My dad was my high school debate coach. Unlike my older sister, I didn’t feel much pressure to compete—truthfully, I stayed on the team because it meant getting the last period of the day free. My real passion was in the theater department, but as a freshman, I competed in a few debate tournaments.
To be honest, I was woefully unprepared. My evidence box, a small plastic recipe file, was thin, and my understanding of the energy crisis—our debate topic that year—was even thinner. What I had was my dad’s public speaking training and my theater experience.
And it worked.
At one tournament, my debate partner and I won first place. I remember holding the trophy, stunned, because I was pretty sure I had won not for the strength of my arguments, but for the way I delivered them. I had long blonde hair, a polished smile, and a pleasing voice.
All of our judges were men.
I still remember the astonished look on the faces of the guy team we beat. Really?
This experience was quite different from Dahlia Lithwick’s, but the pattern was the same.
Dahlia Lithwick—renowned attorney, Supreme Court legal correspondent, and writer—was first called shrill on a judge’s ballot at a high school debate tournament. Whatever it meant, it wasn’t about her voice; it was more a comment made by a male judge about how she argued. But the criticism stuck.
The dictionary defines shrill as a voice that’s “too high, too loud, and painful to listen to.” Lithwick went on to discover that no woman in parliamentary debate history has ever escaped being called shrill, while no man has been given that label.
This reveals a harsh truth: women are often discouraged from speaking with authority and confidence, and when they do, their voices are scrutinized and dismissed.
Take Ruth Bader Ginsburg. When RBG argued her first case before an all-male Supreme Court in 1973, Justice Blackmun graded her with a C+ and wrote in his notebook that she was “very precise” but “too emotional.”
Lithwick later realized that the problem wasn’t with her own voice—it was with the unwillingness of some to listen because she was a woman.
For years, Lithwick tried to make her voice “more palatable.” She smiled more, used humor, and made sure her hair was shiny. During this time, no one called her shrill, in part because she gave them the comfort they wanted.
But not anymore.
Her advice to the middle school debaters she coaches serves as a powerful reminder. She tells them, “The day you receive a judge’s ballot with the word shrill on it, count it as a badge of honor, then tear it up and forget it ever happened.”
The real message here is that we are at our most powerful when we speak from our true selves, not from a place of trying to please others.
Looking back at my debate experience, I recognize that I often prioritized how I was perceived over the strength of my arguments. Over time, I learned that having a voice meant more than just being well-spoken. It meant being willing to challenge ideas, to confront people when necessary, and to push through discomfort in order to stand firm in my beliefs.
Throughout history, women who have spoken out have often been dismissed, ridiculed, or labeled as “too much.” Yet it is those very women—those who refuse to stay silent—who shape the world.
So as we celebrate Women’s History Month, let’s take a moment to ask ourselves:
- Where are we still holding back our voices?
- What would happen if we stepped fully into our power, without apology?
Because in the end, courageous communication isn’t just about speaking—it’s about being heard, being seen, and being unafraid to take up space.
The world is waiting for your courageous voice.
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