When I first ran, being a woman in politics was seen as both a

Hear the words of Tammy Duckworth, warrior, stateswoman, and survivor, who spoke thus: “When I first ran, being a woman in politics was seen as both a negative and also a positive. You could attract more women voters, but on the other hand, a lot of men wouldn’t vote for you.” These words are not only a reflection of her own struggle but also a mirror of the long battle women have fought for their place in the councils of power. In them shines both the burden of prejudice and the promise of progress, for to be a woman in the arena of politics is to stand at once upon ground hardened by resistance and watered by hope.

For being a woman in politics has never been a neutral fact. It has been treated as a condition to be weighed, judged, and doubted, rather than simply accepted. Duckworth reminds us that the very same truth that inspires trust in some hearts can stir fear or bias in others. To some, her presence brought encouragement, awakening the voices of women who longed to see themselves represented. Yet to others, bound by old traditions, her candidacy was a challenge to the order they believed immovable, and so they turned away. Thus we see the paradox: the gift of identity can be both positive and negative, depending upon the eyes that behold it.

History abounds with such moments. Consider the story of Shirley Chisholm, the first Black woman elected to the United States Congress in 1968. Her very existence in the halls of power was both celebrated and resisted. She drew strength from those who saw in her a new dawn, but she also endured scorn from those who refused to accept that power could wear her face. Her courage, like Duckworth’s, revealed that progress often comes not by being universally welcomed, but by persisting in spite of rejection.

Or recall Golda Meir, the “Iron Lady of Israel,” who rose to become Prime Minister. She was loved by many for her strength and resolve, yet criticized even more harshly because she was a woman in a role that tradition reserved for men. Like Duckworth, she bore the weight of both reverence and resentment, teaching us that leadership is often tested more fiercely when it defies old expectations.

The meaning of Duckworth’s words is therefore not only personal but universal. They speak of the tension between progress and prejudice, between the light of new possibility and the shadows of fear. To be the first, or among the first, is always to walk a road with both roses and thorns. But the roses grow from the courage of standing tall, and the thorns remind us that true change demands endurance.

The lesson for us is clear: do not let the judgments of others define the worth of your journey. Whether people lift you or reject you, continue forward with purpose. Every act of courage plants seeds for those who come after, and every sacrifice makes the road a little smoother for future generations. Duckworth’s words remind us that one must learn to bear both negative and positive reactions without faltering, for leadership requires resilience beyond approval.

Practical wisdom calls us to action. Support those who dare to break barriers, whether they are women, minorities, or anyone who carries the burden of being “the first.” When prejudice arises, answer it with solidarity. And in your own life, when you face both praise and rejection, do not be swayed by either too greatly. Stand firm in the conviction of your mission, knowing that the path of change is seldom walked without resistance.

So let it be remembered: to be a pioneer is to live in the paradox of acceptance and rejection, of love and of scorn. Tammy Duckworth’s words are both testimony and challenge—reminding us that progress is never gifted freely, but earned through perseverance. Let us therefore walk boldly, knowing that even when others turn away, our steadfastness may open the door to a brighter and more just tomorrow.