The Motherhood Penalty

How to stop motherhood being the kiss of death for your career

Joeli Brearley

• Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781398508040
• eBook ISBN: 9781471192685
• Topic: Medicine
• Subtopic: Gynecology, Obstetrics & Midwifery

AN EYE-OPENING EXPLORATION OF MODERN MOTHERHOOD PACKED WITH PRACTICAL ADVICE ON NAVIGATING DISCRIMINATION IN THE WORKPLACE 'It's the book that proves working mothers are shamefully mistreated' - Daily Mail
'Brearley's book leaves no stone unturned in what needs to be done to remedy these problems going forward' – Vogue UK
'Joeli is one of the most tenacious and impressive campaigners I know, and her work has had a massive positive impact on the lives of thousands of women. Her work is invaluable, from setting up a vital lifeline for women to learn about their rights on maternity discrimination, to the frontlines of the Covid-19 crisis, where she battled for women not to be left out of the picture altogether. ' - Laura Bates Imagine suddenly being sacked from your job. After spending years building your career, it's all taken away in just one moment. Why? Because you told your boss you are pregnant. This happened to Joeli Brearley. And she quickly realised she wasn't alone - 54, 000 women a year are forced out of their job because they dared to procreate, and three quarters of working mothers faceworkplace discrimination.Andthis was before the pandemic, with its never-ending cycle of extraordinary childcare challenges and overt pregnancy and maternity discrimination, resulting in a tsumani of mothers exiting the labour force.
Pregnant Then Screwed is an expose of the unscrupulous work practices and antiquated systems that we've been conditioned to accept and a toolkit for how to challenge them. It's full of practical advice to help you navigate systemic barriers when they slap you in the face. Whether you're a mother who is sick of being sidelined, undermined, and underpaid. A ''stay at home'' mother who wants to work but can't. A future parent who is scared that having children will affect your career. An employer who wants to get the best out of its parent employees, or you simply want a stronger, fairer economy, Pregnant Then Screwed is a compelling manifesto for change and a call to arms for all women.

1 How It All Began: Discrimination, Gestation, Creation

I am that girl. The one who did drama class and horse riding. If my bank account was bare, I could call my mum and £50 would appear out of thin air. Raised by an adoring mother and an ambitious father (albeit in Halifax, which back then was pretty grim), I was born into comfort and privilege. I had an excellent education and was repeatedly told I could be anything I wanted to be. My dad went on to make some pretty serious money in the rag trade and we swiftly moved to deluxe suburbia – a charming village just outside Leeds. I was 14 and furious. I rebelled by drinking 20/20 and listening to Nirvana at 140 decibels in my bedroom.

I know. THAT girl.

Now, I’m not saying it was all rosy, because it wasn’t. There was bullying, sexual assault, a long, drawn-out divorce, and by the time I was 17 my dad had lost the money he had made and the business he had built. But still, if I was a sample in one of those ‘expected life outcome’ studies, I would be considered, you know, pedigreed.

After university, I used my privilege to grab the world by its lapels and started carving out a successful career. I was confident, qualified; I had everything going for me. Feminism was not a word I associated with. It conjured up images of joyless, angry women wearing comfortable shoes and large knickers. I liked drinking pints in the pub, dancing to drum and bass, and men – I really liked men, and I was their equal. Gender inequality was something that affected my grandmother, not me. I could be or do anything I wanted; I just needed to work really hard and prove myself to my employers, who, interestingly, were all men. When a male client placed his hand on my inner thigh under the table at an important meeting, I just thought he was a bit of a creep. When I applied for a job and was later propositioned by the interviewer – ‘Have sex with me and the job is yours’ – I felt violated and depressed, but still didn’t resign my position as a wholly co-operative member of the patriarchy. Of course, I declined his grotesque proposition, and the role was then given to… a man (!!), but it was just a one-off incident, another bad apple – I was clearly very unlucky. You could surmise that I was a bit slow off the mark, rather unobservant, a little dense perhaps, and with hindsight I was. I have no idea how I excused these incidents or managed to ignore their broader connotation, but I did.

Do you know what finally ripped the blindfold off and brought everything into focus? Getting pregnant.

Fast forward to 10 April 2013. I could hear my phone buzzing in the kitchen as I brushed my teeth. Talking with a mouthful of white frothing toothpaste would risk permanently damaging my Nokia Lumia so I let it ring out. After rinsing my mouth and doing the obligatory Wallace and Gromit smile in the mirror, I pressed my phone to my ear so I could listen to the answerphone message. It was my employer, the CEO of a children’s charity. I had informed her the day before that I was expecting my first baby. ‘Hi Joeli. This is a really difficult call to make. I’m sorry to tell you that the board and I have decided to terminate your contract. It’s not working out. Could you make sure you hand over all the project documents as soon as possible.’ My hand began to shake. As I let the news sink in, I began to pace the cheap lino of my rented flat: up and down, up and down. I was trying to force a thought, a reaction, an emotion, but my mind felt blank, like the hard drive of a computer that had been wiped clean by a virus. Not distressed, not angry, just empty. I called my partner, then my mum, then my father-in-law, a property lawyer who sadly knew nothing about employment law. The poor man had to painstakingly explain to me that the laws involved in selling a house are quite different from the laws involved in managing an employee.

The enormity of what had just happened started to sink in. I was four months pregnant and I had no idea where my next pay cheque was going to come from. Who would employ a visibly pregnant woman? I sat at my laptop and my eyes began to sting with tears, until finally the emptiness lifted – and terror kicked in. I sobbed uncontrollably. Hot, heavy, furious tears.

My phone beeped. It was a message from my partner, Tom: ‘Try not to worry. We’ll find a way to manage.’ And with that the terror turned to anger. How could they do that to me when I was so vulnerable? What sort of person pushes a pregnant woman out of her job? I knew nothing about employment law but I was confident this was in breach of it. They’ve made a big mistake, I thought to myself, they can’t seriously believe they will get away with this. The law will protect me. I mean, what’s the point in having employment law if it doesn’t prevent pregnant women from being fired?

I wiped away the tears and called a number of helplines, with mixed results. After hours of talking and researching, I still didn’t understand my legal position or what I should do next. A friend of a friend recommended an employment lawyer. They charged me £250 to write a letter to the charity demanding compensation. The letter was ignored. My bank account was empty. I had no idea how I was going to pay my rent next month but, if I wanted justice, the only option available to me was to take my employer to an employment tribunal. The solicitor estimated my legal fees to be in the region of £9,000 but he couldn’t say for certain. I didn’t have £9,000. Who the fuck has £9,000? ‘What if I do it on my own with no legal support?’ I asked the solicitor. ‘Ha!’ He scoffed. ‘Well, good luck to you.’

Among the chaos, I attended a routine doctor’s appointment where they suggested that I have my cervix checked as I had undergone surgery in 1999 due to Stage 2 cervical cancer. They scanned me and discovered that my cervix had almost vanished. The baby was hanging on by a thread: ‘Your situation is dangerous,’ said the doctor. ‘If we don’t act quickly, the baby might come, and at 20 weeks it is very unlikely it will survive.’ They booked me in for a suture operation the following day – a delightful process where they would bolt my cervix together to force it into position. Their parting words were: ‘Whatever you do, don’t get stressed.’

Don’t get stressed.

I was four months pregnant and unemployed. My confidence was in tatters and I thought my career was over. I had no idea how I would be able to afford the rent on our flat next month, let alone how I would survive maternity leave, and now it looked like my baby might die. Being stressed wasn’t a choice I had the privilege of making. A strange ringing in my ears built to a crescendo and as the blood rushed from my head I collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor. When I came around, I was lying on the crisp white sheets of a hospital bed with the concerned face of Tom staring back at me. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’m okay.’ But he and I both knew that wasn’t true.

The choice was stark: further risk the health of my unborn child and attempt to access the justice I clearly deserved, or drop the case. The law says you only have three months to raise a tribunal claim from the point discrimination occurs; I couldn’t wait until my baby was born before I started proceedings. But I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do everything in my power to ensure I didn’t go into labour prematurely. So, with a heavy heart, I dropped the case.

I was empty. The chance of justice had spurred me on. It wasn’t that I’d wanted financial compensation; the idea of taking money from a charity that existed to support children left me feeling cold, but I had wanted some sort of vindication. I’d wanted reassurances that they would never put another woman through the same horrific experience. I wanted to hear someone in authority say that I’d been wronged. That had all been taken away. Now, there was just me, jobless and pregnant, wrestling with my hurt and fury inside my own head, praying my body would hold on to my growing baby.

I’m sure any women of colour or women with disabilities who are reading this are thinking, What?! Seriously? This was the first time you experienced discrimination? This was the first time you realised that the systems and structures are set up to favour white, straight, non-disabled men? And honestly, yes, it really was, and it knocked me for six. Before this happened, I had been comfortably gliding through the world. My sense of satisfaction and personal pride came from my paid work, which had now been snatched away, and, as the new life squiggled and squirmed inside me, my whole identity was thrown into question. This, combined with the knowledge that my baby might die and a fear that we may lose our home due to a lack of funds, meant my mental health took a turn for the worse. I am lucky to be surrounded by supportive people – a partner who sympathised but wouldn’t let me wallow; friends who immediately rallied around with helpful words and affection; and my mum, who was comfortingly furious on my behalf. It all helped, but, as the magnitude of the situation dawned on me, I stopped eating and spent days rubbing my swollen belly, crying, begging my unborn child to stay put. I was crawling into a very dark place; left unmanaged, it risked sucking me in with such ferocity I would be swallowed whole.

Tom persuaded me to apply for a temporary position he had seen that started immediately. I was convinced they wouldn’t employ a visibly pregnant woman, even though I was very well qualified for the role. But, with his help, I did it anyway, and to my bewildered delight I was invited to an interview. When I told them I was pregnant, they smiled and said, ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ and despite an imperfect interview they offered me the job and I whimpered with relief.

I was elated. Somebody wanted me. They didn’t focus on my swollen uterus; they focused on my skill and my ability to do the job. I was the best candidate and impending motherhood was something they were prepared to work with. Their trust in me started the healing process, and very quickly I was back to scoffing cakes (after all, I was eating for two) and feeling much more positive about the future. My new employers and I both benefited from their trust. I gave that job everything I had: I was dedicated, productive, I wore their brand and vision like an expensive coat, and as my contract drew to an end they asked if I would be willing to return once I’d figured out how to keep a baby alive. The trust and faith we had in each other was mutual and it felt incredible to be respected for my skills and abilities again. That strength spurred me on to secure two further freelance contracts, so that by the time I went on maternity leave I was smashing that glass ceiling into tiny shards of amelioration. In the end, being sacked for daring to procreate had enormously benefited my career.

Despite this, the experience ate away at me. I thought about it every single day – the fact that it had happened, and then the fact that I was paralysed by an unfair system, unable to access the justice I deserved. My son remained in position, and after he was born I attended some parent groups and discussed my experience with other mums. To my horror, I discovered that, far from mine being an isolated incident, this was happening all the time. The majority of mothers I spoke with had experienced some form of discrimination. Their career had been, or would be, negatively affected in some form or other because they had started a family. I met so many bright, talented, brilliant women who had given up on their careers, not because they had freely chosen to, but because it had been made impossible for them to continue.

When two of my very good friends also lost their jobs for having a baby, I decided that something needed to be done. I couldn’t bear how helpless and angry this whole situation made me feel; the waste of so many talented women whose confidence had been crushed, their career terminated because their status had changed to mother. I felt this deeply on a personal level, knowing what my experience had done to me, but I also began to calculate how nonsensical this was from an economic perspective. When the system in which we live and work isn’t fully utilising the skills and competencies of women, then the system is broken. Did people even know this was happening? Why would anyone want to live in a society where more than half its population were at serious risk of being bullied, ignored and undermined because they have the ability to birth a human? All I needed to do was prove that this was happening by exposing the problem. If people could hear the stories I had heard, then things would change, I had no doubt.

Then came the next major hurdle: these stories weren’t available because many of the women who encounter pregnancy or maternity discrimination are gagged. Just like the victims of sexual harassment, we are silenced by power and money. The women who are able to challenge their employer usually sign a non-disclosure agreement (NDA), a legally binding contract that states that they are never allowed to utter another word about their experience again.

But NDA or no NDA, why would you speak out about a personal experience of discrimination when it’s clear this will have a negative impact on your future career? Some of those who face discrimination still work for the same company, so they don’t want to lose whatever is left of their job. Those who manage to find new employment don’t want to be branded troublemakers – no one wants to employ a troublemaker, do they? Finding a job when you are pregnant or a new mum is hard enough without being labelled as the woman who is attempting to drag the good name of her previous employer through the mud. And who would even listen? Without a court ruling to show you were treated unfairly, it’s just your word against theirs. The women who encounter this callous treatment keep it to themselves, like a dirty secret.

That creates part of the problem. Had I known the truth about how common this type of discrimination is, I would have felt less alone when it happened to me. Feeling isolated strips you of power, particularly when you are at your most vulnerable. There is a power in collective experience. A power in numbers. Defending yourself against a personal injustice is exhausting but doing it for the collective good can give you strength. It became clear that I needed to find a way for women to tell their stories of pregnancy or maternity discrimination without having to risk their job or break the law. Our voices had to be heard. I also needed a way to channel my own anger before it risked consuming me. I would daydream about revenge tactics I could take on the organisation, but in reality I knew that posting a dog poo through their letterbox wasn’t going to give me the sense of solace I desired. Then one day, while my son napped upstairs, I asked my twitter followers for ideas on a campaign name. ‘Beyond the Blue Line’ and ‘The Professional New Mum’ were good, but not quite right. Then someone said: ‘What about “Pregnant first, fucked second.” ’ I could hear my son grumbling through the baby monitor so I shut my laptop and finished my cup of tea. As I scooped him out of his cot for a cuddle, he sleepily filled his nappy with hot, mustardy poo. I’ve got it! I thought. Pregnant Then Screwed. I chuckled to myself as I changed him. I was mothering like a pro while the campaign to end pregnancy and maternity discrimination started taking shape in my mind.

It was two months later, on International Women’s Day 2015, when I sprang out of bed, whipped out my computer and decided that today was the day. I fed my son banana porridge with one hand and taught myself to use WordPress with the other. By 1 p.m., the website was live and Pregnant Then Screwed had been released into the world, a safe space for women to tell their stories of pregnancy and maternity discrimination anonymously. I documented my own experience; it was painful and cathartic in equal measure.

That day, over 2,000 people viewed the site but my email remained stubbornly quiet. I couldn’t understand why the stories weren’t flooding in when I knew how many women had faced this problem. I emailed everyone I had ever met to ask for their support, to spread the word or to link me up with useful people in the media. Within six weeks, I had ten stories, but each post had involved very sensitive and careful negotiation. These women were terrified. Even though the stories are completely anonymous, and no names of companies or colleagues are included, the process of writing the experience down had felt painful and they were extremely fearful that somebody might somehow identify them. For those who had signed a non-disclosure agreement, being caught talking about their experience would trigger a further legal battle.

It took four phone calls and eight email exchanges to convince one particular woman to share her story. She had been bullied and harassed so badly by her previous employer that she was on antidepressants and was barely able to leave the house. She wasn’t a weak person. On the contrary, she had been a high-powered senior professional in a male-dominated environment, then her pregnancy triggered clients being removed and daily meetings where she was told she wasn’t doing her job properly. She had felt like she was losing her mind, and simultaneously her colleagues made derogatory comments about her weight gain and ‘baby brain’.

She had instructed a solicitor and threatened her employer with a tribunal. After a gruelling process, they made her sign a settlement agreement that included a gagging clause. This meant she would have just enough money to see her through maternity leave. It wasn’t the justice she deserved, but when you’re that vulnerable, you can only fight for so long. She was pregnant, jobless and her confidence was in tatters. Penning this traumatic experience meant reliving it when her coping mechanism had been to try to forget.

Those ten women only agreed to share their stories with me because I understood the mental torment they had been subjected to. The experiences varied dramatically: a woman who had hyperemesis¹ and was forced to vomit in the waste paper bin next to her boss’s desk in an open-plan office of sixty people; a woman who had been refused a guaranteed promotion after she informed her boss she ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• The Interview
• Preface: Do It All, Screw It All
• Chapter 1: How It All Began: Discrimination, Gestation, Creation
• Chapter 2: How Did We Get Here?
• Chapter 3: The Guilt Will Gobble You Up If You Let It
• Chapter 4: The Motherhood Penalty
• Chapter 5: I Had a Baby, Not a Lobotomy: Pregnancy and Maternity Discrimination
• Chapter 6: Isn’t That Illegal?
• Chapter 7: Gagged
• Chapter 8: Cheer Up, It Might Never Happen
• Chapter 9: Childcare Is Infrastructure
• Chapter 10: The Domestic Load
• Chapter 11: What about Dad?
• Chapter 12: Don’t Be a Schmuck, Flex It Up
• Chapter 13: No Ordinary Mother
• Chapter 14: Master of Your Own Destiny: Is Self-Employment the Solution?
• Chapter 15: What Are They Doing Over There?
• Chapter 16: Where There’s a Will There’s a Way
• Chapter 17: Lockdown
• Afterword: Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum
• Other Places to Go for Help
• Further Reading
• Key Data
• Acknowledgements
• About the Author
• Notes
• Index
• Copyright