I Shift the Room
Every August, South Africa pulses with the echoes of these words — not as a cliché, but as a powerful reminder of the fearless women who, in 1956, marched against apartheid pass laws, leaving footprints in the sand of this country’s conscience.
“Wathint’ Abafazi, Wathint’ Imbokodo.”
You strike a woman, you strike a rock.
Yet here we are—decades later—still fighting. The terrain has shifted, but the war rages on. Not just on the streets, but in boardrooms, in the workplace, in WhatsApp groups, in wage gaps, in cabinet compositions, in the corridors of power, and the silence that follows the screams of victims of GBV.
And in this world—I’ve had to carve out a hard-earned truth:
I don’t just show up. I shift the room
This isn’t a slogan for my Instagram bio. It’s a lived, unglamorous, beautiful truth. It’s the reason I wake up, the reason I cry sometimes in private, and the reason I hold my head high when I walk into rooms that were never meant for women who look like me.
But when I do enter, the atmosphere shifts. Not because I want it to. Because it must.
The unseen weight of being first, being few
There’s an invisible weight you carry when you are one of the few — or the only one — in the room. I know that weight well.
It’s in the way conversations pause when you enter.
The way your ideas are double-checked or repackaged and then repeated — by someone else.
It’s in the polite condescension, the subtle “you’re so articulate” backhanded compliments.
It’s in being called “girl” when you’ve earned the title “boss.”
And yet—we persist.
Because presence, I’ve realised, is deeply political. And my presence in those rooms? It carries my grandmother’s strength, my mother’s sacrifice, my sisters’ prayers, and the dreams of young girls watching from afar—hoping someone makes it so they know they can, too.
When I sit at the table, they sit with me.
A man’s world until we rewrite the script
Let’s not sugar-coat it. Too many of our industries—from transport to tech, construction to commerce—are still moulded in the image of men.
These are spaces built over closed-door deals, golf course handshakes, and “old boys’ clubs” where women—especially young Black women — are either tokens or tolerated.
But I didn’t enter these spaces seeking tolerance. I entered them with strategy, substance, and the unshakable belief that I don’t need to ask for permission to lead.
I’ve been the youngest in the room. The only woman. The only Black woman. I’ve been dismissed—and then applauded for the same point I made ten minutes earlier.
But I’ve learned: You don’t need a title to hold power. You need vision.
Storm or Shelter—We Are Both
We wear many skins. And carry even more expectations.
Be strong, but soft. Be bold, but not too loud. Be ambitious, but don’t outshine the men. Be powerful, but pleasant.
It’s exhausting.
We mother families, birth empires, send emails while cooking pap, fight GBV while fundraising for school shoes, mentor young women while facing microaggressions. We stretch ourselves without complaint—until we break. And when we break, we’re told we weren’t strong enough.
But here’s what they don’t see:
We hold each other.
In our circles, in our sisterhoods, in our churches, WhatsApp groups, office tea corners, community projects—we are each other’s shelter. And when needed, we become the storm that clears the path for the next sister.
Both roles are sacred. Both are necessary.
Sisterhood is the real power
We’ve all heard it: “Women don’t support each other.”
That’s not just untrue. It’s a lie created to divide us.
Because when we unite—we are unstoppable.
I have seen women plug each other into networks, recommend each other for opportunities, mentor young interns, and call out injustice — even when it’s inconvenient.
I’ve seen power in the sisterhood I walk with Women whose names don’t always trend—but whose excellence shakes industries and whose quiet leadership leaves permanent impact.
These women remind me every day: We’re not here for applause. We’re here for impact.
We are not waiting to be handed space. We’re creating our own.
Beyond the Flowers and Hashtags
Let me be clear: Women’s Month cannot be reduced to a PR opportunity.
We are not hashtags. We are not only the floral breakfast panels and social media campaigns.
Because when August ends, the real work begins again. And it looks like this:
- Women still earning less than men for the same job.
- Black women entrepreneurs still struggling to access funding.
- Township and rural women still excluded from the economy.
- GBV survivors still not believed—or protected.
- Media still framing us as side characters in stories we built.
If Women’s Month means anything, it must mean this: We renew our commitment—not our content calendars.
Leadership without apology
My leadership is not about clout. It’s about legacy.
When I show up—whether I’m hosting a summit, publishing an editorial, mentoring a young woman, or shaking hands with government leaders—I do so as me.
Unfiltered. Grounded. Intentional.
I don’t need to become like “them” to lead. I don’t need to shrink to make anyone comfortable.
I show up in full colour. Full presence. Full purpose.
Because I’ve realised—I am the room.
To every woman reading this—you shift rooms too
This editorial may carry my name, but it carries your story.
Yes—you.
To the:
- Domestic worker building her own home brick by brick.
- Student proving that poverty won’t steal her brilliance.
- Single mother raising a nation in her kitchen.
- Entrepreneur funding her dream with Stokvel savings.
- Young woman navigating corporate South Africa with braids and brilliance.
- GBV survivor choosing to live.
- Professional who holds her family together while chasing her own future.You are not just participating in this country — you are remaking it.
You are not just participating in this country—you are remaking it.
You are not “lucky” to be here.
You are deserving.
You are worthy.
You are the shift.
We’re not waiting anymore
I know we’re often told to be grateful. To smile. To say yes when we want to scream.
But let this be a declaration: We’re done asking.
We’re taking space. We’re funding each other.
We’re telling our stories. We’re launching businesses, disrupting industries, educating our children, and demanding more.
And if the system shakes? Let it shake.
We don’t just shift rooms. We’re building new ones.
Ones with wide doors and open hearts.
With policies that centre equity.
With leadership that reflects real life.
With women at the helm, not as tokens—but as trailblazers.
Ma kube njalo. Kude kube ngunaphakade.
Linda Tom is the BBQ Awards
Project Manager
