In case you missed the avalanche of headlines, tweets and videos yesterday – Rachel Reeves cried.
She is the first female Chancellor in British history, and after a brutal election campaign, a year of scrutiny, and the weight of patching up a broken economy, emotion broke through as a result of a ‘personal issue’.
Sitting behind the Prime Minister, Reeves’ eyes welled up and, surrounded by political friend and foe alike, as well as the watching media, a tear rolled down her cheek.
Predictably, many couldn’t wait to declare her a disaster.
‘Unfit to lead a major economy,’ muttered some. ‘Not strong enough,’ said others. As if a single tear could somehow disqualify someone from political office.
But I think this event, and her record so far, has left Reeves better off, arguably in a stronger position, and hopefully ushering in a new, kinder, more courageous type of politics.
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Of course, Reeves isn’t the first.
Hillary Clinton, mid-way through the 2008 New Hampshire primary, teared up while answering a question about how hard her Presidential campaign had been. ‘It’s not easy,’ she said, as her voice cracked in a moment that sparked a tidal wave of opinion around the world.
Theresa May faced a similar fate. In her final days as Prime Minister, a premiership defined by impossible Brexit deadlocks, she stood on the steps of Downing Street and her voice broke, just briefly, as she said it had been the honour of her life to serve the country she loved.
Though I agreed with her on next to nothing, I still believed she was a leader who acted with integrity and a genuine sense of duty. And yet, the next day, every front page in the country carried the photos of a woman undone by emotion.
Even New Zealand’s Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern – widely admired at home and abroad – was met with online vitriol when she teared up in a farewell interview.
The list is endless.
Nicola Sturgeon, Scotland’s first female First Minister, likewise faced ridicule for her emotional resignation.
The double standard runs deep.
When male politicians cry, it’s read as emotional maturity, proof of feeling, even strength.
Tony Blair said he wept for victims of the Iraq War, while Gordon Brown teared up speaking about the loss of his daughter. Barack Obama cried publicly in response to school shootings. Each was praised for their sincerity.
With women, the frame flips. Male tears are sincere. Female tears are a story, a scandal.
If you’ve ever worked on a political campaign, or seen the toll of leadership up close, you’ll know, it’s not the people who cry who worry you. It’s the ones who don’t.
The ones who’ve built walls so high around their feelings that they can no longer recognise the stakes of what they’re doing. Leaders who feel nothing..
Yes, being Chancellor is a job that requires Reeves to be, in her own words, ‘iron’. But it also requires empathy.
Political leadership is defined by contradictions: being determined and compassionate, hard-headed and soft-hearted.
But we expect women in public life to go even further.
We want them to be tough, but not cold. Warm, but never weak. Confident, but not bossy. Driven, but not too ambitious. Break glass ceilings, but not at the expense of their male counterparts. They can be fun, but never caught partying.
Every expression, every outfit, every tear becomes a test that their male counterparts get to skip.
And for all the noise, the real story isn’t even the tear – it’s the record.
Despite the bumps, Reeves has been central to delivering some of the most tangible progress of Labour’s first year. As Keir Starmer said today ‘she has done an excellent job as chancellor – she and I work together and think together. We’re in lockstep.’
NHS waiting lists are falling faster than promised and childcare reforms are rolling out.
Breakfast clubs and free school meals are once again feeding our most vulnerable children.
Fine, it’s not flashy, and they won’t make viral headlines, but it’s good stuff and it matters.
Quietly, steadily and in the face of a barrage of abuse, Reeves is making good on Labour’s promises.
Granted, not without some mistakes, but Reeves has shown that she’s not just pretending to be Chancellor – she’s giving it everything. She doesn’t get to take the day off.
If anything, her tears should mark the start of a more honest kind of politics – one where strength isn’t defined by who shouts loudest, but by the courage to show you care, in and out of your job.
In a year where so much has gone wrong, it’s worth remembering who’s helped deliver some of what’s gone right. Maybe – just maybe – it’s not Rachel Reeves who needs to toughen up, it’s the rest of us who need to grow up.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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