Ella Ritchie-Dickson reflects on tomboyhood, feeling apart from traditional ideas of girlhood, and how being a lesbian complicates those dynamics in her life.

Growing up, I always prided myself on being a tomboy – I didn’t wear dresses, I hated the colour pink, I’d turn my nose up when my family asked me if there were any boys in my class that I liked. I bragged that I hated dolls, I didn’t care for playing dress up, and I preferred to play outside.

As a result of this, it became part of my identity to see myself as ‘one of the boys’, not necessarily because I cared about their approval, but because I felt separated from what I’d been taught about girlhood, what being a girl should be, and I wouldn’t fit in with those who did identify with it. This idea became further cemented into my identity by my male childhood friends. Nonetheless, I felt a sense of relief when they’d announce that I’m different, and that they’d given me the stamp of approval to be part of their group.

Yet, as I grew older, I began to understand more fully that I would never be truly accepted as ‘one of the guys’. I was never really part of the group, just on the periphery. And though I couldn’t grasp this on the primary school playground, over the years I questioned why I had to be different to be accepted by boys my age. Slowly, I’d come to understand that being embraced as ‘one of the guys’ wasn’t anything to do with me as an individual; it was contingent on how well I could be what they wanted me to be. I noticed that I had to toe a fine line between acting like myself and acting as I felt obliged to. One wrong move, and I could feel ostracised again. So, I started to question, why did I have to reduce myself to this label of ‘not like other girls’ for them to approve of me?

Similarly to many women who grew up as tomboys, I began to realise that there’s nothing wrong with being like other girls. In fact, we can crave the compassion and non-judgment of female friendships, where we don’t have to dilute ourselves, and distance our selfhood from what’s ‘traditionally feminine’ for acceptance. 

But, in my experience, realising you’re a lesbian can complicate this, suddenly your friendships with women can feel uncertain and doubtful. While we’re generally accepted more whole-heartedly than within groups of men, it still feels like something’s different – you’re yet again stuck in the periphery. And I’m sure lots of sapphic women have felt the same way – constantly questioning how your actions will be perceived. The paranoia that your platonic affection will be misread as amorous, with the ever-present pressure to subdue yourself in favour of others’ comfort. Nevertheless, it makes sense to feel this way.

Growing up, we’re taught that romance with men is an integral part of womanhood. We’re told that our wedding day, undoubtedly marrying a man, will be the best day of our lives. We watch movies where princesses wait around to be swept off their feet by a handsome prince. Inevitably, we’re taught that there’s one ‘sensible’ form of female sexuality, and all others are in need of being corrected.

So, realising you’ll never take part in this can feel like you won’t be properly recognised as a woman. You’ll never be seen for who you are but instead, who you’re not. The standard for womanhood leaves little accommodation, never veering off from the strict expectations we’re meant to perform. So even within groups of women, what once felt like being appreciated unconditionally can start to feel like a performance again. How can I ever fit in if I’m missing something so fundamentally ingrained in this traditional view of womanhood? 

In an ironic way, this feeling can echo back to forcing yourself to being ‘one of the guys’. Perhaps to a lesser extent, but there remains the feeling of reducing yourself to a label that doesn’t quite fit you. Trying your best to seem less threatening by compressing your sexuality into something inconsequential. Living as a woman outside these heteronormative expectations, it seems like wherever you go involves sacrificing parts of yourself. While it can seem like gay men are accepted categorically for who they are in feminine groups, you are constantly required to play by others’ rules. While they can be complex and multifaceted, your comfort must be sacrificed.  

So, I thought, maybe this label of being ‘one of the guys’ can be strangely validating to women living outside of heteronormative standards. Even though we still reduce ourselves for acceptance, this might be an unfortunate cost of fitting into lots of groups. For women who feel they don’t necessarily ‘fit in’ with many feminine or masculine crowds, we might have to renounce certain parts of ourselves anywhere, always ceding our authenticity for some sort of community. In that sense, the appeal in being ‘one of the guys’ is less about male acceptance and more about momentarily escaping the isolation that comes with this identity, even if it is imperfect.