I’ve always had a fire in my belly. My mum would probably say it’s a mix of resilience, determination, and a somewhat short temper.
I was the kind of kid who had to be told to stop studying. I took no-doz before my design finals at uni, working all night to complete my portfolio (yes, I know — wildly unhealthy). It was rated the best portfolio of the year, though. I’m the person who’s cool, calm, and collected until I stub my toe on a table leg — and suddenly it’s absolutely the table’s fault.
That rage? It’s mostly limited to inanimate objects I’ve stumbled into and annoying bills I’ve forgotten to pay. It’s rarely directed at people (though, I’ll admit I’ve thrown some choice words at my spouse in sleep deprived new parent hell). But in some ways, I think if you’ve got your wits about you and happen to be born with a vulva, existing with a low-key rage in your belly comes with the territory.
Smart women can see the injustice in the world. And they want to change it. They’ve fought hard for a seat at the table, and when they finally got it, they’ve fought every day since to keep it.
No matter how they operate, they’re never good enough. Direct communicator? Bitch. Supportive? People pleaser. Have a vision? Control freak. Holding people to high standards? What a micro manager. What’s got her knickers in a twist? Letting go of the high standards and just holding people to a bare minimum job standard? She’s not confident. She can’t lead.
I’ve been lucky to work in and with organisations that talked the talk when it came to diversity, equity, and inclusion. And for the most part, they walked the walk too. So I naively assumed I had just as much right to a seat at the table as my male counterparts.
But those same organisations had leaders who turned a blind eye to semi-secret men-only clubs—early knock-offs for the boys to play golf and have dinner while the women stayed behind to finish the week’s work. They enforced dress codes where men were required to wear long-sleeve shirts, slacks, and leather shoes but women could wear skirts, dresses, and sleeveless tops because those garments looked nice on girls.
And then there was the CEO who, when reviewing all the roles and remuneration set by their predecessor, laughed when they saw mine. “Is that all we pay you? We probably should have been paying you more.” And then… proceeded to change nothing.
Or the client who told me that if I had warned her I was pregnant earlier, she could have found another agency. Never mind that our entire team was working on this account. Never mind that I had provided a six-month handover to my replacement. Not enough to avoid discrimination—yes, even from another woman.
There it is. The rage.
That same rage is part of why I’ve rejected the female founder label. It always gave me the ick. I’m just a founder, okay? Not a “female” founder. As good as a male founder (not that anyone calls them that). And definitely not a “SHEO” or “fempreneur.” Don’t even think about calling me a mumpreneur.
But the thing is, as women, we’re always in the fight. We push forward, knowing the odds aren’t in our favour. We’ve got skin in the game, big time. And maybe — just maybe — there’s something in reclaiming the female founder label. After all, those of us brave enough (and delusional enough) to take the very, very not easy path of entrepreneurship know that doing so as a woman comes with a whole set of disadvantages.
The stats speak for themselves.
WGEA reports there’s still a massive gender pay gap of 21.8 per cent. For every $1 a man earns, women make 78 cents — and over the course of a year, that difference adds up to a loss of $28,425.
In our industry, advertising and media, men are paid on average 14.1 per cent more than women.
Women do more unpaid work than men. Currently, 12.3 per cent of women in Australia identify as carers, and 71.8 per cent of primary carers are women.
Women in Australia also face a ‘motherhood penalty’ experiencing career setbacks after having children. Many never recover from them. According to A Voice At The Table, 98 per cent of women want to work after they have children. Yet within three years of having children 85 per cent of mothers had left the full-time workforce and of that 20 per cent left all together. Then there’s the 36 per cent drop off at management level after women have children. And by the time kids are old enough for more independence, women often shift from caring for children to caring for their (or their spouses’) ageing parents.
Research by the Grattan Institute using data from the 2017 HILDA Survey estimated that an average 25 year old woman with children will earn around $2 million less over her lifetime than an average 25 year old man with children.
Startups founded by women or with women on the team received only 15 per cent of the share of overall capital in 2024. This was down from 18 per cent in 2023 and 20 per cent in 2020.
According to a report by the World Economic Forum, women held just 29 per cent of senior management roles globally in 2019 and just seven per cent of CEO positions in Fortune 500 companies.
And yet, we keep going.
It’s like a never-ending wrestling match. Every time we’re out cold on the floor, the referee counting us down, we get up just before the final call. Ready to keep swinging.
That’s the fire in our belly. The rage.
As time’s gone on, I’ve realised that our greatest weakness is often also our greatest strength. The setbacks, the constant fight for a fair go — we’ve become battle-hardened. We’ve got grit. We’ve got gumption. We keep going. We never give up.
And maybe, instead of resisting the female founder label, I need to reclaim it.
Because being a female founder, running a small business that’s grown to seven figures in five years—means I’ve joined the 50 per cent of businesses that didn’t fail in their first five years and the 9 per cent that ever make it over seven figures. Plus I’m part of the 1.9 per cent of women-owned businesses that exceed the $1 million revenue mark.
Getting here hasn’t been easy. And that’s not unique to me.
Being a female founder has meant facing discrimination from clients—including other women. It’s being referred to as “the girls in marketing” too many times. As if that somehow diminishes our work and keeps us in our place.
It’s coming back to work four days after losing a child at 17 weeks pregnant, giving birth to a tiny stillborn baby. It’s driving hours to pitch at 37 weeks pregnant, only for the client to ghost us because they never intended to hire us in the first place—just needed three quotes before sticking with the incumbent. What an immense disrespect for our time.
It’s processing payroll in the hospital less than 12 hours after giving birth to my rainbow baby because the business wasn’t yet big enough for an in-house finance manager. It’s feeling a miscarriage start while on new business calls and knowing I can’t change it—so I might as well compartmentalise and keep going. Better to be miserable and profitable than miserable and broke.
And while men absolutely experience the grief and tragedy of loss too, women can’t escape it—it’s happening to our bodies.
Being a founder, being a leader, means putting the team and the clients first, even when you feel like falling apart. Because at the end of the day, you have to care about everyone. But no one will care about you. And that’s okay. That’s the job.
So maybe there is something in reclaiming the female founder label.
After all, the setbacks start early. Girls are talked over in classrooms, funnelled into “softer” career paths, and paid less from day one. And in ad land, there’s that unwritten rule — you get married, and they assume kids are next. Suddenly, you’re less valuable, less promotable, and more likely to lose your seat at the table.
We soldier on anyway. Make our case for promotions anyway. Build businesses anyway. Push forward anyway.
Perhaps identifying as a female founder is a badge we can wear with pride. Not because we need the qualifier, but because the system was never built for us in the first place. And yet here we are filled with hope and rage, and ready to fight for the next chance to shoot our shot.