When I was a little girl, my white-blonde hair reached almost to my waist. I liked to wear it unbound, unbraided, free from all confinement, tumbling down behind me in crazy curls and tangles, as chaotic and wild as I was.

“Don’t cry,” my mother would say, dragging the comb fiercely through my hair, once she finally got me to hold still long enough for some basic grooming. “Don’t cry. A woman must be stoic.”

I sat as still as I could, holding back the tears, biting my lips to keep from making a sound as little bursts of pain exploded across my scalp and my mother explained stoicism to me.

Some lessons were less painful than others.

“You’ll never be stronger than them,” Charlotte Hwang said to me, when I was an adolescent. I was the only girl in my age and rank range in the Dojang, and the boys were all bigger, stronger, for the first time in my life. I had been a tall child, but I am not a tall woman. “You’ll never be stronger, so you’ll have to be braver. That, I know you can do.”

I learned to be brave, to ignore my fear of a man’s fists, of his greater physical strength. I learned to spar with cunning where I lacked power, memorized the mechanics of the human body that allow a small woman, with her low center of gravity, to shift the weight of a much larger man. I found other ways to be strong.

These wise women helped to shape me into the woman I am today – a second degree black belt, an outspoken feminist, a woman who writes fantasy that isn’t all about escapism. They’ve made me strong, and stoic, and brave. I’m proud to be able to help shape the girls I come into contact with, in my turn.

A few weeks ago, I combed Charlotte’s daughter’s hair.

“I’m very proud of you,” I told her, as she sat perfectly still for me, even when I had to tug on the tangles to work them loose. “You’re being very stoic. You’re such a brave girl.”

“It hurts,” Esme said, calmly.

“I know, sweetheart,” I said. “But I have to do it. I’m almost done. You’re doing such a good job of holding still, I know it’ll only take a little longer.”

When I was finished, I gave her a hug, and said, “there, don’t you look pretty!”

I felt a flash of irritation with myself, while Esme admired herself in the mirror. She’ll have enough people telling her that she’s pretty, that she ought to be prettier, that prettiness is worth going through pain for, in her life, I thought. You should give her something more useful than that.

“So, Esme,” I said, as I was helping her down off the bathroom counter. “Now that you’re four, have you decided what you want to be when you grow up?”

“Do you think it would be hard to be a firefighter?”

“Well, you’d have to be very fit, and go through lots of training,” I said. “But if that’s what you want to do, I’m sure you can do it.”

Esme nodded, thoughtfully. “Or maybe I can be a police officer. Do you think that’s hard?”

“There are lots of kinds of police officer,” I said. “I’m sure you can find something that would be a good fit for you.”

“I would be the kind that carries handcuffs, and catches the bad guys. Because I’m very brave.”

“You are,” I agreed. “Very brave. Do you want to go pick out a video to watch, now?”

“Yes,” Esme said. “Carry me?”

I picked her up, and she wrapped her arms around my neck, and leaned her head against my shoulder.

“I did a good job, didn’t I? Holding still. Stoic.” She rolled the new word carefully in her mouth, memorizing its shape.

“You did,” I said. “I’m very proud of you.”

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