Raised by Women, Tempered in Kitchens: How Respect Became My Quiet Rebellion

I was the youngest in our strange little family cell—my mother, my stepfather, two brothers, and a stepbrother were the constant cast. A half-brother and stepsister lived with my father, making holidays feel like we were passing trading cards nobody could assemble into one full deck. We didn’t have video games back then in the ’70s, so entertainment was either going outside to throw dirt clods at each other, or, in my case, hovering in the kitchen with my mum while she cooked. And honestly? The kitchen smelled better.

In addition to roughhousing with my brothers and nursing injuries that would later become “character,” I learned how to chop, stir, taste, and listen. And listening mattered. Because while adults talked, I soaked up tone, meaning, frustration, and all the complicated debris of grown-up life. When my parents’ friends came over, instead of retreating, I sat right there in the middle—like a tiny talk-show host handing out opinions he had no business having.

When my stepfather died, I became protective of my mother. Suddenly I was orbiting her world instead of the noisy hurricane of boys my age. I spent more time around grown women, hearing them vent about men’s attitudes—not relationships, but entitlement, dismissal, condescension. That stuff leaves grooves on a teenage brain. The good kind.

Then there was school. All boys. Testosterone marinated in Axe Body Spray’s great-grandfather. Conversations could be crude and degrading to women, and it drove me absolutely nuts. But here’s the thing: disagreeing meant becoming a target. I wasn’t stupid. I stayed quiet, kept my head down, and saved my thoughts like hurricane supplies.

The popular boys always tried to pull me into their crowd, but I kept my distance. They were usually the source of the worst comments. I didn’t need to be popular—I needed to be able to look my mother in the eye.

Flash-forward to adulthood, and I ended up in the culinary world—where respect for women wasn’t exactly the daily special. Kitchens can be loud, raw, and crude. It’s a place where people sometimes forget there’s a human being behind the apron. But this time, I wasn’t the quiet teenager. I spoke up. I defended women because silence would have meant agreeing, and I refused to let disrespect simmer unchecked.

Living with sarcoidosis and heart failure sharpened my perspective further. Sarcoidosis can affect multiple organs and, yes, even cause heart complications that lead to heart failure. The fact that I’m still here—heart device and all—makes every moment feel more valuable. Chronic illness has a way of stripping away the nonsense. Suddenly, you realize you don’t have the energy for cruelty, gossip, or petty ego. You have enough fights already happening inside your own body.

I’ve watched doctors speak to nurses like they were untrained extras in the background, even though nurses catch mistakes, prevent disasters, and quietly fix what others take credit for. Kitchens have their own version of this too. The dishwasher—the person everyone steps around—is often the backbone of service. When dishes don’t stop coming, when the line is drowning, they’re the ones who keep us afloat. Respect doesn’t trickle down from the top. It’s carried by the people doing the heavy lifting.

As for labels—feminist, ally, advocate. I don’t need them. Respect shouldn’t require a badge, a title, or a special handshake. It should be standard inventory.

The older I get, the more I realize this: strength isn’t proven by how loud you talk in a locker room, how crude your jokes are on the line, or how many people you can push beneath you to feel taller. Strength is how you treat the people who can’t advance your career, sign your paycheck, or promote your art. How you speak to the dishwasher. The nurse. The person cleaning your tray when you’re too exhausted to do it yourself.

If we want a world that’s kinder to women, to people with chronic illness, to anyone unheard, it starts with the tiny choices. The conversations we don’t let slide. The jokes we don’t laugh at. The dignity we protect when no one is watching.

So yes—I was raised in a house full of men, shaped by women, tempered in kitchens, and humbled by a heart that occasionally forgets it’s supposed to beat properly. And somehow, through all of that, I learned that respect isn’t complicated. It’s who we are when we think no one important is looking.

So tell mr. How did you learn respect? Who shaped your moral compass? Drop a comment below—I’d love to hear your story. And if you enjoyed this post, please subscribe. The kitchen’s warm, the apron’s clean, and there’s always room at the table.