Chapter Two
Four weeks later
Content creation is…not for the weak of heart.
I sat at the peninsula in my kitchen, a yellow pad of paper in front of me and a pen in hand, which I tapped on the butcher block in a steady rhythm.
For the last month, I had managed to create and post a video every day on women scientists, entrepreneurs, innovators, and artists who had experienced some form of theft of their intellectual property or whose accomplishments had not been recognized.
My series—dubbed the Matildas, after the Matilda effect, a bias against acknowledging the achievements of women first named by suffragist Matilda Joslyn Gage—had earned me thousands of followers across TikTok and YouTube, where I cross-posted my content.
The metrics on both platforms still astonished me.
I had worked on enough social media campaigns to know how rare it was to organically go viral not just once, but consistently, yet something about my series had struck a chord with people.
Perhaps it was a belated appreciation for these women who had contributed to society in ways the public hadn’t known, or maybe it was because the feeling of being slighted, of having your work downplayed or outright stolen, was painfully relatable.
In a world of rapid and rabid internet consumption, and the very real threat of AI distorting the lines of creation, people were drawn to my videos.
Whatever the reason, the Matildas had put money in my bank account, which I needed if I didn’t want to tap into my savings.
Even if it was also the most terrifying.
Scrolling through the comments on my most recent video about Bertha Benz, the wife of Carl Benz and the force behind her husband’s automobile company, Mercedes-Benz, I blocked a few accounts for misogynistic comments and then paused, a smile crossing my lips when I spied a new comment from a regular follower.
User16892 left a comment on every one of my videos, and often it was something witty or insightful, which I had found surprising considering he had made it clear in several of his remarks that he was a man and the majority of men who commented on my videos were trolls.
For Bertha Benz, he wrote: So not only was she the first person to drive a motorized vehicle over a long distance, invented brake lining, and underscored the importance of test drives, she also was credited and praised by her husband for her ingenuity.
It’s no wonder the manosphere hates her!
God, wasn’t that the truth. One only had to look at the comments on my video to see how angry some people were by the suggestion that most successful men in history were able to find their success because they had a woman supporting them.
I perused the responses to my new friend, and paused at one in particular: SLikeTheSun should do a live with you!
A frown twisted my lips. Do a TikTok LIVE with User16892?
I didn’t even know his real name—he didn’t even have an avatar—and people wanted me to chat with him live?
Yeah, no. While I appreciated his pointed commentary and the snarky, sometimes brutal responses he left for people who commented rude or vile things on my videos, I wasn’t exactly keen to share the platform I built with anyone, let alone a man.
Didn’t that negate the whole idea of the Matildas?
To my frustration, though, several other commenters had piggybacked on this suggestion, and my stomach dropped as I read their posts.
A live would be amazing! Can you imagine how much chemistry they’d have with each other?
@User16892 could have two heads and I would still think he’s hot just from his takedowns.
But why does @SLikeTheSun have to do a live with anyone, especially a man?
Yeah, I thought, nodding my head. I was tempted to like the comment but thought better of it.
I’d learned quickly that people online read intent into every innocuous thing I did, so I was picky about what I liked and didn’t.
Existing online without people making assumptions about who I was and what I believed was hard enough, and I didn’t need to give them ammunition.
Still, I liked User16892’s comment and closed the app. I had research to do and a script to write. Slipping my phone and laptop inside a bag, I grabbed my water bottle and car keys. I’d decided to spend the morning at the library.
Ten minutes later, I waved hello to Mindy, the front desk librarian, and padded across the sterile carpet as I headed to my customary table in the northwest corner of the library.
Unlike other work areas in the building, this corner featured a lone table tucked under a tall, tinted window that overlooked the redbrick paved courtyard lined with vibrantly hued bougainvillea.
It was a lovely view to settle my thoughts whenever I needed a break from my computer screen.
After taking a seat, I arranged my laptop and notepad, ensuring my favorite purple gel pen was close at hand, and took a swig of water.
Clicking to open my screen, I stared at the script I had started for a video about Chien-Shiung Wu, the aptly named “First Lady of Physics” who was a vital part of the Manhattan Project…
yet the Nobel Prize committee omitted her name from consideration.
My gaze reread a series of lines I had written.
Wu was nominated for a Nobel Prize twenty—TWENTY—times, and may have been nominated for more, but the records are sealed.
She was a celebrated and widely respected physicist who changed the way science understood beta decay, and yet how many of you knew her name?
That was the reminder I needed of why I was doing this.
Yes, my videos supported me financially, but amplifying these amazing women was immensely satisfying.
Every video was a metaphorical middle finger to the patriarchy, and I had to remember that and not all the other nonsense that came from content creation.
But the irritating suggestions to do a LIVE with User16892 were still on my mind hours later after I returned home.
While I sorted and folded laundry, and then vacuumed the living room and mopped the kitchen, I listened to a podcast about the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, hoping it would distract me from another frustration spiral.
Because I didn’t need to feature a man to garner more views or interactions.
I plunged the mop forcefully into the bucket, ignoring the water that sloshed over the side.
This was my account that I had worked hard to build all by myself.
I was yanked from my thoughts when my phone screen flashed with a text from Caitlin.
We hadn’t spoken in several weeks, aside from some silly memes we sent back and forth.
She had been in Europe for a brand trip, and she’d promised she would text me once she was stateside again.
Her schedule was chaotic at best, with her work as a luxury brand influencer taking her all over the world, and her following across social media put mine to shame.
A reoccurring fear struck me anew: What if Caitlin did stumble across my TikToks?
I wasn’t ashamed of the content I was creating, but social media had always been Caitlin’s thing, and I had purposely not told her of my new venture.
I was sure she could give me tips to grow my account, but I was worried that if I took that step, I would be acknowledging that content creation was my new job, and I wasn’t ready for that yet.
Clicking open her message, I read:
Caitlin: Back in NY and just got to my place. I’m taking a sleeping pill and crashing, but I wanted you to know I’ll be in Phoenix in two weeks. August 12th. I miss you!
Sofia: I miss you too! If it wasn’t for Instagram, I wouldn’t even remember what you looked like.
Caitlin:
Caitlin: I was going to bring some skin care samples, but I don’t have to…
Sofia: oh shut up. You know I love you.
Sofia: and your samples.
Caitlin: My samples and I love you too. Good night
Sofia: Dormir bien
It had been six months since I’d last seen Caitlin.
I had flown to Nashville to meet with clients for Desert Media 360, and Caitlin had been there to attend a brand party at some high-end boutique.
We’d spent two days eating and drinking our way through the city.
I didn’t see my college bestie much these days, but we immediately fell into the comfortable rhythm of our friendship whenever we were together.
Caitlin was witty and smart, and when you chatted with her, she made you feel like you were the only person in the room.
I was excited to see her when she was in town…
and maybe I would work up the courage to tell her about my TikToks.
Swiping out of the text app, I stared at my phone for a long moment.
Just thinking of telling Caitlin about the Matildas turned my thoughts to TikTok again, and I gritted my teeth in frustration.
Grabbing my bag, I locked up and drove the ten minutes to the gym.
I would have preferred a grueling hike on one of the many trails around the valley, but late July in Phoenix was a dangerous time to be outdoors.
So to the gym with its pleasant air-conditioning I went, and after a series of stretches, I slipped on my headphones, selected a reggaeton playlist on my phone, and changed the incline on the treadmill.
For the next thirty minutes, I let the burn in my legs and the tightness in my lungs help me sort out how I envisioned developing the Matildas and whether it left room for follower collaborations.
You can do whatever you want, Sofia, I grumbled mentally to myself. But your followers are the reason you get a paycheck, so don’t you think you should keep them happy? The other part of my brain argued back, most unhelpfully.