many women while sitting male members of parliament manage to hold on to their jobs despite allegations of illegal behaviour. It makes you wonder how anyone can deny that there is a different standard for men than women.
For almost 10 years now, I have let my own past dictate my ambitions out of fear that a man might use them against me.
While at university, I worked as a topless waitress to make some extra money. I never realised the profound impact those few months would have on my entire life.
In 2012, I felt a sick feeling in the pit in my stomach when the phone notification dinged that I had been tagged in a post on Facebook by an acquaintance.
“LOL – is this for real,” it read, alongside images of myself at work shared without my consent.
The comments from people I knew piled up underneath.
The days and weeks that followed felt like a blur. There is a term for when this happens: outing.
Being outed feels like an assault. It takes away your autonomy and leaves you feeling betrayed and violated.
I went from a happy, outgoing on-campus law student to withdrawn, anxious and afraid to go to class. I eventually decided to never return to campus and to finish my studies online.
We know university campuses have historically been a petri dish for misogynistic behaviour. But at the same time, for many men, it is where they get their first taste of politics. While they get a short course in the tenets of power, women are delegitimised.
The following months were dark, and at times plagued with thoughts of harming myself.
Since then, with time and support from loved ones, the pain and anxiety has subsided, but has still lingered in the back of my mind in a way that’s made me scared to pursue a career in public life – like a dark shadow haunting me.
For many men, my decision to work in a real, legal and legitimate job that did no harm is political ammunition. It is weaponised against women to destroy their confidence and force them into submission. Meanwhile, a visit to a strip club by a previous male prime minister arguably boosted his popularity. The disparity is glaring.
The reality is, this isn’t an isolated issue. The fact that I am a young woman has been weaponised against me countless times.
Fed up with feeling trapped, I recently decided to see a psychologist and work on strategies to stop my past holding me back from pursuing my ambitions.
She told me one thing women can do to heal when their power has been taken away is to claim it back without shame.
That, I have learned, is easier said than done.
But today is the day I have decided to do it.
In politics, people often use the word “dirt” to describe the secrets or hidden pasts of candidates or politicians.
Over the Christmas break, I shared my so-called dirt with Reason party leader and former sex worker Fiona Patten. I always admired the way Fiona owned her past in a way that could never be used against her (a strategy that women in politics should never have to learn, but all too many do). She said some words I haven’t forgotten:
“A moment will come when you will feel compelled to share your story – and you’ll know when that is.”
And she was right. That moment is now.
A new generation is set to come through politics soon, and we must drive home the message that it is the leaking or sharing of past (consensual) sexual decisions or history that is shameful. Not the decision for a woman to partake in them.
Last week, almost a decade on from those events that changed my life, I delivered a parliamentary-style stump speech as the final module to complete the Melbourne University’s Pathway to Politics Program for Women. It’s a place I never thought I’d be, and to be honest, I am proud.
Making our parliaments safe and inclusive for women is an important step, but the same must be done for the systems and processes to get there in the first place.
Who knows what my future holds from here – but if sharing my own story helps just one woman living with the same fear, then it will be worth it. Because it’s time we let women control their own narratives, and the only people who should feel ashamed are those who try to weaponise our sexual experiences or pasts for political gain.