Master of camouflage

I am a woman and I am a master of camouflage.

Like many of us, I learned camouflage to protect myself from the dangers of being seen.

Camouflaged

I mean this in the most physical and social of senses. I spent my childhood and teen years exploring ‘the bush’—that dry expanse of dense scrubby Australian flora and fauna that clings to life for six months a year without rain. It is filled with animals that can kill you but fade away from your deadly human footprint.

I learned to be still with the bush and to become it. When you become the bush, it can not hurt you, and you can see everything.

The realisation came recently - a smack across the face - that I have done the same in adulthood. I have camouflaged myself because I fear being seen.

I have avoided LinkedIn because sharing my voice would strip away the camouflage I have carefully cultivated. Instagram feels wildly unsafe, and I post on Facebook only enough to be minimally visible.

I didn’t used to be afraid.

I grew up with strength and certainty. I wanted to be an Air Force pilot. No, I was a Air Force pilot, long before I sat for selection. I wasn’t afraid to tell everyone about my dreams because I never doubted that I would succeed; such was my drive and determination.

When the time came, I blitzed my officer selection board, the culmination of the day of leadership activities that followed the 2 weeks of flight screening flying training.

The ‘Board’ was legendary, a gruelling few hours where three highly qualified senior leaders grilled you on various topics and character competencies.

Before I went before the Board someone gave me the following advice;

 “you might as well enjoy yourself in there. There will probably not be another opportunity in your life where three people will be so interested in hearing you talk all about yourself!”

I was amused by this concept and strolled into my interview with curiosity and all the confidence of knowing that I was enough.

My Officer Board finished with smiles from all the assessors.

“Congratulations, Miss Beatty. You aced the leadership day and the interview. You can expect a letter of offer for pilot training—you are at the top of the selection pool. Just one thing: We recommend you learn to fade into the wallpaper a little bit, just be a little bit less. Everything.”

“Excuse me?”

I stumbled on my words. My mind was racing. I just aced everything; I brought smiles to the Board, and they enjoyed my confidence and humour. Why do I need to blend into the wallpaper?

“I just think if you blend into the background a little, you might find the path through the Defence Academy and pilot training a little easier.”

‘Ohh…” I said, “Thank you for the advice”. But in my head, I laughed. Why would someone who just aced the selection choose to be a smaller version of herself at the very training she just aced selection for?

Blending into the wallpaper

With a 15-year military flying career behind me, I now realise that the senior officer was a kind man with genuine concern for my safety.

Not the kind of physical safety that soldiers face in battle, the kind of safety that erodes you slowly, corroding confidence and certainty over time, subtle but toxic comments, ‘can’t you take a joke?’ jokes, incessant low-grade sexual harassment, the kind that is never-big-enough to report but as a volume, a daily act, a culture, it is a weight that over time, twists your bones and bends your soul.

I became smaller and less visible to avoid triggering the egos that lashed out to re-ascertain the imagined supremacy that my presence challenged.

• How do you put a woman beneath you? Easy - put her under one of your mates: call her a slut and spread rumours about who she is sleeping with.

• How do you put a woman beneath you? Call her a lesbian or an ice queen because if she’s not sleeping with you, then she must be frigid or into women.

• How do you put a woman beneath you? Complain to the boys that this should ‘just be a boys' event’ and exclude her from the peer group.

I learned to filter and moderate all the forms of my communication.

• I hunched my shoulders to conceal my chest.

• I deepened my voice when speaking in pilot circles.

• I carefully chose words so they were palatable to those hearing them.

• I expressed my opinion only enough to press on the limits of acceptable protest….gently.

If you want to pass the pilots’ course, if you want to succeed at the squadron, if you want your captaincy, if you want to be a good instructor, be enough, but never too much.

Be confident, but never arrogant.

Be a leader, but never bossy.

Demand to be heard, but only on culturally acceptable topics.

And never be seen to complain, no matter your experience.

I learned to camouflage. It was my protection.

Choking on My Voice

Several years, two children, and a beautiful community a world away from the military pilot’s life, I am often asked, ‘Do you miss it’? And I have become aware that my throat constricts and thickness lodges in my voicebox as I reply,

“Yes. Yes, I miss the flying, but I do not miss the rest.”

This year, I have realised the thickness in my throat is ’the rest’, and it is My Voice, the one that I willingly suppressed as the price of my success.

Not anymore. In 2025, I will practice using my whole authentic voice.

As I learn to articulate what I have silenced, I’m sure I will stumble forward and then retreat in fear. I will coarsely articulate the wisdom my rich life experience has gifted and then hide in the shame of a vulnerability hangover.

I wonder… how many of us are living this experience?

How many of us share only a partial truth, the version of ourselves we believe that the world will find acceptable?

How many of us have become the bush - seeing everything but not being seen? 

Camouflaged.

I’d love to hear about your experiences.