A few months ago, three people at work fed back to me that I’m intense – that there’s an intensity to how I operate.

This feedback was given to me in relation to a specific piece of work I’d recently managed but was reflective of my approach more generally too.

Intense.

I’ve sat with this adjective for months.

I’ve reflected on it and I’ve ignored it. I’ve agreed with it and I’ve disagreed with it. I’ve felt proud of it and I’ve felt embarrassed by it. I’ve put it out of my mind and I’ve put it right back in again.

And here we are, today. International Women’s Day 2026.

I asked for feedback, to be clear.

Once we got the piece of work in question over the line and when I had one-on-one time booked in with three people who had worked closely with me throughout this period, I asked them each the question. “Could you share any feedback you have on how I managed that?”

The words “intense” or “intensity” were a theme threaded through each of their responses.

I thanked them individually for their feedback and although I meant it, I felt an immediate discomfort.

Intense. Intense. Intense.

Ouch.

It’s hardly like it was the first time I’ve been described as such. But having heard the word repeated within three different conversations on three separate occasions, an uneasiness lingered.

As a 30 year old woman, I’ve spent my life so far – whether consciously or subconsciously – trying to be more amiable, more palatable, more likeable. A motivation – rightly or wrongly – ever stronger in moments where I’m up against adversity (with the piece of work central to this feedback certainly coming with its challenges).

It’s, I know, a constant battle many women are faced with on a day-to-day basis. When we’re asking for a pay rise or a promotion. When we’re disagreeing with a room of men. When we’re saying “no” to unwanted advances. When we’re advocating for our health at our GP. When we’re setting boundaries with our partners, our families and our friends.

Just as we’re taught to ever since we were little girls, we balance coming up against challenging moments with the need or want or instruction to be pleasant. Don’t kick up a fuss. Don’t come across as rude, difficult or, God forbid, too much. Don’t give them any reason whatsoever to dismiss you, to uninvite you, to look past you, to reprimand you, to talk about you unfavourably when you’re not in the room.

And, look, I strongly caveat this with a long list of privileges. I’m a cis white straight woman with a strong support network and a good job. I write every word of this post not only aware of these facts but, in many ways, safer and more supported than other women because of them.

Which is why a brilliant Jane Goodall quote I was recently reminded of rings so true: “It actually doesn’t take much to be considered a difficult woman. That’s why there are so many of us.”

Since receiving this very feedback a few months ago, I’ve regularly pondered what my man counterpart might be called if they acted in a similar way to me throughout this particular process. For example:

• When challenging the validity of the piece of work I was being asked to lead, would my man counterpart have been labelled “intense” or someone who provides “healthy challenge”?
• When driving high standards around the input of others, would my man counterpart have been labelled “intense” or “ambitious”?
• When pausing the process to land the message, “We aren’t where we need to be; here’s what we need to do next”, would my man counterpart have been labelled “intense” or “assertive”?

If my man counterpart behaved in exactly the same way as I did throughout this particularly challenging process at work, I’m certain the adjectives used to describe him would’ve reflected a nod to his strength, his confidence and his determination. Dare I say it, he may have been admired and respected for his approach.

And I’m certain of this because when I’ve seen male leaders before me operate in a very similar way within very similar scenarios, they were described as healthy challengers, ambitious people and assertive leaders.

This is far from an original take. The reality is, if I were sat in a room of my women best friends today, I know each and every one of them would have at least a handful of similar experiences they could bring to the table.

Where they’ve been called intense, bossy, aggressive.

When they’ve actually been driven, confident, passionate.

I’ve struggled writing this post because beneath the adjective “intense” were valid and insightful observations on how I manage my work and the teams I work with to deliver it – from three people I trust are extremely supportive of me and my development.  The feedback on me and how I performed was also largely positive; at one point my “intensity” was even described as “wicked.” Beyond this positivity, too, I’ve taken some helpful lessons from the feedback I was given – lessons I wouldn’t want to give back.

To really hammer home this point, within the first draft of this post, I included a bullet point list of the three key things I took from this feedback.

And then I realised something.

Even when writing about the negative, loaded language we use to describe women, I took a 300-word tangent from the core of my post to soften my overarching point. Just to make sure I didn’t come across as ungrateful, defensive or unable to take constructive feedback.

I realised that, once again, I was prioritising coming across a certain way (as understanding, receptive and willing) over landing the very message I wanted to land.

So, I deleted the list.

But the more I’ve reflected, the more I’ve realised that while substance of the feedback was impactful, the label given to me was not.

In fact, I feel certain the feedback could’ve simply been delivered without the word “intense” in it.

Without a catch-all adjective that couldn’t possibly do justice to the nuances of the situation we were discussing.

This, the language we use to describe women, is what I want to challenge on International Women’s Day. And beyond.

We desperately need to challenge ourselves, our friends, our family and our colleagues on the labels we ascribe to women. We need to ask ourselves questions like: Would I use this word to describe a man? Does this word convey the full meaning of what I want this person to take away? Are there systemic challenges that mean this word is – at best – unhelpful and – at worst – damaging to the person receiving it?

Of course we can’t simply switch out the words we use to tackle the deep and troubling inequalities baked into the world we live in. There’s far more work to do than to just pack a thesaurus in our bag for when we’re feeding back, advising or talking to women.

But words do matter.

Use them with care. Use them with compassion. Use them with kindness.