Why Am i here

By: Women on Site

——

I asked myself that question on the back of a bus.

A work trip. A ball game. Me and my union brothers, all of us headed to the same place. I was on the inside by every measure, same union card, same trade, same bus. But somewhere between the jokes that were spun about gender, the side glances and the way they seemed to laugh with each other but at me. Not directly, but in the way you know, you know this is being said because of you. I started to shrink.

I have tough skin. Always have. I told myself the jokes weren't personal, the cold shoulders were just the way it is sometimes, that patience would eventually turn into acceptance.

That's not how it went.

Not accepted. Just allowed. Not one of them. Just other.

Tough skin can only go so far. Eventually it breaks. A thousand paper cuts.

I remember thinking “Why am I here? I don't have to choose this career, would it be easier to work somewhere I am more accepted? Welcomed? I love my job, but why am I here?” and then I thought about my dad.

I don't know why it was him. I never told him any of it. Not one paper cut. But sitting on that bus I saw him anyway, like a movie I couldn't turn off, him watching every single moment play out. Every comment. Every cold shoulder. Every time someone made it clear I was allowed to be there but never welcome. I saw his face. Heartbreak with a clenched jaw. The kind of helplessness that comes from knowing your kid is tough enough, stubborn enough that telling her to quit won't just fail, it'll fail her. I saw him wanting to fight for me and having nowhere to put it.

That image broke something open in me.

I never wanted to fight. I wanted to fit in. I thought I could take it, thought the thick skin was just part of being a tradeswoman, thought if I kept my head down long enough it would just become normal. But imagining myself through my dad's eyes, someone I knew would never accept the way I was being treated, it made me want to fight for myself. And then it made me think of every dad out there, terrified for their stubborn, strong-willed daughter walking onto a job site. Every girl who loves the trade and has no idea what's coming.

If I couldn't figure out how to fight for me yet, fine. I'd do it for them. I valued surviving as if it was thriving.

I thought taking the punches made me tough. It made me a punching bag.

And then my question shifted.

Not why am I here. Why AM I here.

Because I wanted to be. I dreamed of working in a trade since I was ten. I fell in love with solving problems, seeing a job become a finished project, the money, the benefits, the education. I am here to take up my space. To show a path that was never shown to me.

To open doors behind me. I had been asking myself a question that wasn't even mine.

So I stopped answering it.

I made a promise on that bus. I couldn't change every mind. I couldn't make the industry perfectly accepting in my lifetime alone. But I could promise one thing. There is going to be a woman out there one day at her breaking point, asking a question that isn't even hers, why am I here, and I will be there. I will sit with her. I will be the one to say you deserve to be here. You deserve an honest day's pay for an honest day's work. You are here because you want to be here. I see you. I hear you. You are not alone.

I made a permanent note to remind myself of that promise. I said yes to opportunities that terrified me. I said yes when I didn't feel ready, when I didn't want the responsibility, when I was scared of public speaking and scared of being visible and scared of being the one people look to. I did it anyway. I did it scared. Every single time. Because I wanted to get somewhere I could make a difference and I refused to forget why.

It was hard and some days I still didn't know why I was putting myself through it. But I kept showing up. And slowly, without me even noticing, I got somewhere.

Then one day my phone rang.

A tradeswoman on the other end. Breathless. The kind of breathless that tells you someone is letting it all out for the first time, all at once, nothing held back. I listened to her describe her job site. Her situation. The isolation. The comments. Being talked over, passed over, pushed out, and minimized. She told me she had tough skin. That she could generally brush this stuff off. But one thing led to another and piled on another until she found herself wondering, why am I here?

I recognized every. single. word.

When the call ended I was terrified and honoured at the same time, and both of those feelings lived inside one fear, failing her. Not just her as a person but failing the promise. The one I made to myself on the back of that bus.

She told me she felt heard. Supported. She used the word heroic and it made me uncomfortable, because purpose doesn't feel heroic from the inside. It feels like showing up. It feels like answering the phone. It feels like being scared but doing it anyway. I didn't fail her, I made her feel seen, welcome, accepted.

Here is what I know now that I didn't know on that bus.

Why am I here was never my question to carry. It was theirs. The ones who never wanted us in the room. The ones who made the jokes and gave the cold shoulders and acted like this space belonged to them and them alone. They are the ones asking why is she here. Not me. I know exactly why I'm here. I have always known. And I made myself a promise that no matter how hard it gets, no matter how many papercuts, no matter how many times the question creeps back in, I will never forget the answer.

Why are you here?

You already know. Don't forget it.