I Was 13 When I Learned What Allyship Looks Like

Written by: Sophie Warwick

I’m often asked how I made the transition into my current line of work. Structural engineer to gender equity advocate is a pretty big jump. When asked, I usually point to my professional experience. I was working in an incredibly male-dominated industry, which led me to co-found a non-profit, Women in Consulting Engineering, alongside a group of colleagues. Our focus was on creating connection for women who weren’t finding it within their workplaces.

That’s often where the story starts. But recently, while sharing an early childhood memory, I realized it began much earlier. Arguably long before engineering was even on my radar.

When I was about 13, I came home from school and my mum asked how my day went. I’d had my first Health class, I felt very adult. My mum, a queer woman, asked whether same-sex relationships would be discussed (I’m using the words she used at the time, although we would use different language today). I said I wasn’t sure, but based on the outline, I didn’t think so.

I don’t remember exactly what happened next, this was over 20 years ago, but I know my mum spoke with the school. My teacher was then approached about incorporating more diverse relationships into the curriculum.

What followed wasn’t what anyone expected. 

About a week later, I sat in class, doing what most 13-year-olds do, hoping to always blend in, be “normal,” and avoid any form of attention. My teacher addressed the class and said she’d been asked to discuss relationships she “didn’t agree with” and was “disturbed by.” She said this while looking directly at me, as I tried to disappear into my seat. This monologue went on for what felt like 100 years.

I often wish I could go back as my current self and stand up for 13-year-old me, the same way I wish I could for anyone on the receiving end of discrimination or hate. But I can’t. So, 13-year-old me did what 13-year-olds do: held it together all day, then went home and cried. (To be fair, I’ve done that in my professional life too.)

My mum has always been my fiercest advocate, both for me and for others. Her career has been dedicated to supporting marginalized communities, from children in unsafe homes to individuals experiencing homelessness or living with mental illness. She has always been my model for what advocacy looks like in practice.

She was, understandably, deeply upset and went back to the school. I wasn’t involved in what followed, but I know there were consequences, thanks to her persistence and the support of school administrators and teachers who agreed this behaviour was unacceptable.

Meanwhile, I pushed back in the only way I knew how: by being an absolute menace in those classes, with the full support of my friends. As an adult, I don’t condone that approach. But I also recognize that I wasn’t an adult. I was a child being bullied by someone I should have been able to trust.

Eventually, the school year moved on. The intensity of the experience faded, and I found my way back to enjoying school. I had an incredible homeroom teacher, who was also my art teacher. If we finished our work early, he’d roll in one of those enormous early-2000s TVs and we’d watch Degrassi Junior High until the bell rang.

Near the end of the year, our final art project was to create something meaningful, something that represented what we believed in. Like many deeply insightful 13-year-olds, I panicked and told my teacher, “Nothing interesting has happened to me! I don’t believe in anything!” He smiled and said, “Maybe you could create something about your mum’s experience.”

What I didn’t realize at the time was that he had been one of our biggest advocates behind the scenes during everything that had happened. So, I decided to paint a wedding cake with two women on top. Across the tiers, I wrote: “Love is Love.”

I am not, and have never been, an artist. I don’t even know if I should be allowed to utter that word. But somehow, my painting was selected to be displayed front and center at the entrance of the school. If I were to hazard a guess, I suspect my home room teacher was behind this. I like to imagine my health teacher walking past it every day. It still gives me a slightly petty sense of satisfaction.

So why do I share this story?

Because in that moment, I couldn’t stand up for myself. I didn’t yet have the voice, the confidence, or the privilege to create change. I was a child, and even then, I held more privilege than many others do. But I wasn’t alone. I had people around me who saw what happened and said: this is not acceptable. And we’re going to do something about it.

That’s what advocacy looks like. That’s what allyship requires. It’s not just about creating a sense of belonging; it’s about creating safety. And it’s why I do the work I do today. Because I now have the space, the voice, and the privilege to say: this isn’t okay. And to help others do the same.