When my son Rory was born, I spent a lot of time imagining what this little person would be like when he grew up. Now, as he turns 18, I have my answer. Rory is compassionate and curious. He’s intelligent and well-read and deeply informed about the wide range of issues that interest him. He’s a great son and a great brother. He’s inherited his parents’ obsessive love of puzzles. But one of the things that makes me proudest is that Rory is a feminist. I’m not even sure that feminist is a word I would have chosen to describe myself when I was 18. It frankly wasn’t on my radar. My parents taught me that my sister and I could do anything our brothers could, but gender equality wasn’t exactly the kind of thing we talked about around the dinner table. They were more focused on giving us the confidence to fly than discussing the barriers that might hold us back. Sure, I knew that women faced challenges that men didn’t, but I hadn’t spent much time reflecting on the less overt ways that cultural norms and gendered expectations shape our lives.

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