One In Four. And All The Things We Still Don’t Tell Our Daughters

"Mom, come and look at what I did!" my eldest calls out from upstairs. I pause the TV and stop midway up the stairs, my daughters leaning over the banister. One is beaming; the other is smiling, shyly.

"Look at her lashes! I curled them!" She motions towards her little sister, showcasing her work.

My 11-year-old looks down at me, doe-eyed, golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her green eyes lifted and illuminated by the curled lashes. Suddenly, I see a stunning young lady, and it fills me with dread.

"Ok," I start, my smile hardening into the face I make when I have a serious talk with them.

"What's wrong? Did I do something wrong? I didn't use mascara," the eldest protests.

"No, nothing's wrong — your sister looks gorgeous, nice work — but now I need to talk to you about boys."

"Oh my God, mom," they groan in concert.

I launch into my formal address, breaking the generational curse of silence that's been passed down to me.

"You are beautiful girls, and people will be drawn to you because of it. Soon, you'll notice that men look at you, talk to you, or touch you in a way that's never happened before. At school, at the mall, maybe even at a friend's house. Some of it will make you feel weird, or scared, but you might not understand why. That's your intuition and it's your superpower."

My genealogy gave me so many beautiful attributes — strength, resilience, loyalty, humour, beauty — but no direction on how to navigate the patriarchal society I was born into. I made my way through the weeds on my own, ripping one out, tossing it aside, only to find another would sprout in its place.

Dating happened in a vacuum of self-doubt and self-exploration. I relied on same-aged friends for guidance, but I was especially driven by the validation I received from boys, and then men; as it happens, not much distinguishes the two.

My parents were of the mindset that I should make my own mistakes and learn from them. To that I give them credit for a life rich with stories. Some were delightful, the stuff that romantic comedies are made of. Some were not.

With the help of therapy, I know that I have to let go of and move past what has happened to me, and to not feel victimized by it. The first trauma counsellor I shared my truly terrible story with gave me something to hold onto:

"You are not a victim. You are a survivor."

Grateful for that sudden revelation, I burst into tears. I'm a survivor with vivid flashbacks to a night I have played back too many times in my head.

But my story is not unique. It's painfully common. One in four, is the official statistic.

I have a handful of beautiful, successful friends whose anguished stories are nowhere to be found on their faces. They tuck their secrets away, just as I do, most of the time. And though it wasn't my fault, I can't help but feel it happened to me for a reason — so that I can do everything in my power to protect other women from the same fate.

My goal is to enshroud my daughters in armour to shield them when I'm not around to.

"If you're in a public space and you need help, who do you look for?" I ask, their heads resting on the banister, waiting to be released from my sermon.

"A girl." They answer in unison.

"Yes. A girl, a woman, a mom with kids."

All of this, triggered by a lash curler. This is the rabbit hole I go down when I catch a glimpse into their teens and twenties — an era marked by how we react to the male gaze. It feels good to be wanted, to flirt, to fall in love and have those feelings reciprocated. When a man likes us, he mirrors our best qualities back at us, and it "proves" we are good, smart, attractive. Our apex predator (it isn't a bear) figured this out long before we did.

My little speeches hone in on the part of us that asks for validation — from anyone, but especially from the people most positioned to weaponize it.

I lost myself, dating men. My creativity, my passion, my interests — all took a backseat to my desire to be loved. Looking back, I didn't see how great I was unless someone else thought I was great, too.

In my first year studying journalism, one of my earliest assignments was to write a feature on a local journalist. I chose a female reporter from the Hamilton Spectator, who agreed to meet me at a coffee shop halfway between us. I told my then-boyfriend where I'd be, excited for my first real interview.

That night, as I sat across from her asking questions and taking notes, emboldened by this new identity I was trying on, I noticed a car eerily similar to my boyfriend's, slow-moving through the parking lot. As my focus shifted to the driver, my heart sank. It was him.

When she left to use the bathroom, I texted:

"Hey... Is that you in the parking lot? What are you doing here?"

"Just making sure you are where you say you are."

I'm sorry to report that I did not break up with him immediately, block him, and continue to thrive in my hard-won career. Instead, by the following year, my grades had dipped, my resolve faltered, and I dropped out of school. I broke up with him eventually — but only after I'd lost my first real love: writing.

The years between that parking lot and my therapist's office are a story for another time. Or maybe they aren't — because you already know the shape of them.

It wasn't until recently that I decided to step back from dating, entirely. When my therapist first suggested it, I was aghast.

"What? Why?" I stammered.

"You could do more yoga. Or writing."

I left that session thinking her guidance wasn't suited to me. I pushed it away until several months later, when another rocky relationship ended, and in that space, I saw what others had clearly seen: I needed to practice choosing me. This is why we settle for "fine" and "not terrible." To be mindfully and deliberately alone is not easy.

"Pain is a door and you have to go through it."

This was my personal breakthrough. I was truly surprised to find comfort — and eventually, happiness — in stillness. I stopped filling my calendar with plans. I turned my home into a haven of solitude and self-exploration.

It's been years in the making, but I'm finally back to the girl just about my daughters' age, who spent her days crafting, reading, watching TV, singing loudly in the kitchen, writing, and in obsessive, devoted contact with her friends. I see my parents often. I host sleepovers. I travel — with my daughters, without them, sometimes with their dad, too.

I'm not sure I needed to be dragged into the depths to get here. But maybe I did. What I know is that I don't want that for them. I'm confident they can navigate their big, beautiful lives without crashing and burning the way I did.

Women are talking. We're finally saying out loud the things that were previously relegated to bathroom stalls, car rides home, and the bottom of a second glass of wine.

So I subject my daughters to feminist monologues, at will.

"You're literally a TV mom right now!" they say, collapsing into giggles.

It's fine. They can thank me later.