Episode 9: The myth of the good girl
In which our protagonist starts to throw off the shackles of societal expectation
As I sit here, sipping tea from my “I am f*cking radiant” mug, I’m thinking about how far I’ve come in such a short time. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud not that I’ve totally transformed to a new, improved model in a matter of weeks (because I haven’t), but that I am recognising the issues as they arise and finding coping mechanisms.
Example one: I looked in the mirror the other day and was not totally disgusted by what I saw. I even smiled at the image in the mirror. That’s a big step for me.
Example two: I received a message this week that Old Lauren would’ve taken as bait to have a defensive argument. I did not rise to it; just took a breath and answered as succinctly and factually as possible without resorting to passive aggressive defensiveness. I’ve even ignored messages - who knew that was possible?!
The defensiveness is definitely still there. I feel an intense need to explain myself, especially when I feel that I’m letting people down. And I feel like I’m letting people down All The Damn Time. That’s the people-pleaser, I know, and the inner critic, but I’ve come to realise it’s also the weight of something else: the expectation of being a “good girl”.
I’m sure you recognise the trope. The good girl is a good student, who studies hard and doesn’t speak out of turn. She listens to what others think and adjusts accordingly to make sure everyone is happy and the consensus of the crowd wins. She seeks advice and guidance from external sources because she couldn’t possibly know what she needs. She is moulded from a young age to be the very model of womanhood, ready to serve and to care and to be totally, completely selfless.
She is me, in the guise that led to breakdown and burnout. You don’t need to be quiet and unassuming to be a good girl.
The thing is, the good girl is a myth perpetuated by a society that needs to control.
Was Eve a warning or a model?
Tara Mohr dedicates a whole chapter in Playing Big to dismantling the myth of the good girl. Glennon Doyle references it in Untamed, too. Majo Malfino even called her book “Break the Good Girl Myth”.
There’s a reason so many of these “self-help gurus” (or wise women) are focused on this idea of the good girl: it’s because, for centuries, girls have been raised to be selfless, to care for others, to be mothers, to be pretty objects, to put themselves last and wear their suffering like a badge of honour. To deflect compliments, to have modesty at our core.
Ever said you didn’t like a woman but you couldn’t put your finger on why? Here’s what Glennon Doyle thinks about that: “It’s because our training is kicking in through our subconscious. Strong, happy, confident girls and women are breaking our culture’s implicit rule that girls should be self-doubting, reserved, timid and apologetic. Girls who are bold enough to break those rules irk us. Their brazen defiance and refusal to follow directions make us want to put them back into their cage.” Might this be why I have an extreme aversion to what I see as arrogance, but what is probably just confidence and authentic living?
She talks of the Christian idea of Eve’s curse, and how it was Eve’s misbehaviour that led to her being sentenced to a life of sorrow and travail in childbirth, and being under the power of her husband Adam. That this is why the “good girl” persists: the ultimate warning has existed for centuries. “Selfless women make for an efficient society, but not a beautiful, true or just one,” Doyle writes. But then also she writes the thing that made my jaw drop, made something click into place in my mind: “Maybe Eve was never meant to be our warning. Maybe she was meant to be our model.” Yikes. Mind blown.
Doyle’s idea of the cage, of the restrictions society puts on us, hit a nerve with me; I have suspected for a while now that I wasn’t being authentic to myself. I grew up a good girl. I didn’t want to rock the boat, to put my head above the parapet and claim my uniqueness. I put my head down, I did well at school, I went to university, I entered a career. I was too afraid of disappointing those I loved and respected, and so I hid instead. I was the humming in the background, the figure in the corner of your eye that you didn’t take much notice of. Even my “teenage rebellion” (which came a decade too late, in my 20s), was fairly PG-rated. Oooh wow; I put blue streaks in my hair and started going to gigs. What a badass.
Grow your own way
I never felt comfortable in either role, as the good girl or the so-called rock’n’roll rebel (which no one would really mistake me for - I knew actual rock’n’roll rebels!). I felt constrained, like I was playing to the crowd, performing a role that I thought was expected of me. Doyle writes that rebellion is as much of a cage as obedience is: “They both mean living in reaction to someone else’s way instead of forging your own.” Which is probably why I never felt “right” no matter what I did.
So from here on in, instead of asking what is allowed or what is expected, I am going to ask myself something new: “What is true? What is authentic for me and me alone?” And I’m going to wait for the answer instead of going with the flow and being the good girl that society expects.
Rest assured, this doesn’t mean f*ck society; it doesn’t mean, as someone described it to me this week, “entering the cult of self and me-first”. It doesn’t mean me above all others regardless of the consequences. But what it does mean is listening to what I need and not doing something that doesn’t sit with my own worth, that doesn’t match my own values and goals. It will mean disappointing people and it will mean saying no, but I am by nature an empath and a helper - that’s not going to stop. It’s just no longer going to happen at the cost of my own sanity and body.
As a final reminder to myself as I type this missive, I’ve also got a postcard pinned in front of me. Sent by my wonderful friend Abbey, it says simply: “Don't rush the things that take time to grow”. I am also by nature incredibly impatient - ask my mum, who spent my childhood ferrying me to various lessons and groups only for me to give up after a short time (I’m also easily bored) - so I stuck this to the front of my computer. I see it every day. It’s my reminder to stop and smell the roses. This journey to reprogramming myself, to being self(ish), is not a race, it’s not even a marathon; it’s the journey of a lifetime. My lifetime. And I’m going to make the most of it, good girl or not.
PS remind me to write about the “witch wound” concept sometime...
A final word
A massive HAPPY 40th BIRTHDAY for Wednesday to my little bro, who’s on the other side of the world in my home town of Adelaide, South Australia. I’d always planned to surprise him by turning up to his party. The plague may have killed that plan, but I can still publicly embarrass him by sending a baby photo in this newsletter. Enjoy your day on the 10th (and however long you manage to string it out), Cam!
The week ahead 🗓
Following the week where I made the first public noises of “maybe I need to extend the sabbatical…”, I’m considering my next moves. As well as this stuff:
Courses: Heading into the final phase of Comparison-Free Me with Lucy Sheridan. Course-a-palooza is almost complete!
Writing: I got my application in for the London Library Emerging Writers programme before deadline (yay!), but that’s got me pondering the novel once more. I will spend some time thinking about outlines and structures in the coming weeks - I won’t dive head-first into it like last time, as that just caused too many story issues. Who knew you needed a handle on your monster to write a horror novel?
Work: Exciting conversations already surrounding my creative coaching business, so I need to think about exactly what I can offer this world.
Home: The fridge is on the blink. Anyone know why a fridge suddenly starts freezing the lower shelves? SOBB (Save Our Bunny’s Breakfast). (Yes, this is the quality content you come to me for.)
Social: The wonderful Kathryn Koromilas is dragging me back to Clubhouse today (Sunday) at 6pm GMT / 1pm EST/ 10am PST for her Sunday Salon. Today, it’s writers talking sh*t about when they first identified as a writer. Spoiler: it’s all I’ve ever identified as.
Health: So, I went for a couple of walks and used the failing home exercise bike with the wonky seat a bit last week. This week’s plan: do more than that! I’ve also been looking at Dr Michael Mosley’s Fast 800 programme, because I need to take drastic action with my eating (which isn’t terrible, to be honest, but clearly not good enough). Anyone tried the fasting thing? Let me know what it was like!
Routine: And of course, I aim to continue my daily practice: morning pages, 15 minutes of meditation, 10 minutes of stretches. Plus, join me and hundreds of others at the LWS Writers’ Hour every week day: 8am GMT, EST, PST and AEDT.
On the stereo 🎧
When You See Yourself, by Kings of Leon
I have a fraught history with this band, mainly because when they first came out they were EVERYWHERE in Australia and, as I was covering the scene, I got really sick of them. I liked them, then suddenly I was over them in a big way. It wasn’t until I randomly decided to buy a ticket to see the London show of the tour for Because of the Times in 2007 that I rekindled that initial love. I adored this older, more grimy and introspective, less country version, and that’s what you get with the latest album, too, 14 years later. Someone called it “generic Kings of Leon”, but I happen to like that flavour. (Again.)
Speaking of breaking the good girl myth, here’s a bonus track: St Vincent’s new single. Just go listen.
Off the shelf 📚
This book. My word. Gobsmacked. Goosebumps. Inspired. That is all I have to say, besides bloody well read it already. Read, find your Knowing, and escape your cage.
Visual confirmation 📷
I snuck out to Nonsuch Park on Monday, given I was out of the house for an osteo appointment already, and stumbled across a new grove I hadn’t seen before. Meet my new favourite tree, a wise old man who listened to my pain and absolved me of my guilt.
I’ve recently gone back to intermittent fasting. When I was working for the AIS at SASI and doing my post grad in sports nutrition I got to spend a lot of time with the dieticians employed by the AIS. I tried it then after sitting in on a consult with a rower who said she’s never in her life felt like eating breakfast and it always felt like a chore forced upon her, BINGO that was/is me. IM was recommended. No eating (or consuming liquid calories) after 7pm or before 10:30am, a cup of coffee with unsweetened almond milk is ok. I recently did a coaching session on myself, it’s something I learned from marathon cyclist and international coach Will Matthew’s, how to rescue yourself after getting stuck in the mud. I’ve used the technique successfully with dozens of people so I decided to try it on myself; the premise is quite simple > what were you doing the last time you felt amazing? Solution to your problem > Do that. I’ve never enjoyed, or lasted on a eating regime that required me to eat 6 times per day. My relationship with food is extremely complicated and I realised last year, after a lengthy traumatic experience, that it had reached eating disorder proportions. I’m a foodie who loves food but never wanted to eat 🤦♀️ The last time I felt like my body was truly singing and healthy in regards to food consumption was when I was doing IM, eating fresh and healthy (no packets) and only watching carbs. I’ve been back doing IM for 4 weeks tomorrow and my body is responding well. Try all the eating plans, try all the methods, keep trying until you find what works best for you, there is no one way that works for everyone x
Ah, the ‘good girl’. How angry I still become when I feel I’m unjustly accused and how I still feel the pull to then say ‘you think I’m bad? Well eat this...!’. I’m grateful I can currently sit with the feeling and let it pass with curiosity. This week, I can. It’s a process, innit.