Chapter 9: Patriarchal Loyalty
Hello, Done.
Patriarchal loyalty operates like an invisible chain, binding women—and men—to the very systems that oppress them. Unlike the overt patriarchy of ancient laws or blatant sexism, this loyalty is subtler, more insidious. It’s not just about men dominating women; it’s about how patriarchal values seep into the fabric of society, shaping behaviors, expectations, and identities across genders.
Women, in particular, are often conditioned to uphold patriarchal norms as a survival mechanism. Consciously or unconsciously, many internalize these values to navigate a world where compliance often feels safer than resistance. Patriarchal loyalty manifests when women sacrifice authenticity for societal approval, whether by suppressing emotions in the workplace or adhering to rigid standards of "acceptable" femininity. It’s a form of self-policing born from centuries of being told, directly or indirectly, that success comes not from standing out, but from fitting in.
The irony, of course, is that this loyalty doesn’t serve anyone—not really. It props up a system that reinforces inequality, perpetuates a culture of oppression, and leaves half the population marginalized. Yet, it persists because the alternative—breaking free—requires a kind of courage and defiance that patriarchal systems work tirelessly to suppress.
It’s not just women, either. Patriarchal loyalty transcends gender, impacting everyone in its path. Men, too, are shackled by its expectations, pressured to embody a narrow and often toxic version of masculinity. But the burden often weighs heaviest on those who intersect multiple forms of marginalization. For women of color, LGBTQ+ individuals, and those with disabilities, the chains of patriarchal loyalty are intertwined with other systemic forces, making the struggle to break free even more complex.
The question, then, is not just how to identify patriarchal loyalty, but how to dismantle it. How do we move beyond the invisible chains and create systems where authenticity, vulnerability, and humanity are celebrated rather than stifled?
The word "patriarchy" itself comes from the Greek patriarkhēs, meaning "rule of the father." Initially describing familial authority, it evolved into a symbol of systemic oppression that extends far beyond the household. Patriarchy isn't just about fathers or men in general; it's about power—who holds it, who enforces it, and who is excluded from it. Over centuries, this system has woven itself into the fabric of our laws, traditions, and daily lives, subtly dictating who gets to belong and who is left on the margins.
The history is chillingly illustrative. In ancient Rome, men held absolute authority over their wives and children, including the power of life and death. Fast forward to 18th-century England, where the "rule of thumb" permitted a man to beat his wife with a stick no wider than his thumb. These aren’t just historical footnotes; they are blueprints for systemic dominance, reinforced by cultural narratives that normalize violence and subjugation.
Even today, the echoes of these practices linger. Consider how popular media eroticizes violence against women, embedding the idea that suffering is somehow synonymous with love. Or the recent overturning of Roe v. Wade—a decision made by a predominantly white male Supreme Court—which starkly reminds us that the fight for bodily autonomy is far from over. These are not isolated incidents; they are the predictable outcomes of a system designed to prioritize control over compassion, hierarchy over humanity.
But here’s the thing: patriarchy isn’t just upheld by men. Its power lies in its insidiousness, in how it co-opts everyone—men, women, nonbinary people—into perpetuating its norms. Women internalize patriarchal values, not because they’re weak or complicit, but because survival often depends on it. Men, too, are boxed in by expectations of dominance and stoicism, forced to conform to an ideal that is as harmful as it is unattainable.
This historical context isn't just a recounting of injustices; it's a reminder of how deeply rooted these systems are. Understanding their origins gives us the tools to question their legitimacy and, hopefully, to dismantle them.
The fight against patriarchy has not been a singular event but an ongoing, multi-generational battle. Feminism, in its various waves, has been the most enduring response to patriarchal structures—a movement born from the collective refusal to accept subjugation as a given. Each wave has brought its own focus, challenges, and triumphs, pushing against the entrenched norms that sought to limit women’s voices and agency.
First-wave feminism in the late 19th and early 20th centuries focused on the basics: the right to vote and participate in public life. It was a time when women had to justify their intelligence and humanity in the face of laws that treated them as property. The second wave, emerging in the 1960s and ’70s, expanded the conversation to include a woman’s right to work, receive equal pay, and access to education. It challenged the notion that a woman’s value was tied solely to her role as a mother or wife, asserting instead her right to exist as a full, autonomous human being.
The third wave, in the 1990s, shattered the illusion of a universal "woman's experience." It brought intersectionality to the forefront, recognizing that race, class, and sexuality profoundly shape the challenges women face. This wave demanded inclusion—not just for middle-class white women but for women of color, LGBTQ+ women, and working-class women whose struggles had long been sidelined.
And now we stand in what some call the fourth wave—a movement that is both radical and deeply intersectional. It challenges not just patriarchy but all systems of domination and oppression. Fourth-wave feminism isn't just about smashing the glass ceiling; it's about dismantling the building that put it there in the first place. It recognizes that no one is free until everyone is free, and it demands that the work of liberation be collective, inclusive, and relentless.
Each wave of feminism has been a reflection of its time, responding to the unique challenges of its era. Yet, they are all united by a common thread: the unwavering belief that equality is not a favor to be granted but a right to be reclaimed. And while progress has been made, each step forward reveals just how much further we have to go.
Patriarchal loyalty is a term I’ve come to use for the insidious way women, often unwittingly, uphold the very systems that oppress them. It’s not an indictment of individual women—it’s an acknowledgment of how deeply ingrained patriarchy is, shaping our behaviors, beliefs, and decisions. This isn’t just about men exerting dominance; it’s about a culture that demands compliance from everyone, regardless of gender, to maintain the status quo.
My former supervisor is a case in point. She didn’t tell me outright to suppress my neurodivergent traits or conform to traditional norms of authority, but her actions spoke volumes. Her adherence to rigid professional standards—unquestioning loyalty to a patriarchal script—made it clear that there was no room for deviation or vulnerability. Her message was implicit but unmistakable: to succeed, you must erase the parts of yourself that don’t fit the mold.
And yet, I wonder, what has she lost in this exchange? How much of her own identity and authenticity has been sacrificed to climb the professional ladder? What toll does this take on someone’s spirit—to align so fully with a system that demands their silence, compliance, and complicity?
Patriarchal loyalty isn’t unique to her. It’s a survival mechanism cultivated in a world that punishes resistance. It’s the mother telling her daughter to “play nice” because she knows the consequences of speaking out. It’s the colleague who dismisses a bold idea with “that’s just not how we do things here.” It’s the internalized belief that fitting in is safer than standing out. These actions may feel like pragmatism in the moment, but collectively, they reinforce the very structures we claim to oppose.
What makes patriarchal loyalty so pernicious is that it masquerades as professionalism, competence, and strength. But real strength doesn’t come from erasure; it comes from integration. It comes from refusing to compromise your humanity for the sake of appearances. It comes from breaking free of the narrative that to succeed, you must conform to an outdated model of leadership rooted in domination and fear.
This isn’t an easy path—it requires courage, self-awareness, and a willingness to confront the systems we’ve been taught to obey. But it’s a necessary one. Because every time we prioritize survival over authenticity, we teach the next generation that the price of success is the loss of self. And that is a price far too high to pay.
The mental health field is not exempt from the reach of patriarchal norms; in fact, it has been shaped by them in profound and troubling ways. Historically crafted by and for white men, the framework of mental health care has often centered perspectives that see women and marginalized groups through a lens of deficiency rather than diversity. This bias has left deep scars, especially when it comes to diagnosing and supporting neurodivergence.
Women in particular face a unique intersection of societal expectations and professional oversight. The mental health system, steeped in patriarchal values, often penalizes women for traits that deviate from these norms. Emotional expression becomes hysteria, assertiveness becomes aggression, and neurodivergence becomes an anomaly to be corrected rather than understood. These are not individual failures but systemic ones—symptoms of a structure built to accommodate one narrow vision of "normal."
Within this framework, women are often forced to mask their neurodivergence to survive. For many, this masking isn’t just a social strategy; it’s a matter of self-preservation. The consequences of being visibly different—whether in behavior, communication, or needs—can range from subtle exclusion to outright hostility. For women of color, queer women, and other intersectionally marginalized groups, the stakes are even higher, as visibility can invite not just judgment but danger.
The most damaging aspect of this dynamic is that the effort to blend in—while often effective in the short term—comes at a tremendous cost. Masking exhausts emotional and mental resources, leaving individuals drained and disconnected from their authentic selves. It also perpetuates the illusion that the problem lies with the individual rather than the system. When women succeed at masking, they inadvertently validate the very norms that exclude them.
In my time working within the behavioral health unit, I saw these dynamics play out firsthand. My supervisor’s inability to recognize and value neurodivergent traits wasn’t just a personal failing; it was a reflection of the broader system she was navigating. Her rigid adherence to patriarchal professionalism—the need to project authority, suppress vulnerability, and conform to traditional norms—made it impossible for her to create a truly inclusive environment. And in this, she became both a product and a perpetuator of the system.
The mental health field is in desperate need of a paradigm shift. It must move away from a deficit model—one that seeks to "fix" differences—and toward a strengths-based approach that celebrates diversity. This shift requires more than updated training or policies; it demands a fundamental rethinking of what inclusion means and a commitment to dismantling the structures that exclude.
By confronting these realities, we can begin to build a mental health system that not only acknowledges the humanity of those it serves but also empowers its practitioners to bring their whole selves to the work. After all, how can we truly support others in their healing if we are unwilling to confront the ways we perpetuate harm?
When I first started my position at the Oregon Health Authority, I approached it with optimism. I wanted to believe that working within a behavioral health unit would mean an inherent understanding of neurodivergence and trauma-informed practices. I naively assumed my supervisor would be equipped with, at the very least, a foundational grasp of what it meant to create an inclusive workspace.
That illusion didn’t last long.
From the beginning, I felt the weight of my differences—not as something to be celebrated but as something to be managed, smoothed over, or hidden entirely. My attempts to explain my neurodivergence were met with polite nods but little practical understanding. It was as though I was speaking a language no one around me could hear.
One incident stands out vividly. Early on, I shared my struggles with sensory overload, explaining how certain environments—like those with fluorescent lighting—could be overwhelming. It seemed like an effort to build understanding and trust, but later, when I left a workspace quickly due to those very lights, I was questioned about my behavior. It was as if my earlier vulnerability had fallen on deaf ears, dismissed as irrelevant or exaggerated. Instead of support, I was met with skepticism, which only deepened the sense of isolation.
Another moment that lingers is tied to a simple, yet necessary request for accommodations: a transcription tool. As someone who processes auditory information differently, the tool would have allowed me to fully engage with and contribute to meetings. But instead of approval, my request was met with suspicion. Leadership whispered about my intentions, speculating I might use the recordings to “catch them in a mistake.” The irony was painful. What I had asked for as a bridge to inclusion was framed as a weapon of subversion. The assumptions they made about my motives not only disregarded my needs but also painted me as a threat—a caricature far removed from reality.
These moments weren’t just disappointing; they were emblematic of a larger problem. My attempts to navigate the workplace as a neurodivergent individual were constantly met with misinterpretation and resistance. Requests for support became battles, and openness about my needs became fodder for mistrust. The weight of navigating these dynamics was exhausting, not just professionally but personally, as it chipped away at the trust I hoped to build within the organization.
In moments like these, I wasn’t just dealing with ignorance; I was navigating the kind of ableism that hides behind a façade of professional concern. My vulnerability was weaponized against me, not overtly, but through a thousand tiny cuts. It was in the way my feedback was dismissed, the way my strengths were overlooked, and the way I was made to feel like my differences were flaws.
It was gaslighting in its most insidious form—not the kind that overtly denies your reality but the kind that leaves you questioning whether your reality was valid in the first place.
When my supervisor was unexpectedly reassigned to a different unit, it felt like a breath of fresh air after being submerged underwater. I hadn’t realized just how much I was drowning until the pressure lifted. The synchronicity of her departure and the guidance I’d received from the behavioral health crisis line felt almost surreal, as if the universe had intervened on my behalf.
But even after her departure, the scars of that experience lingered. I found myself hesitating to share ideas, double-checking my work more than necessary, and questioning whether I truly belonged in a field I had once felt so passionate about. It was a stark reminder that the harm caused by a toxic environment doesn’t disappear just because the source of that toxicity is removed.
This isn’t just my story, though. It’s a reflection of how workplaces, particularly those in fields like mental health, fail to live up to their own ideals. It’s a call to action—not just for better policies or training, but for a cultural shift that prioritizes humanity over hierarchy.
The fallout from my supervisor’s departure didn’t mark the end of my challenges, but it did spark a deeper resolve. In the weeks that followed, I reflected on what it meant to truly belong—not just in a workplace, but in any system where my differences might be seen as deficiencies.
I decided to take the lessons from this experience and channel them into something constructive. My first step was to pursue accommodations formally, a process I had avoided until then. It wasn’t about seeking special treatment but about creating a foundation where I could do my best work without constantly fighting against the grain of a system that wasn’t built for me. If workplaces truly want to benefit from diverse perspectives, they have to meet individuals where they are—not ask them to contort themselves into shapes that fit an outdated mold.
Advocacy became my focus—not just for myself but for the countless others who face similar barriers in silence. It’s not enough to call for inclusion as a concept; it has to be practiced. It has to be woven into the culture, the policies, and the day-to-day interactions that make up the fabric of an organization.
I began speaking up more boldly, not just about my own needs but about the systemic flaws I had observed. It wasn’t always well-received—change rarely is—but it felt necessary. There was a sense of liberation in refusing to stay silent, in reclaiming my narrative from those who had tried to define it for me. Each conversation, each email, each difficult meeting became an act of resistance against the subtle but pervasive forces of conformity.
And while I knew I couldn’t dismantle patriarchal structures on my own, I could chip away at them in the spaces where I had influence. That realization became a source of empowerment, a reminder that even small changes ripple outward.
Hello, Done.
Done with apologizing for my existence, for my needs, for my way of navigating the world. Done with internalizing the judgment of those who see vulnerability as weakness. Done with shrinking myself to fit into spaces that were never designed for someone like me.
I am stepping forward—not with bitterness, but with clarity. I carry the lessons of this experience not as weights but as tools. They remind me that my voice matters, that my differences are strengths, and that change begins with the courage to name what is broken.
To anyone who has felt the sting of being unseen, unheard, or undervalued: know this—you are not the problem. The systems that fail to embrace you are. And together, we can build something better. Something that honors the full spectrum of humanity, where everyone can thrive, not in spite of their differences, but because of them.
Hello, Done. And hello to what comes next.