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PERFECT, PRETTY AND POISED The Hidden yet Visible World of the Gender Beauty Gap

Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, or so the saying goes. Attractiveness is subjective, prettiness means nought. But behind these romantic ideas hides stifling beauty standards which women are faced with every day.

Clearly no one saw who was whispering to the beholder.

Known by many names including the ‘grooming gap,’ and ‘the beauty expectation gap,’ the Gender Beauty Gap is a term used to describe the expectations placed on a woman’s appearance; in that, there is a significant gap between what men and women can look like.

Take, for example, a man who looks a little bit untidy, with messy hair and unkempt clothes. You might think “oh he must be in a band,” or “he’s some cool hipster,” and maybe even “gosh, he looks so manly with that wild hair.” This, however, is a big no no for women. A scruffy appearance means you don’t take care of yourself and have most certainly lost the plot. But, in actual fact, we don’t look scruffy at all; we just couldn’t be bothered to put makeup on that morning.

Like many women, I have definitely felt societal pressures to look a certain way. Trends go in and out all the time, but I’m always aware that to look put together, I should be wearing makeup and form-fitting clothes. This fact is particularly evident when it comes to corporate environments, interviews, dates and any time we step within a metre of another human being. Don’t get me wrong – I love high waisted jeans and heels are great on the rare occasion, but the problem arises when I’m expected to wear these things, instead of it being a choice.

And this is what irks me.

According to a 2016 study, Australian women spend $15 billion a year on grooming, whilst men spend a measly $7 billion. Yes, 7 billion is still a lot but that difference is huge. Think of all the things we could be doing with that extra cash! But cash isn’t the only thing we’re spending – it’s our precious time too.

Journalist Tracey Spicer says that women spend on average 27 minutes each day getting ready in the morning. This, scarily, totals up to 10 full working days over the expanse of a year.

“Over our lives, on average, women will take 3,276 hours in grooming; for men it’s 1,092 [hours],” says Tracey.

So looking the part is expected of us, but in a world that rewards beautiful women, and belittles ‘plain’ ones, this can be difficult.

“[I was told to] put on some blush for work,” says Yumi Stynes, author, podcaster and radio presenter. At 19-years-old, Yumi was working as a chemist shop assistant and was questioned about her appearance. “Use some rouge and some eyeliner… you want the customers to look at you and think that you’re using the products we sell, maybe even want to imitate you. I felt both mortified and flat-

tered,” she tells the ABC.

Aside from makeup, women are also expected to change their hair with dyes and chemical treatments. A man with grey hair is seen as a ‘silver fox,’ but on a woman it means that she no longer cares about her appearance. Author, former model and human rights activist Tara Moss says women of colour are particularly targeted. “Curly hair, and especially naturally curly hair, must be straightened and ‘tamed’ to look more professional,” she says. “Women’s grooming is… often an expectation, with career consequences for those who don’t ‘look the part’.”

Although we’re expected to look a certain way, apparently there is a fine line between looking good, but not too good. I’ve most certainly felt this pressure and have worried that people will judge me for my makeup choices. Marketing officer Kate has also experienced this concern. After uploading an image of herself to the internal system at her work, she was told by a female manager that her photo looked “too glam.”

“She said ‘People may think you are just about makeup and looks and not really take you seriously’,” she tells the ABC. Kate, understandably, was taken aback and the comments affected her greatly.

“It impacted my mental health… I couldn’t wait for the day to leave my job.”

Sadly, this treatment doesn’t surprise me. We have to look good, but not too good, otherwise people will judge us. A study completed by Harvard University in 2016 confirms this problem, finding that women who wear some makeup are deemed as more “likeable and competent, but those with ‘glamorous makeup’ are not.” Don’t wear enough makeup and people will think you’re not qualified to do your job. But wear too much and you’re seen as incompetent and untrustworthy. We really can’t win, can we?

So, what can we do about the Gender Beauty Gap? Well, the best thing is to stay informed, support other women and be aware of your actions.

I wanted to write this article to educate other women about this issue, which I knew existed, but didn’t know its name and how much of an impact it has on us. Beauty standards will continue to change and evolve, but with awareness, we can learn to recognise when we’re playing to them or acting for ourselves. The next time you reach for your makeup, stop and think to yourself “Am I doing this because I want to, or is it just what people expect me to do?” Thinking this through will help you make better, informed decisions.

But remember to also have some fun! Makeup and clothing are great tools for self-expression and I completely endorse experimenting with your style (I know I have and will continue to do so). So wear those high heels, rock your natural hair and amaze people with your perfect winged eyeliner – only if YOU want to.

by Aylish Dowsett

Almost anyone who calls themselves a feminist negatively impacted by the exclusivity and singlein the year of Miss Rona 2020 is familiar with mindedness of White Feminism; which again, intersectional feminism. The inequality of is an issue which becomes even more complex inequality; acknowledging how race, socio- once we add other factors like religion, sexuality, economic status, disability, and many such and so forth to the mix. Often, WOC – though factors play a role in one’s experiences as a in this case I can only speak for myself as one female identifying person. For example cis individual brown woman – will fight the fight women may not understand the way trans alongside white women, our voices as loud as women are oppressed differently to them, or any. However, mainstream feminism can in return how black trans women specifically are further often leave issues specific to us in the dust, oppressed differently and so forth. It sounds glossing over the role white supremacy plays straightforward but can often be an elusive in combination with the patriarchy to put down and complicated concept to grapple with. WOC in a way different to white women. Often Discussions of intersectionality often come from these minority-group-specific topics may not even the critique of ‘White Feminism,’ a colloquial be acknowledged as existing or being a feminist term for feminism that focuses exclusively on the issue in the first place, let alone being placed on experiences of middle-class white women while the agenda. failing to acknowledge other experiences. In combination with this struggle of addressing My own experience as a woman is defined by issues specific to us as brown women within the several different elements, each with their own greater movement, we must also address sexism, complexities. However, the one which takes colorism, casteism, and other such issues in the up the most of my internal reflection regarding context of feminism within our specific traditions feminism – especially in today’s social and and cultures. Now I’m not labelling South-Asian political climate – is being a South-Asian woman. culture as being more flawed or misogynistic This one category alone will show how intricate than any other, but I am pointing out that brown intersectionality can be. women – like all women who stem from diverse cultural backgrounds – are tasked to be both Brown women, like all women of colour, are Western feminists and also feminists within our

own cultures. We must tackle the patriarchal standards of our cultural backgrounds, as these affect us as much as ‘mainstream’ patriarchal issues do. This is even further complicated by the fact that our cultures are susceptible to racist criticism. We must address sexism in our communities while not giving racists the greenlight to utilise us or our talking points to spread their hatred.

On the other hand, while we do face issues of our own, something else we have to address is our own contribution to unjust ideals. Oppressed groups contributing to the oppression of others is a complex and at times controversial issue. This is the idea that you can be a gay person of colour and perpetuate harmful ableist rhetoric, that you can be a white trans person and contribute to racism, or that you can even contribute to hatred towards your own community. These are all things which occur, and yet can be a point of disagreement. In recent times the subject of antiracism has been sparked with the mainstream resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement. With this many have rightfully prompted white people to analyse how they contribute to antiBlackness, in Australia in specific relation to Indigenous people. However, many non-Black people of colour have also had to look at how they contribute to these issues.

During this time, among other things, I have grappled with the ‘model minority’ myth, something often attached to those from various Asian backgrounds. The idea that if you are a ‘good’ minority, if you work hard, if you assimilate well, and you don’t get into trouble, then you’ll be fine. You’ll achieve social and financial success and be treated as an equal. These ideals are not only thrust upon us but often we ourselves embrace them. However, they are also oppressive tools. These stereotypes not only grant us conditional and false respect but also allow us to overlook the inherent inequality of how those from backgrounds different to us are treated. As a South-Asian woman I experience various inequalities, but they are different to those experienced by Black people in general, and Black women further. By perpetuating or embracing systems of oppression such as the model minority myth we further the oppression of those who aren’t stereotyped into these categories. Further, our own communities can contribute to racist principles. One of these is colorism which is abundant in the South-Asian community particularly among older generations. Stemming from years of British rule and white supremacist ideals that have been left behind and imbedded through colonisation, its link to racism stems from the idealisation of white features and demonisation of dark skin and non-Western features; this is further complicated by casteism and how that contributes to these ideals too (another little something the British left behind). Along with this, our communities often prescribe to Western anti-blackness, buying into the model minority myth and not acknowledging the way in which Black people are oppressed differently to us. If you want to get even more complicated, if we look to the aforementioned issues of sexism in our communities in combination with antiBlackness, that creates further issues to address on how we are pitted against women from other ethnicities in a way which either paints them as the ideal – usually white women – or demonises them due to their proximity to Blackness.

All this jumble of ideas is to say that trying to be an intersectional feminist is complicated… and all I’ve touched on so far are general ideas of race and feminism. We have a million different things to consider, the rights of others and ourselves to address, the anxieties of these and other social issues to deal with along those of regular – and currently not so regular – life. It’s not always easy, it can feel like fighting a losing battle to not only be up against centuries of patriarchal ideals but their interconnectedness with racial inequality, homophobia, transphobia, religion, and so much more. These are also the very reasons we keep going, the rights of ourselves and others, the years of injustice experienced by so many.

But dear reader, they should also be the reasons we’re easier on ourselves. No one person can change the world, and no one generation can either. Those before us fought for what was right, and so will we. Like them we won’t see all the change we want to in our lifetimes, but we will see change.

by Sara Choudhry

EXPLORING THE ARTIFICE OF INFLUENCERS

It’s the summer of 2017 and I’m sitting in a newly furnished office space in Surry Hills. With exposed brick, bold pillars and even a real tree grown under the artificial nurture of UV lighting, the space is a real treat for an unpaid intern. It belongs to a health-focused startup, and as a fresh-faced second year student, I’m the newest addition to the team and by far the most exuberant.

The question comes from *Matt* a popular Instagrammer with a chiselled jawline and a body to rival Adonis himself. Having received his $300, Matt is ready to post. Well, almost. First he must get my approval.

Being an ‘influencer,’ or ‘influencing’ if you will, is a tough business. Each sponsor requires the influencer to follow strict guidelines. They must contort their body in a certain way, wear particular clothing, write a specific caption, promote a certain lifestyle. These rules are non-negotiable, and with the exception of ‘big’ influencers, finding a sponsor is hard work. Most of the struggle is tackled by agents, normally from modelling or PR companies. These guys act as a buffer to negotiation, often claiming set post prices for their clients with little to no wiggle room. Smaller influencers manage their bookings, and as a result are much more likely to accept offers below their normal price. It’s much, much harder for new players; social media is a vicious game where the odds are stacked in favour of the rich and beautiful.

As an intern my task was to scope out potential influencers and, if they met our carefully maintained brand image, to negotiate a price. If they agreed to this amount the next step involved informing them of our posting guidelines. Firstly, and most importantly, the brand label has to be clearly displayed. Next come the strict rules about the photo’s contents. No other products are to be displayed in the photo. The photo has to be of a high resolution, and must be taken during the mid to late afternoon to ensure the best lighting.

With every feeling of playing God, I look at the photo Matt has sent. He’s shirtless. The camera has managed to catch him at a most precious moment – drinking our health beverage (label facing the camera) post workout (explains the shirtlessness, of course) with perfectly timed golden hour lighting.

Excellent.

It makes the product look great. His caption, on the other hand, leaves something to be desired. I spend five minutes crafting a caption then click ‘send.’

Matt is just one of the thirty or so influencers that I contacted over the summer. Out of this large number we ended up with just five or six posts. Price was the primary obstacle. It was my job to assess each post price against what kind of results the photo would deliver. ‘Engagement,’ the ratio of likes to comments, is the most important tool. Followers are the next most important measure. A large following, however, should not be mistaken for genuine interest in the account holder. Some influencers have been caught out purchasing ‘fake followers.’ For this reason, it’s my responsibility to check the ratio of likes and comments. Doing this will tell me if the influencer is indeed ‘genuine,’ if such a thing exists in a world of carefully-constructed artifice.

Fast forward to September 2020. As of today it’s been a whole week since I deleted all the social media apps off my phone to amend the recent deterioration of my body image. While the feelings have probably been building up for a long time, I feel like this year the toxicity of social media pushed me into a dark labyrinth of insecurity and self-criticism.

Sadly, I’m not alone. Mission Australia’s 2019 Youth Survey found that 42.8% of young women were “extremely or very” concerned about what their body looked like. Considering the well documented impact of social media on mental health, it’s worth looking at where influencers fit into the mix. Are they to blame for the low self esteem of young people today?

According to the Butterfly Foundation: “individuals—particularly children and adolescents—who are exposed to role models who demonstrate unhealthy attitudes and behaviours in relation to body image, eating, and exercise are at greater risk of developing body dissatisfaction.” In other words, role models play an important role in our attitudes to our own health, and this particularly is the case for young people. Social media influencers, as well as other kinds of media figures and pop culture icons, are therefore pivotal in how we see our bodies.

While this article so far has been focused on negative aspects of Instagram culture, social media undeniably holds some potential for improving body positivity and promoting various kinds of social progress. Some niche influencers, for example, emphasise body and racial inclusivity, while others might prompt discussions about social issues such as racism or body shaming through sharing their own experiences.

My problem is this: as a retail worker I wear a brightly coloured uniform, a name badge, an overly eager smile and “let-me-help-you” demeanor. My role in the sale process is clear; I’m there to serve customers to make profit for the company. That much is clear. When it comes to influencers, these boundaries are not so obvious. Fitness models might be earning sales commissions, but that’s not always apparent to their followers, many of whom are likely young and perhaps somewhat vulnerable. Sadly, the use of inclusive language, the act of masquerading as a ‘gal pal,’ as well as the relentless promotion of nonessential products, are all common yet insidious features of influencer posts, particularly in the fashion and beauty categories.

While some influencers describe having a genuine relationship with their followers, I remain highly critical of any friendship where one member profits from the consumption activities of the other. It makes me sad to think there are people who place a high degree of trust in influencers, particularly in the health and fitness categories, where often influencers are unqualified and highly motivated by the pursuit of impossible body standards.

Disturbingly, upon entering “social media influencers impact” in a search engine I came across pages of marketing websites encouraging businesses to use influencers as a tool for profit generation. I couldn’t help but find the impersonal characterisation of influencers as “human brands,” as mere instruments of making sales, rather depressing. The dehumanising language used to describe social media influencers, many of whom are young women, leads me to question where influencers fit into the employee-employer relationship. Are they the exploiter, or the exploited?

According to WINK Models, influencers charge an average of $1000 per post for every 100,000 followers. This represents a lucrative opportunity to earn a high income, but at what cost? As someone who was formerly involved in the creation of social media artifice, I can attest to the commitment behind the influencer role. In 2019 journalist Jenni Gritters interviewed twelve Instagram influencers to learn more about the psychological impact of the app. Overwhelmingly the influencers felt constant pressure to not only spend time online, but also to perform within the bounds of “a static, inauthentic identity.”

In their dependence on Instagram as a source of income, influencers get caught up in the intricacies of engagement ratios and popularity strategies. This limits the potential for authentic creativity and self-expression, not just for influencers, but for average users as well. As it grows in size and power, influencer culture therefore impedes on the ability of other users to engage in artistic expression outside the bounds of conventional health and beauty trends.

Danielle Wagstaff, a psychology professor researching social media, argues that the anxiety caused by social media usage is nothing new. She points to the well-documented evidence linking poor body image to representations of beauty across a variety of media sources, such as magazines, TV and films. While this association predates the world of social media, research such as the aforementioned survey by Mission Australia show that young people are increasingly insecure about the way they look. I can’t help but think we’re dealing with the same problem – social pressure to look and act to fit a narrow social mould – albeit on an unprecedented level and of increasingly destructive proportions.

Before I was involved with influencer campaigns I was obsessed with having the ‘perfect’ Instagram account. I craved validation from my followers, a small collection of friends, coworkers and acquaintances from high school. Nights out were an opportunity for a photoshoot, as was a ‘girls lunch.’ My outfits were selected with careful precision, my makeup perfected to a photo-ready standard, ready for cyber-immortalisation. Social media was a game and I wanted to come out on top. The irony is that I had less than 150 followers, and I knew all of them in real life. Nonetheless, I had this innate compulsion to broadcast a certain image of myself. Exposure to the bronzed, toned bodies of models, their glamorous holidays, their semi-candid photos of beautiful friends – I wanted all of it.

It wasn’t until my experience working with influencers that I realised the true artifice of social media. Strangely after finishing my internship I almost felt a kind of loss. I found that I no longer enjoyed posting on Instagram. The validation I had once received from ‘likes’ had disintegrated into the hollow recognition of social media for what it is, a shiny, sparkling world of artifice.

Instagram functions like a two-way mirror. The power lies in the hands of brands, who, possessing access to the rich collection of user data, can see into the minds and souls of everyday scrollers. Blind to what’s happening on the other side of the glass, Instagram users, particularly young women, easily fall victim to the paralysing yet intoxicating algorithm of body-focused images.

Today, I regret being a part of the problem. I despair for the people who get entangled in the web of media-imposed body insecurities. I also feel concern for the female and male influencers who rely heavily on their body to maintain a steady income from sponsorships. As independent contractors who work for brands, but do not receive employee benefits, I can’t help but think we should shift the blame to the broader system of commodification.

Media-related insecurity is on the rise, and I have no doubt that this represents a major challenge for current and future generations. At the same time, I can’t help but feel we blame the apps themselves as a means of absolving or avoiding acknowledging the destructive nature of our hyper-consumerist culture. After all, Instagram is a platform created by humans, for humans. All content is user-generated and there is always the choice to delete the app if one wishes. While it has become common practice to lament the artifice of social media, we should also consider why, despite this widespread criticism, we are motivated to both maintain and actively pursue this fake world. What is it that draws us, like moths to a flickering light, to a luminous yet shadowy universe of fictional identities and commodified creations? Is it that we are exploring ourselves, or escaping from darker elements of our existence?

by Shinae Taylor

PREACH NASTY

Let me chronicle my experience as a woman for you.

I grew up in a conservative church where, by the age of 17, I was already looking for prospective husbands because I was afraid of being left on the shelf. As my friends began to get married, I was so worried that I would run out of options, that deep down I was simply looking for the best choice. I wasn’t looking for qualities that I liked, I was just looking for the nicest looking goldfish in a very small pond (you see, it was taboo to marry outside the church). I felt like my existence was solely predicated on the value I could add as a wife and mother.

Growing up, I was naturally inquisitive and grappled with the concept of feminism, attempting to marry it to the beliefs of my church. I would ask: “Why can’t women preach?” over and over and over, to different men and women, and got answers ranging from, “It’s not their place” to “God hasn’t given them the ability,” to the real kicker – “They’re too emotional.” All of this I accepted with teary eyes and something stuck in my throat. I didn’t want to question what I was being told, I wanted to submit to a god and future husband. But I just didn’t know why. Then one day, in the back of the car, I was arguing at the age of 13 or 14 about the rights of women. I don’t remember how the argument started but I do know that it was recurring, especially on the way to church. This particular event stands out in my memory because this statement still rattles around in my mind from time to time, bobbing up when I am confronted with barriers set up only for women. My stepfather turned to me and said, “Women are important, but men are vital.” That closed the argument because how can you come back from that? When the man in power tells you outright that you truly are lesser than, how can you argue?

My church would go out into the streets and hand out flyers. I remember the wife of a Pastor once mentioning that not a lot of women had been responsive to the marketing. “Oh well,” she remarked, “I guess it’s more important to have more men in church anyway.” WHY? I thought. At the time, I believed this outreaching to be a matter of life and death, the choice between Heaven and Hell. Why was she so flippant about the lack of women going to Heaven? I asked my stepfather on our way home, and while I can’t remember his words, I remember the sentiment, “Men are more important.”

The church would often hold male-only events. Once a month, a men’s night was held to which women were openly not welcome and the running joke was that when wives asked their husbands what had been done that night, the answer was “Nothing interesting.” Over quarantine, these events were held online. Before beginning the message, the preacher made an announcement to ensure that women weren’t watching. Upon checking the statistics after the video was posted, he remarked that 2-3% of viewers were women (shock horror), to which one woman blushed and admitted it was her who had sat in on the secret men’s business. When I enquired as to why women couldn’t sit in on these talks and seminars, the preacher replied with “Aww, probably 1 out of 100 meetings would just not be appropriate for women.” Women, on the other hand, were afforded few womens-only meetings a year, and these were not periodically scheduled, but individually organised events for specific purposes. During high school, when I wanted to organise more events for women, I was told that I would be organising it myself and when I wanted to know why women didn’t have the same access to events, I was met with 2 answers, “They don’t need it” or “They’re too busy for it, with kids and stuff.”

Pastors would preach on Mother’s Day about the hope single mothers have in finding a husband. “It’s not too late for you!” they’d claim as they point out other women in the crowd who found themselves in similar positions and got married to men who accepted their kids, my mother included. These men were dashing heroes, portrayed as Josephs, champions of faith and family.

Feminists were sidelined along with witches and gays. They were dangerous, heathens, and spiteful. Why would you want to be bitter when you could sit happily in submission to the man that a male god chose for you. God told him he had to love you – aren’t you happy with that?

When I asked some of the men in church why and how women came to be in these positions, I was met with notions of God’s plan and the importance of different roles. But when I asked women, the resounding response was that we are too emotional, and we should trust men more than we do ourselves.

Since leaving the church, my mindset and attitude towards other women and being a woman has changed more than I could have anticipated, and at times with shocking force. As I moved away from religion and leaned into questions I had been asking for years, I found myself being ripped from a place where I didn’t expect answers and sat in tepid waters of mediocrity, soundproofing my life from possibilities outside of what was known. It was dangerously comfortable, and hard to escape. My experience as a woman in the past is nobody’s fault. It is not the fault of ignorant men, nor of ignorant women. But my salvation can be accredited to men and women who encouraged my questions and helped me find answers to the best of their ability. “What am I doing here?” I bristled at my Pastor’s wife a few years ago. “There’s no need to be nasty,” she retorted. Well actually, there is, because being nasty gets shit done.

DIVING OFF THE FERTILITY CLIFF

What is common knowledge about fertility now?

If you have a uterus, you’ve probably heard of the fertility cliff. Maybe it went by another name, or perhaps it was never named, but we hear the facts behind it echoed repeatedly. From the moment we hit adulthood, through to our late thirties, women are constantly bombarded with pressure and messaging about motherhood. We all know about the biological clock and have had it ticking since our first periods. Women over the age of thirty-five are geriatric pregnancies, and once you hit forty, it’s game over. The idea of the fertility cliff is that after you hit thirty-five, your fertility rapidly drops off and the window to have children shrinks with it. Not only does it become difficult to get pregnant, but the chance of having chromosomally abnormal children is sky-high. Not only is this the common knowledge we have now, but it’s the approach that is still often pushed by doctors as well as our friends and families. While all these people undoubtedly mean well, the lack of transparency about where fertility data comes from means we should not accept it uncritically. Where did we get this data?

Where do we get statistics like “one in three women over the age of thirty-five will not get pregnant within a year of trying?” It would be perfectly reasonable to assume these facts, as widespread and accepted as they are, originate from well-researched peer-reviewed studies and reflect the health outcomes of modern women. The mainstream perspective of the fertility cliff has surprising origins: Church birth records from an eighteenth century French village. Researchers put together birth data from a French town and saw notable declines in childbirth after a woman reached her forties. Because it was the seventeen hundreds, and healthcare was of a lower standard, women often tried to avoid having children after forty; it was risky enough when they were younger. Because of the immense changes in healthcare and a reduction in maternal mortality rates since this data was recorded, we should not view these statistics as applicable to us now.

*Oprah voice* “So what is the truth?”

The idea that thirty-five explicitly is “the cliff” stems from old medical guidelines on when invasive medical testing for chromosomal abnormalities was least risky for pregnant people. Doctors recommend women under thirty-five get ultrasounds and blood tests as their children are at a lower risk. The recommended practices for women over thirty-five include amniocentesis and are far more invasive and carry an increased minor risk of causing miscarriages. Thirty-five was chosen as the cut off for this testing because that was when the risk of miscarriage equalled the risk of having a child with chromosomal abnormalities such as down-syndrome. This rule relied on the assumption that women would view miscarriages and chromosomal abnormalities as equal risks; this is obviously an insane assumption to make and rooted in deeply complex ideas. These outdated guidelines were updated in 2006 to reflect a modern understanding of fertility, but the impact of these ideas have shaped how our society views women and motherhood. A paper by David Dunson published in 2004 found that 82% of women aged between 35 and 39 fell pregnant within a year of trying. This paper is widely regarded as one of the best articles on the topic. From up to date evidence (ya’ know the stuff that isn’t 300 years old) it is clear that fertility declines as women age but this occurs far more gradually than women have believed. Fertility remains high in the mid-thirties, and while it declines during the late thirties, fertility is still relatively high. There is a notable increase in the risk of chromosomal abnormalities for women over thirty-seven, but even this is often overstated, remaining at under 4% of births. Ultimately women’s fertility changes depending on the woman involved. Some women will continue to have children with no problem once they turn forty, other women will need IVF treatments in their thirties. Data showing fertility cliffs is based on averages, and this means that some people fall on different sides of the spectrum. Every person has a different body, and this means we all have different health outcomes including when it comes to fertility. Appealing to women’s deepest insecurities

As with any expectation, the pressure to have children intensifies when there’s a time limit attached. By perpetuating the idea that not only will all women have children, but they need to have them by thirty-five, we have created a culture where not being able to have children is often a woman’s most profound insecurity. We have created a culture where some women will have children before they feel prepared because they believe that their time is running out. To take advantage of female health concerns to make a profit is cruel and disingenuous.

The Australian fertility industry is worth over five hundred million dollars per year and its major players are Monash IVF, Genea and Virtus Health. Monash IVF claim women over thirty have a 20% chance of pregnancy, while women over forty have a 5% chance, Genea and Virtus health both push similar narratives. SBS reached out to these companies, asking them where they sourced these facts from, and none of them were able to give them studies which would prove what they were stating. In fact, Genea provided a study from the 1950s they claimed supported them, but those findings were inconsistent with what Genea had presented. In fact, not only is this particular study outdated, but it represents a small group of two hundred women from an obscure religious community who don’t believe in contraception. This lack of transparency should concern us all. If the fertility cliff was as harsh and real as we have been led to believe, then we would expect copious amounts of research to support it. There is nothing wrong with IVF or seeking medical assistance to become pregnant, and for many people, these are necessary processes. However, people should only consent to these treatments when they are fully informed about their fertility.

by Eleanor Taylor