It's different for girls
A fictional tale that addresses the challenges faced by many women working in demolition and construction.
She was fifteen when she said it aloud for the first time.
It wasn’t a joke, or a dare, or a moment of adolescent rebellion.
It was just a simple truth:
“I want to work in demolition.”
Her classmates froze.
Then came the laughter.
A ripple at first. Then full-throated howls.
Like she’d announced plans to become an astronaut, or a wizard, or to marry a movie star.
"You?" one girl gasped.
"In demolition?!”
Another chimed in. “That’s a pretty butch job, you know. Is there something you’d like to tell us?”
By the end of the morning session, she was eating lunch alone.
By the end of the week, she had been labelled a lesbian. The fact that she had a boyfriend apparently counted for nothing.
But then he was gone too. Being the boyfriend to “demolition girl” apparently didn’t align with what he considered to be “cool”.
At home, she scrolled through Instagram: girls her age trying makeup tutorials, dance trends, lip gloss reviews.
She scrolled past it all, finding comfort in demolition footage; buildings folding like a house of cards, excavators tearing down steel frames, dust clouds swallowing skylines.
She didn’t want to sit behind a desk.
She didn’t want to write essays or argue in lecture halls.
She wanted to build. And maybe more than that, she wanted to break.
At school, her teachers smiled politely when she repeated her ambition.
“Why not think about architecture instead?” one suggested. “Much more elegant.”
“Or civil engineering,” said another, “You can design things. Still be part of it, just… from a different angle.”
Even the careers advisor, who was supposed to be impartial, gave her a look that said it all.
“You’ve got great grades. Why not university? Why waste your potential on something like… that?”
But she didn’t want to be someone else's version of successful.
She wanted the noise, the danger, the dirt, the satisfaction of tearing something down before something better could be built.
College was the first step.
A construction-focused vocational course.
Out of thirty students, four were girls.
By the second term, it was two.
By the end of the year, she stood alone.
When she landed an apprenticeship at a regional demolition firm, it felt like validation.
She showed up early. She read every manual, absorbed every safety briefing, studied every machine.
She didn’t expect to be liked. She only wanted to be taken seriously.
She got neither.
The site manager didn’t remember her name until month three.
Her supervisor referred to her as “princess” or “darlin’.”
Her coworkers treated her as a mascot on good days, a nuisance on others.
They'd pause conversations when she approached, then resume once she passed, sniggering.
The PPE came in men's sizes only.
She asked once for better fitting gloves.
“Delicate hands,” one guy said. “That’s why women shouldn’t be on site.”
She tried to ignore the remarks.
Tried to pretend it was just banter.
She worked harder than anyone.
First to arrive, last to leave.
She asked questions. Took notes. Watched. Learned.
Her skills improved.
Her confidence didn't.
She heard things that made her stomach churn.
About other women. About “birds on site.” About things they’d “like to demolish”.
They spoke like she wasn’t there, or like she didn’t count.
Invisible. Or worse; an intruder.
And then, one Monday, it happened.
She walked into the site cabin.
Paused by the female toilet, the one she used alone.
Inside, waiting on the counter next to the sink, was a large pink sex toy.
Still in its packaging.
A note stuck to it in black marker:
“Thought you might need this.”
She stood there for a long time.
She didn’t cry.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t storm out.
She left it exactly where it was.
Went outside.
Put on her hard hat.
Clocked in.
Later, she would tell HR.
They would promise to investigate.
They would ask her if she had any proof.
They would say there was no CCTV in the bathroom.
They would remind her that the industry is still “finding its feet” with inclusion.
They would send out an all-staff email about professionalism and appropriate behaviour.
The toy stayed there for two days.
No one cleaned it up.
She threw it in the skip herself on Wednesday morning.
Her story doesn’t end with triumph.
There is no viral social media post.
No inspiring TED talk.
No plaque honouring her perseverance.
She’s still there.
Still showing up.
Still being ignored.
But her silence isn’t weakness.
It’s armour.
It’s the only thing they haven’t taken.
Sometimes, late at night, she questions it all.
The choice. The path. The point.
But when she’s on a machine, boom extended, pulveriser tearing through concrete, there’s a purity to it; a safety, even. A kind of honesty she hasn’t found anywhere else.
She knows she doesn’t belong.
And she’s stopped pretending that she ever will.
Yet every morning, she drags herself out of bed, pulls on her ill-fitting PPE, and walks back into it.
Staying feels like punishment.
But leaving would feel like losing.
She’s not chasing dreams anymore.
She’s just surviving the silence, one shift at a time.