The Greatest Show On Earth

Woman walking a tightrope over buildings

Every day, women across the globe slip on their tightrope-walking shoes (do they even come with arch support?) and grab their trusty umbrellas—not for rain, but to fend off the constant downpour of nonsense—as they brave a world that seems hell-bent on making the circus act of existence as treacherous as possible.

The Greatest Show on Earth: We have a league of strong, amazing, courageous women, out there fighting for rights and protecting children.

Thank goodness for them—without their valiant efforts, our message would vanish faster than socks in a dryer. If it weren't for these trailblazers, no one would even know we exist, except maybe that one person who always ends up in the wrong group chat.

Behind those who can wave their faces like banners and announce their names with the gusto of a game show host, there are hundreds—no, thousands—of women forced into the daily, death-defying act of tightrope-walking: The greatest show on earth.

Thousands took part in a campaign that was created and deployed in 48 hours. They made Amy Hamm viral in Canada in SEVENTEEN (17) MINUTES. If you don't know this nurse's story, do Google it.

We're out here, balancing, whether it's at work, at an art fair, or just trying not to knock over the display of oranges at the grocery store. All the while, we must pretend that the scene of a man strutting around, imitating everything that makes us, well, us, doesn't make us want to scream into a decorative pillow. Not because we're fine with it, but because, let's face it, we have bills to pay and a deep desire not to be exiled to the Isle of Solitude.

Calling out certain men could mean a swift career-ending, family-ostracizing, bank-account-draining trip to Nowheresville.

So, we balance—sometimes with the grace of a ballerina, sometimes with the frantic flailing of someone who just realized their umbrella is actually a cheese grater.

This tightrope, strung by gender ideology, is thinner than the patience of someone stuck behind a slow driver. Sure, we’d love to join the parade, show our faces, shout our names, but this isn’t fantasyland. Most of us would be censored, silenced, and kicked off the metaphorical island faster than you can say, "Survivor: Gender Wars Edition."

It's exhausting—like the emotional equivalent of running a marathon while wearing clown shoes.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm just going through the motions, acting fine on the outside, while inside, I'm a swirling storm of bad memories, rage, and frustration. Ironically, I found my voice online with other women balancing their own circus acts, making sure their nearest and dearest didn’t know they were fighting the good fight. So, hooray for internet liberation and deeper real-life hiding. Balance, folks!

The reality is most of us aren’t from backgrounds that understand why we’re fighting gender ideology. Some of us have liberal families who think we’re derailing the party; others have social circles convinced standing up for women is like demanding pineapple on pizza—unthinkable. It’s as if, by speaking out, we’re threatening to trade grandma’s favorite casserole recipe for something unspeakably vegan.

Does anyone realize how instantly our own families and friends would drop us like a hot potato if we said, "No, I'm going to speak out, no matter which side it's on"?

Conservative women aren’t off the hook either—told to keep quiet because someone in their circle has a trans kid. Turns out, gender ideology is the one infection with bipartisan support. Just look at Bruce Jenner. The circus tent is crowded.

We're told it's so easy for us to be anonymous, as if blending in is a choice and not a survival skill honed to professional level.

We're not anonymous, we're camouflaged, forced to walk in two worlds: one where we bite our tongues so hard we could start a dental charity, and one where we’re censored, all for the noble cause of making it through the day. So, where do we fight? Online, of course! There, we create accounts with dry, witty names—sometimes a pun, sometimes pure sarcasm—but always with the burning need for an outlet.

And what do we see in that outlet? Badness galore. The harms of gender ideology on our daughters—visible in mastectomy scars that look like botched Halloween makeup—and our sons, who are told they were meant to be daughters, but clearly weren’t. Men still use our anatomy as an excuse to ignore us, as if biology came with a mute button. But we trudge on.

We fight with humor, with rage, with camaraderie, and a sisterhood so mysterious it makes the Freemasons jealous. For those of us camouflaged—our tightrope is thin, our umbrella small, and gravity is not our friend. Every day is a balancing act, and sometimes the only secret handshake we get is an eye roll exchanged across a crowded room.

No secret handshakes, but honestly, we should get some. Maybe jazz hands.