Last week, I posted something on LinkedIn, where I’ve been for the better part of 17 years. This is not a big statement. This is not a manifesto either. It’s just a question, carefully worded, carefully worded—prefaced with “bear with me,” and with assurances that I adore men, that three of my closest friends are men, and that I’m not trying to make a fuss.
I asked others if they’d noticed a pattern I’d been trying not to notice: In nearly two decades of running Creative Boom, every cruel, unsolicited, condescending comment I’d received had been from a man. Not once from a woman.
The response has been extraordinary. And inspiring. And, in a way I didn’t expect, the reaction became the story itself.
What I’m actually describing is
Annoyingly, I don’t think I made it clear enough in my original post. So let me try to set the record straight now – I’m not talking about feedback or criticism. I don’t mind this. I take it very seriously and often welcome it. No, what I’m describing is something completely different. This is an unsolicited comment without any invitation or constructive purpose and comes from nowhere. Like: “Ugh! Why did you say that?” or “That’s weird!” or – my personal favorite – “Katie hasn’t realized that she’s not funny or smart.”
Insults are actually disguised as observations. No one asked or needed to say. And yet…for seventeen years, each of these comments came from a man.
I appreciate that these comments are minor and easily overlooked. But years later, when you put it all together, it does feel like death by a thousand cuts. It gets worse when you realize that this isn’t an isolated phenomenon that I’m just suffering from.
The post itself proves this
Within a few hours of posting, a man commented that he was surprised by my post, saying that I was “obviously smart,” which was not the case. I deleted it and restricted comments to connections only.
But here’s the thing…I’m not surprised. I’m just tired. Because this comment is not sarcastic or overtly self-aware, but perfectly sums up what I’m describing. An active assessment of my intelligence. He positioned himself as the arbiter of whether I had earned the right to speak. Noticing a pattern and overtly naming its implications is somehow demeaning.
Several other replies in the thread reinforced this pattern. Men have explained my own experiences to me, men have questioned whether I suffer from “perceptual vigilance,” men have given lengthy analyzes of women’s communication styles but completely missed the point while presenting them. You can’t make it up.
what women say
Nearly all the women who responded immediately recognized this pattern. Not something they observed from a distance, but something they lived.
“My biggest naysayers in my career so far have been men,” one wrote. “Women are almost always supportive, collaborative, hopeful, and celebratory, whereas men tend to be critical, pointing out what they think are mistakes, where they might fail, or just telling me in general terms why my ideas will never work.”
Another wrote: “The only time I’ve ever received negative comments about my illustrations has been from men – and older men.”
The third post described a post about RGB vs. CMYK (one of the least controversial topics imaginable) and received only snarky, argumentative responses from men. “Once you see it, you can’t unsee it,” she said. Isn’t this fact!
One commentator put it best: “Unsolicited corrections tend to occur where authority is not yet fully established.”
The self-censorship no one talks about
This is the thing that struck me the most a few days after the post was posted. I second-guessed myself before posting. I softened my language. I’ve added a disclaimer. I promise you all that I love men. I worry about being seen as someone making a fuss out of a molehill.
One woman pointed out something that gave me pause: “The fact that you feel the need to clarify that you like men is really frustrating. I’m sure none of the men who actively criticize you have ever clarified that they love women.”
She is right. I didn’t even time it until she said it. That preemptive softening, that instinct to look out for other people’s comfort before describing my own experience…that’s it. This is why most of these conversations take place underground.
It’s not just me either. Post after post from women in this comments section admitted the same pattern. Second guess. A preemptive apology. Fear of “too much”. One person described it as a condition in which “good girl box society does its best to keep us all in it.”
Why does this happen?
The responses offered a host of theories—hormones, social conditioning, algorithmic bias (57% of LinkedIn users are decidedly male; the Alan Turing Institute published a study on gender differences in online victimization that’s worth a read), the ways in which some men socially “keep each other honest” become their entitlement when targeting us women.
One respondent who led a male-centered strategy workshop put it most succinctly: “When knowledge gaps feel like they are exposed, some people react by trying to put others down rather than uplift themselves.”
Another said: “Some men like to feel wanted, even if they have to force the interaction.”
One described a telling experiment in which a civil servant sent a report on his own behalf but received no feedback. The same report was sent in the name of a female colleague and received a response. She said it happens every time.
One might say it’s all cognitive bias… We’re more likely to notice and remember negative comments from men because they sting more, or because they confirm a pattern we’re already primed to see. perhaps. But when nearly every woman in hundreds or thousands of posts says “Me too, here’s my version,” it starts to look less like bias and more like data.
It’s not just online, either. Recall the viral TikTok video posted by professional golfer Georgia Ball, in which she was on the driving range when a man approached her and told her she was doing something wrong. “I’ve been playing golf for 20 years,” he volunteered. Three times she tried to explain that she was trying to change her swing. He kept talking. When her next swing lands smoothly? He took the credit. She is a professional golfer. The comments are full of women saying “same.”
what i learned
I went into this not knowing if there was a Creative Boom feature. have. But more importantly… I’ve learned that saying a pattern out loud, even with caution, even with seventeen layers of softening, is enough to make it a reality. These responses not only validated my experience; They paint a landscape in which many women are quietly sailing alone, wondering if it’s their imagination.
We are not imagining this. The fact that saying this still feels risky—that women still preemptively apologize, still soften, qualify, and reassure before describing their experiences—is perhaps the most telling thing of all.
Seventeen years is a long time whether you’re imagining it or not. You don’t. None of us.
If this resonates, we’d love to hear from you. Please leave us a message (email protected) to share your experience. You can remain anonymous, rant, or provide constructive feedback on this article in a variety of ways. Don’t pat me on the head and call me stupid, okay?
