Straight out of university, landing a job as a junior curator at the Royal Museum of Scotland, I was lucky enough to have a female boss. Clever, confident and with one eye determinedly fixed on her progress up the steep incline of the civil service ladder, she was everything I aspired to be. She leaned in, decades before Sheryl Sandberg thought to do the same.
Although desperate to impress her, I quickly lost any professional credibility in her eyes when I was forced to petition her for time off because my periods were abnormally heavy. Once a month, I would appear at her office, deathly pale, practically passing out as a result of extreme blood loss, yet she begrudged sending me home. One time, she explicitly told me I was letting the feminist side down. That stung.
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