For some, becoming head of department is an honour. They probably assume it comes with status or power. For most academics, it is something to be avoided at all costs — or at least postponed for as long as possible.
That was certainly true at my department at the time. A new head of department needed to be appointed. The dean called us in for a meeting: two candidates were under consideration.
I had just secured a prestigious research grant, so I didn’t have time. A perfectly reasonable argument, I thought. The dean barely listened.
My male colleague took a different approach. He began by chatting warmly with the dean about what a wonderful job the dean was doing. Since his appointment, so much had improved — and all this despite the heaviness of the role. The dean was suddenly all ears.
My colleague then described his own situation: he, too, was under great pressure, but for a good cause. He went on at length about a grant proposal he was preparing. It would be so good for the university if he were to win it. But for that, he really needed the time to write it.
And sure enough, the dean agreed that he should be given that time.
And that I, alongside running my own major project, could take on the additional role of head of department.
I left the room stunned by the inverted logic. Why was my actual achievement (running a funded project) treated as a reason to take on more work, while his potential achievement (applying for funding) was treated as a reason to be spared?
The argument was identical — “no time”. The outcome was the exact opposite.
Only then did the other, uncomfortable variable fully register: he was a man; I was a woman. Was this coincidence? I couldn’t say this based on that one incident alone. But it fit seamlessly into a pattern that I — and many other women — had encountered before.
Years later, in a new position, I witnessed the same pattern again.
At the first committee meeting, the choice of chair came up. The dean, leading the meeting, explained that the chair must be a professor. That left two candidates: myself and a male colleague.
The dean immediately turned to me. Would I be willing to do it?
Well, I said, I didn’t yet know how this committee functioned here, or what the responsibilities really were. It seemed wiser to first experience things as an ordinary member.
He then looked at my male colleague. He was reclining in his chair, arms draped over two other seats, shirt half open, chest hair exposed – the picture of relaxed confidence.
“No,” he said. “You know I’m incredibly busy. That really won’t work”.
Instantly, the dean turned back to me. Well, you’ll have to do it then.
I said no.
An awkward silence followed. Apparently, this was unheard of. The dean replied that I didn’t need to get so angry. Angry? Why? I had simply said no.
This anecdote shows the mechanism in its purest form: a man’s “no” is accepted as a boundary. A woman’s “no” is not heard — or is reinterpreted as emotion (“anger”). It is as if the expectation that women should be available and accommodating is so deeply ingrained that a simple refusal already feels like a disruption of the natural order. Authority in the room reinforces this difference, often without being aware of it.
The triathlon is run by everyone, but not everyone starts at the same time or faces the same obstacles. This was true not only for appointments or committees, but also for everyday routines.
A small, seemingly trivial example illustrates this. A meeting had to be scheduled with everyone present. A Wednesday was proposed. Immediately, a female colleague said, “But that’s our male colleague’s research day — he’s not available”.
The meeting was moved to Friday — the fixed research day of two other colleagues, both women.
There was no discussion. No weighing of interests. It was simply arranged that way.
The message was clear and unspoken: the uninterrupted time of one man weighed more heavily than that of two women. Not out of malice, but because this was apparently the automatic default.
“No” is a boundary — but only if the room agrees to hear it.
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