Breaking the Silence: A Woman’s Lived Experience of Inappropriate Behaviour

For quite some time now, I have felt the need to write about certain unpleasant experiences I have lived through in my professional life as a woman in leadership. I want to be clear from the outset: this is not always an easy or comfortable read.

For years, I suffered in silence following various incidents, to the point of normalizing inappropriate behaviour—coming to expect it. Although the title of this post deliberately uses the word woman, I am fully aware that such behaviour is not exclusive to women. Quite the opposite. This is my story, told through my lived experience as a professional woman, but I am convinced that anyone, regardless of gender, may recognize themselves in it.

I was reminded of this very recently while speaking with a male health-care professional who, himself, is frequently exposed to this type of behaviour.

Breaking the Silence

If I am choosing to break the silence today, it is for several reasons.

First, to see whether others will recognize themselves in these scenarios and, perhaps, to ease the sense of isolation that so often accompanies these experiences. I am also speaking up because I have long exceeded my tolerance for unwanted advances—both in person and online—that are neither welcome nor appropriate.

Finally, I am writing to shed light on these realities and to spark a serious conversation, as a society, here in New Brunswick. Since the #MeToo movement gained momentum in 2017 and reverberated around the world, I genuinely hoped that our New Brunswick society would become more aware and that a meaningful dialogue would take root, particularly in professional settings.

On a personal level, I have tried to contribute to this conversation. Through my Rotary Resurgo club, we organized two public dialogues in the Greater Moncton area, six months apart—one centred on the perspective of victims, the other on existing tools and resources for awareness, prevention, and response in workplace situations. Despite these efforts, I must admit that I did not feel they created a lasting or tangible impact—at least, not from my perspective.

Before sharing specific experiences, I want to explain why I hesitated for so long to write about this topic. My attempts to speak up were often disappointing. Too often, I did not feel heard or truly understood, even by other professional women with whom I had confided over the years.

I observed what I call silent empathy: people who have lived through similar—sometimes even worse—experiences understand deeply what I am describing, yet choose to “move on” and not speak about it. What’s the point? I was often told when the idea of reporting or denouncing such behaviour was raised. The code of silence continues to prevail.

There is also disbelief—as though these situations simply could not happen in a community like Moncton, or elsewhere in New Brunswick. I still remember hearing “Really? Are you sure? I’ve never experienced that,” often accompanied by pointed looks that I interpreted—perhaps rightly, perhaps not—as judgment. These reactions only deepened my sense of guilt and isolation.

How many times did I tell myself: it’s my fault, I’m too nice, or I must have led them on? The reality, however, is stark and simple: the issue remains taboo, and our default response to inappropriate behaviour is still to sweep it under the rug. Those who cross boundaries are quietly removed behind the scenes, while victims are left shattered—and far too often, blamed.

I have personally had enough of this silence and this implicit tolerance. That is why I am sharing these experiences today, to see whether they resonate with you.

Did You Just Call Me “Dear”?

Let’s start gently.

I have noticed that both men and women—especially those older than me—still call me “dear”, far more often in professional contexts than one might imagine. For a long time, I normalized the term, telling myself it was a regionalism or a habit from another era, with no ill intent.

Yet not so long ago, this term was used in my professional circle by someone with considerable experience. In certain contexts, it clearly becomes condescending: “Let me tell you, dear,” or “Hey dear, you don’t know…” As though the word itself serves to establish authority or power from the outset.

In those situations, the rest of the exchange only reinforced that impression. I was spoken to as though I did not understand, as though my expertise or competence were nonexistent—before I had even had the chance to speak. The word “dear” simply added insult to injury.

It is 2019. Can we, collectively, stop this in professional environments? If in doubt, here is my very simple guideline: if you are not my partner, my mother, or my father, you should not be calling me “dear.”

Are You Seriously Hitting on Me on LinkedIn?

LinkedIn, a professional networking platform by definition, has unfortunately become, for some, a thinly veiled version of Tinder.

My rule is simple: I accept connection requests when we share mutual contacts, after reviewing the profile and doing a brief search on the person’s organization. Once connected, I respond to professional inquiries and redirect conversations to my work email.

Yet all too often, these supposedly professional approaches quickly turn into inappropriate advances. Love declarations from complete strangers, comments about my physical appearance, indecent invitations—the list goes on.

I systematically block these individuals and report their behaviour to LinkedIn, convinced that they undermine the credibility of the platform. I know I am far from alone in experiencing this, yet the topic remains curiously absent from public conversation. In the meantime, I continue to clean up my network, accumulating frustration and fatigue in the face of an apparent lack of consequences.

Did You Really Dare to Touch Me? In Public?

This is without a doubt the hardest section to write.

In the past month alone, I experienced two incidents involving unwanted physical contact from men I did not know. In the first case, a man placed his hand on my thigh while we were seated next to each other. I did not even realize it at the time. It was only later that a friend and colleague informed me of what they had witnessed, shocked by the gesture.

In the second incident, which occurred at a public event attended by hundreds of people, a man approached me, invaded my personal space, touched my back, then wrapped his arm around my waist while loudly stating, “She really is beautiful. You’re my type, too!” When I stepped back to signal my discomfort, he added, “With #MeToo these days, you have to be careful about what you say and do.”

That is when I replied, bluntly: “Yes—and I’m about to slap you.”

He stepped back. What disturbed me most, however, was the reaction—or rather, the lack of reaction—of the third person present, who simply laughed. That silence, that laughter, made me feel as though I was at fault for speaking up. This is what troubles me deeply: bystander inaction. Silence and inaction normalize behaviour that should never be normalized.

It took nearly 24 hours for me to realize how deeply this incident had affected me. When I recounted it to my partner, tears followed. They revealed a wound that reopens, again and again.

The Impact

I have written elsewhere about the fight, flight, freeze response. For a long time, I defaulted to freeze in situations of extreme discomfort. This mechanism is common among victims of harassment and sexual aggression, and it is well understood from a psychological perspective.

As a result, someone may appear calm, smiling, and in control, while internally experiencing total panic. I urge you never to assume what someone is feeling, even if you believe you know them well.

When my colleagues later mentioned the incident involving the hand on my thigh, something clicked. I had blocked the memory. Repression had allowed me to keep functioning. Some may consider the gesture harmless. I ask only this: would you accept it if it happened to your partner?

What truly matters is not your opinion, but the experience of the person who lived through it. If they felt uncomfortable, it deserves to be taken seriously. Period.

And Now?

I have shared only a few examples here, barely scratching the surface. I could speak about this for hours. The testimonies I have received—particularly from within the health-care sector—confirm that these situations are far too common, for both women and men.

I have no miracle solution to offer. But opening the conversation is already a necessary act. Believing victims. Speaking up as a witness. Talking about it. These simple actions can make a far greater difference than we realize.

Sharing our experiences helps break isolation, guilt, shame, helplessness, anger, confusion, and sadness.

Thank you, sincerely, for helping to break the silence.

When silence becomes a survival mechanism. Seeing, feeling, but being unable to respond.