By Rachel Dungca

A decade ago, I presented at work, finished my last class of graduate school at 10 p.m., and a few hours later, gave birth to my daughter. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was also International Women’s Day. Ten years later, I greeted my daughter with “Happy Birthday! Happy International Women’s Day!” We spent the day talking about how lucky I am to be her mom and how happy I am to see her grow up in a time that feels different than when she was born.

The decade brought more visibility for me and people like me in my workplace, industry, and culture. Lately I’ve been reflecting on questions like:

What changed?

How did we change?

Are we changing fast enough?

How will our girls tell their stories when they enter the workforce in decade(s) from now?

A decade ago, I pursued a graduate degree with two babies and some of my most vivid memories are of taking pumping breaks in public restrooms and sheepishly asking for a modified work and school schedule.

Today, my male colleagues announce their paternity leave. I feel the decade-old guilt leave my body. I hope my colleagues have time to recover and connect with their newest family member without snark from peers or delayed promotions from bosses.

A decade ago, I experienced discrimination and harassment. I asked for help and my boss told me that my feelings and perceptions mattered. They didn’t encourage me to file a complaint or acknowledge they’d heard these types of complaints before, but I felt good because I think they believed me.

Today, I don’t use the words ‘sexual harassment’ when describing my experiences; it jumps to discussions about a system that defends intent and ambiguous language without acknowledging context or the long-term consequences of these conversations. I gather my courage and report experiences on behalf of others and myself; it is the very first time in my career that I can write things down and know it is stored in a database. I feel empowered knowing my simple act may prevent the next person from being dismissed with an eerily familiar story or eliminate the excuse of ‘no one told us why’ women are persistently undervalued, and men are overrepresented.

A decade ago, my appearance was regularly noted and my gender was considered when my coworkers were searching for a place for frustration to land softly; their words took oxygen that should have been used for recognizing or constructively criticizing my work. I heard from men and women: “I bet your mom is hot!”; “I couldn’t believe how a little person like you could get so big! Did you gain 80 pounds?!?”; “You are a hemorrhoid and your work is going to cause me a heart attack.”; “The vendor called me and told me you were a bitch for not recommending a contract renewal and documenting their ineffectiveness.” I felt awkward, embarrassed, and unsure on how to respond because I knew that accommodating the other person’s insecurity and sexism were more important than my professional reputation, or ability to contribute to a better transit agency. I didn’t yet understand that my work didn’t stand alone; my face, body and gender were always next to it.

Today, my reputation is built with my voice and my work; the quiet, attractive face has been replaced by a passionate and experienced voice. I say aloud in response or in anticipation of being underestimated or ignored: “Yes, I manage direct reports that code every day, just like Joe.”; “This behavior is unprofessional and is damaging our ability to work together in the future; let’s talk.“; “Of course I am emotional when discussing systems that result in our coworkers and community being undervalued, underrepresented or harmed.” I am angry and frustrated, but I won’t break my composure or resolve in rooms full of faces that communicate confusion or ignorance. I spend time questioning my approach, tone, and actions that may threaten my ability to share my team’s work and contribute to a mission I love.

A decade ago, I was complimented by my ability to lead in the organization without flirting to gain favor or hiding my role as a mom. I didn’t intentionally seek out friendships at work with women or people of color. I worried that I wasn't as fun as the flirtatious coworker nor as committed as women without kids.

Today, I receive my first formal internal recognition hosted by an employee resource group focused on advancing women which I had cofounded years earlier. Organizational leaders don’t appear aware of the irony that they clap for exceptional employees that represent many ‘firsts’ or ‘only ones’, while dodging responsibility when asked what they will do to improve retention rates and a workforce where fewer than one in four are women. I wonder how many times these leaders were the ‘first’ or ‘only one’ to advocate for the women they now applaud in quiet conversations about succession planning or pay equity. Women at work are often responsible for being excellent, recognizing excellence and providing a support network to help shore up declining retention while remaining satisfied to be unusual sightings in the halls of management and official recognition programs.

A decade ago, I wondered how much wealth - incomes, position count, budget control - was held by women in my workplace. I never asked and I wasn’t sure it mattered for my success.

Today, I’m an expert in an industry that, at its best, provides mobility and access to opportunity. I wonder how much worth is provided and held by women and people of color without the corresponding wealth in my workplace and in our communities. I keep asking because it most definitely matters for all of us.

A decade from now, our courage to act quickly and boldly in response to our shortcomings and failures will be noted. My multi-ethnic, multi-talented daughter will be telling that story.

Rachel Dungca is a Herocrat, a mom, and a manager working in public transit.