The weight of firsts and onlys
She wasn’t just the first woman in the room — she was the only one.
At first, it felt like a badge of honor. Proof that she could break through ceilings, slip into spaces built without her in mind. People celebrated her. Applauded her. Wrote headlines about her.
But behind the congratulations was something heavier: the pressure to represent every woman who hadn’t made it through the door. The questions she couldn’t ask out loud. The fear of making a mistake because someone might quietly think, This is why we don’t put women in charge.
Being “the only” doesn’t just mean standing out. It means standing alone. Carrying a weight that others don’t see — and sometimes pretending not to feel it.
Some women carry that weight with grace. Others with grit. But no one should have to carry it without support.
Ursula Burns, the former CEO of Xerox and the first Black woman to lead a Fortune 500 company, once said she never set out to be a role model — she just didn’t have the luxury of not being one. And that’s the thing about being first. It’s not just about success. It’s about survival, and often, silent sacrifice.
So when a woman makes it into those rarefied spaces, it’s not just a personal win. It’s a signal. A small crack in the door.
The real question is: will she hold it open?
What mentorship really looks like (and what it doesn’t)
It’s not a scheduled coffee once a quarter. It’s not a LinkedIn endorsement. It’s definitely not a panel quote wrapped in buzzwords.
Real mentorship is messier. It happens in between meetings, in text messages nobody else sees. It shows up in the form of a blunt warning, a pep talk on a hard day, or a name quietly dropped into the right conversation.
Sometimes it looks like a senior woman pulling a junior colleague aside to say, “They’ll underestimate you. Use it.”
Other times, it’s someone refusing to let you shrink just because the room is full of louder voices.
Mentorship isn’t always tidy. It doesn’t always come with a title. The best ones don’t even call themselves mentors — they just show up.
They listen. They nudge. They advocate when you’re not in the room. And when you mess up? They don’t disappear. They help you stand back up without judgment.
What it’s not: transactional, conditional, or performative. It doesn’t ask for loyalty in return. It doesn’t pretend to empower while quietly competing.
The women who make the biggest difference are rarely the ones shouting about it. They’re too busy doing the work.
The danger of gatekeeping in disguise
Not every woman in power lifts others. Some pull the ladder up the moment they climb it.
Sometimes it sounds like:
“I had to figure it out on my own, so should she.”
“She’s not ready yet.”
“She reminds me too much of myself at that age — and I wasn’t ready either.”
It’s not always said out loud. But it shows up in the way opportunities are withheld, feedback is sugarcoated, or silence greets someone else’s success.
This isn’t always cruelty. Sometimes it’s fear. Fear of being replaced. Fear of scarcity. Fear that sharing power will dilute it.
That fear doesn’t come from nowhere. Many women were raised in workplaces where there was only room for one at the top. One token seat. One voice allowed at the table — as long as it didn’t echo too loudly.
So they protected what they had. Closed ranks. Stayed cautious.
But gatekeeping wears a different face when it’s dressed in the language of “I’m just trying to protect her” or “she needs to learn the hard way.”
The truth is, no one gets stronger by being shut out.
And protecting power by withholding mentorship doesn’t make the next generation tougher. It just makes the climb lonelier.
The ripple effect of rising together
She didn’t think it was a big deal.
Just a quick note after a meeting: “You spoke with clarity. Don’t second-guess that instinct.”
Or forwarding a job posting with a simple, “You’d be great for this — go for it.”
Or introducing someone to the right person at the right moment, no fanfare.
But years later, the woman on the receiving end still remembers it.
That’s the thing about lifting others — it often feels small in the moment. Barely worth mentioning. But to someone still finding her voice, it’s everything.
One woman stepping up makes it easier for the next to speak. One honest conversation turns into courage for someone else to raise her hand. The impact multiplies quietly — in promotions earned, in rooms entered, in voices no longer shaky with doubt.
Some women build bridges. Others are the reason bridges get built at all.
And when that kind of momentum takes hold — when women don’t just succeed but support — the entire atmosphere shifts. Collaboration replaces competition. The work gets better. The silence breaks.
Real change doesn’t always start at the top. Sometimes, it starts with a whisper: “I’ve got you.”
A call that’s personal, not performative
Nobody’s asking for grand gestures.
This isn’t about founding a mentorship nonprofit or giving keynote speeches on empowerment. It’s about remembering the version of you who didn’t have answers. The one who Googled how to write a salary negotiation email at midnight. The one who smiled through meetings, unsure if her ideas were worth saying out loud.
And deciding — that woman deserves better.
Mentorship doesn’t require status. It requires memory. A willingness to look back, reach down, and say, “I haven’t forgotten what it was like to be where you are.”
The women who change things don’t always have the fanciest bios. They just make a choice — to lift, to support, to open doors without checking credentials first.
Because success that stays locked in one person’s hands starts to rot. But success that spreads? That’s the kind that lasts. That’s the kind that builds legacy.
So the question isn’t whether you’re far enough along to mentor. The question is: who’s still climbing — and could use a hand?
