Joe's Turn 3: The Women Who Made Me

With my birthday approaching on March 8, Peter has once again handed me the keys to Vertes’Verities for my annual guest appearance. 

This year, instead of making fun of Peter, which remains extremely easy, I’m exploring how I have spent my life surrounded by women.

I grew up with five older sisters. Five. I learned early that democracy does not work when you are consistently outnumbered. One of my oldest sisters once said we were more like “cousins,” which felt about right given the age gap and emotional distance.

EARLY IMMERSION

Family road trips were my introduction to hierarchy. On long drives to Florida, my sisters claimed the entire back seat because they were “car sick,” leaving me wedged between my parents in the front seat for fifteen hours at a stretch.

At home, bathroom use followed a similar pattern. We had two, but one was clearly premium real estate reserved for my sisters, while I used what could best be described as the auxiliary facility.

Inclusion in my sisters’ activities was rare but deeply appreciated. I often played a minor role in games I didn’t understand.

One of my sisters, Janice, has always been my favorite. She was my partner in crime and has gotten me into trouble since I was a little kid. At the same time, she has always been like a second mother to me and, even as a child, has given me better advice than most adults I have known.

As I got older, my responsibilities expanded. Somewhere between getting my driver’s license and graduating from high school, I became the household logistics department, ironing clothes, washing cars, and running errands whenever someone said, “Joe, can you just…?”

And long before I understood why, I was regularly sent to pharmacies to buy items I was assured were “important.”

Outnumbered then, outnumbered now

The standing household rule was simple: stay out of the way when the drama began. Drama was less an event than a climate.

One sister believed that blowing across my eyelids would help me sleep as a baby. Another cruelly informed me that Santa Claus did not exist and suggested I throw my letter away to save everyone time. Years later, a couple of them tried to make it up to me by giving me a shoe-shine kit and toenail clippers for Christmas. I was thirteen.

ENTER THE NUNS

I was educated at a parochial school, where discipline and spirituality went hand in hand.

Our principal, Sr. Mary St. Jane, ruled with legendary authority and a strap that made frequent appearances. Her daily reminders were:

“Waste not, want not.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”
“God is watching - and so am I.”

Silence was holy, except when a nun spoke.

In first grade, I accidentally dropped a fork into the trash and, unable to reach it, tearfully confessed to Sr. Mary St. Jane, convinced I had committed a mortal sin. Instead of using the "strap" she was so fond of, she hugged me, leaving me even more confused about the workings of the female mind. 

A VERY BAD BOSS

After college, I worked for a faith-based organization run by nuns in Cleveland. Having been shaped by strong women my entire life, I assumed I understood women-led workplaces.

Then I met a boss unlike any I had known before.

You could predict the tone of the day by how hard her shoes hit the floor as she walked into the office. A light step meant there was hope. A heavy pound meant to brace yourself.

Guidance was minimal, expectations were enormous, and my accomplishments were credited to her in public updates.

Meetings ranged from confusing to theatrical. Papers were once thrown across the room, and I was asked whether I was “playing God” with the numbers.

Another time, she introduced me as her “slave,” which remains one of the more unusual professional introductions I have received in my career.

A sartorial nincompoop, she wore a clownish red polka-dot dress with a plastic white belt at least once a week every summer.

She often boasted that she herself was “a gift to the sisters” every time she stepped off the elevator.

Meals with her were equally distinctive. Whether we were in a hospital cafeteria or a five-star restaurant, napkins were apparently optional. Instead, she would methodically lick each finger clean, one at a time, producing a small but unmistakable smacking sound as each finger exited her mouth.

After nearly twenty years, I realized something important: leadership and ego are not the same. It also took me nearly that long to admit that staying that long was a choice.

Ironically, just as she began grooming me to succeed her, I began asking myself what I actually wanted.

The answer was simple.

I wanted to build something of my own.

IMMERSED ONCE AGAIN

Today's dream team

That decision eventually led me to open a boutique indoor-cycling studio, CycleBar Beachwood, where I am once again surrounded by women.

This time feels different.

The women I work with lead with encouragement rather than fear and with collaboration rather than control. They support and challenge each other, and show up every day ready to lift people up, sometimes on a bike, often far beyond it.

After a lifetime of sisters, nuns, teachers, coworkers, and hard lessons, I finally understand the difference. Along the way, I also gained a sister-in-law, Missy, who quickly earned honorary sister status and has been a steady source of support and perspective ever since. The best environments are defined not by authority but by how people make one another better.

As I celebrate another birthday and hand the blog keys back to Peter, I’m grateful for the sisters who toughened me, the nuns who disciplined me, the hard-earned lessons, and the incredible women I’m lucky to work alongside today.

Growing up surrounded by women didn’t just shape my life.

It prepared me for it.

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