Guidance arrived quietly and from an unexpected place.
My mother had a new live-in boyfriend, John Georges. He became my mentor—not through lectures or grand speeches, but through practical instruction and explanations. John helped me understand that I was developing into a woman and that there was strength, dignity, and confidence in that transition. I remember coming home one day from the beach in tears, convinced something was wrong with me—that I was becoming deformed. I had hips. Real hips. I was terrified.
John laughed so hard he nearly fell over. He told me to show him this “deformity,” and when I did, he smiled and explained that nothing was wrong with me at all. I wasn’t broken. I was growing into my body. Into myself. Into a woman.
He believed in women. Truly believed in them. He believed women could be strong, poised, and self-assured without losing their femininity. I only wish his influence in my life had lasted longer. It was brief—about four years—but it mattered deeply.
John taught me how to value men and how to relate to them with ease and respect. He encouraged admiration rather than fear or confusion. He also protected me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. At work, he made sure men didn’t sexually harass me—something I didn’t even realize was happening or could happen. Looking back, I see how much he was watching out for me when I couldn’t yet watch out for myself
One of his lessons was unforgettable. He placed a book on my head and made me walk from room to room until I could do it smoothly, with balance and grace. Over and over again. It transformed me—from a full-on tomboy into a more feminine young woman. I learned posture, presence, and how to carry myself in the world. That simple exercise changed how I moved—and how I was seen.
At the same time, I found guidance in unexpected places. Cosmopolitan magazine helped me build self-esteem and taught me how to dress in a way that attracted men’s attention. Later, I read Fascinating Womanhood, which offered moral and spiritual support as I tried to understand relationships, femininity, and my place in the world.
This guidance helped me talk to men more easily. It helped me feel more comfortable growing up and becoming a lady. What it didn’t teach me was how to choose a man—or how to truly be with one. I was still naive. Very naive.
Much later in life, in my fifties, I learned that I am autistic. That knowledge finally explained why social graces had always felt like a foreign language to me, especially in groups. It explained why I struggled to read cues that seemed effortless for others.
Once I understood this, I began paying closer attention to how people interacted with one another—how they spoke, how they stood, how they connected in groups. I was still learning. Still studying. Still trying to understand the invisible rules everyone else seemed to know.
John didn’t give me everything I needed. No mentor ever does.
But he gave me something essential: permission to become a woman with confidence, dignity, and presence.
And for where I was at that moment in my life, that guidance changed everything.
Well—not everything.
To my surprise, I was told I was mean.
I didn’t understand.
Mean?
