Community & Culture
![Lauren Fleshman - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_lauren_fleshman.jpg)
Good for a Girl: A Woman Running in a Man's World
Fueled by her years as an elite runner and advocate for women in sports, Lauren Fleshman offers her inspiring personal story and a rallying cry for reform of a sports landscape that is failing young female athletes
"Women's sports have needed a manifesto for a very long time, and with Lauren Fleshman's Good for a Girl we finally have one." -Malcolm Gladwell, author of Outliers and David and Goliath
"Good for a Girl is simultaneously a moving memoir and a call to action in how we think about-and train-girls and women in elite sports. It's a must-read-for anyone who loves running, for anyone who has a daughter, and for anyone who cares about creating a better future for young women." -Emily Oster, author of Expecting Better, Cribsheet, and The Family Firm
Lauren Fleshman has grown up in the world of running. One of the most decorated collegiate athletes of all time and a national champion as a pro, she was a major face of women's running for Nike before leaving to shake up the industry with feminist running brand Oiselle and now coaches elite young female runners. Every step of the way, she has seen the way that our sports systems-originally designed by men, for men and boys-fail young women and girls as much as empower them. Girls drop out of sports at alarming rates once they hit puberty, and female collegiate athletes routinely fall victim to injury, eating disorders, or mental health struggles as they try to force their way past a natural dip in performance for women of their age.
Part memoir, part manifesto, Good for a Girl is Fleshman's story of falling in love with running as a girl, being pushed to her limits and succumbing to devastating injuries, and daring to fight for a better way for female athletes. Long gone are the days when women and girls felt lucky just to participate; Fleshman and women everywhere are waking up to the reality that they're running, playing, and competing in a world that wasn't made for them. Drawing on not only her own story but also emerging research on the physiology and psychology of young athletes, of any gender, Fleshman gives voice to the often-silent experience of the female athlete and argues that the time has come to rebuild our systems of competitive sport with women at their center.
Written with heart and verve, Good for a Girl is a joyful love letter to the running life, a raw personal narrative of growth and change, and a vital call to reimagine sports for young women.
"Women's sports have needed a manifesto for a very long time, and with Lauren Fleshman's Good for a Girl we finally have one." -Malcolm Gladwell, author of Outliers and David and Goliath
"Good for a Girl is simultaneously a moving memoir and a call to action in how we think about-and train-girls and women in elite sports. It's a must-read-for anyone who loves running, for anyone who has a daughter, and for anyone who cares about creating a better future for young women." -Emily Oster, author of Expecting Better, Cribsheet, and The Family Firm
Lauren Fleshman has grown up in the world of running. One of the most decorated collegiate athletes of all time and a national champion as a pro, she was a major face of women's running for Nike before leaving to shake up the industry with feminist running brand Oiselle and now coaches elite young female runners. Every step of the way, she has seen the way that our sports systems-originally designed by men, for men and boys-fail young women and girls as much as empower them. Girls drop out of sports at alarming rates once they hit puberty, and female collegiate athletes routinely fall victim to injury, eating disorders, or mental health struggles as they try to force their way past a natural dip in performance for women of their age.
Part memoir, part manifesto, Good for a Girl is Fleshman's story of falling in love with running as a girl, being pushed to her limits and succumbing to devastating injuries, and daring to fight for a better way for female athletes. Long gone are the days when women and girls felt lucky just to participate; Fleshman and women everywhere are waking up to the reality that they're running, playing, and competing in a world that wasn't made for them. Drawing on not only her own story but also emerging research on the physiology and psychology of young athletes, of any gender, Fleshman gives voice to the often-silent experience of the female athlete and argues that the time has come to rebuild our systems of competitive sport with women at their center.
Written with heart and verve, Good for a Girl is a joyful love letter to the running life, a raw personal narrative of growth and change, and a vital call to reimagine sports for young women.
Editorial Reviews
"Part memoir, part critique of a sports system built around a man's body, Fleshman offers a searingly candid look at her own victimhood and complicity, interlaced with compelling data and concrete ideas on how we can change this environment . . . Fleshman is an undeniably masterful storyteller, owning her own complicity in the system while holding others accountable, in a loving and nuanced way." -Women's Running
"A moving coming-of-age memoir . . . The fast-paced, smoothly written narrative will resonate with student-athletes and is highly recommended for everyone involved with female athletes, from coaches to parents. Fleshman is a role model unafraid to share her vulnerability and advocate for gender equality." -Booklist (starred review)
"Good for a Girl is simultaneously a moving memoir and a call to action in how we think about-and train-girls and women in elite sports. It's a must-read-for anyone who loves running, for anyone who has a daughter, and for anyone who cares about creating a better future for young women." -Emily Oster, author of Expecting Better, Cribsheet, and The Family Firm
"If someone held a gun to my head and said ‘Run,' I'd say, ‘Nah, just shoot me.' And yet I could not put down Lauren Fleshman's thoughtful, elegant memoir: a necessary look at what women endure and deserve from the sports they devote their lives to." -Ariel Levy, author ofThe Rules Do Not Apply
"Good for a Girl is much more than a great running memoir. It's a remarkably candid tale of self-doubt and self-belief; of entrepreneurship, family, money, competition, and-importantly-female physiology. (Turns out women are not just smaller men!) It's an important book that also happens to be a page-turner." -David Epstein, bestselling author of Range and The Sports Gene
"Women's sports have needed a manifesto for a very long tim...
"A moving coming-of-age memoir . . . The fast-paced, smoothly written narrative will resonate with student-athletes and is highly recommended for everyone involved with female athletes, from coaches to parents. Fleshman is a role model unafraid to share her vulnerability and advocate for gender equality." -Booklist (starred review)
"Good for a Girl is simultaneously a moving memoir and a call to action in how we think about-and train-girls and women in elite sports. It's a must-read-for anyone who loves running, for anyone who has a daughter, and for anyone who cares about creating a better future for young women." -Emily Oster, author of Expecting Better, Cribsheet, and The Family Firm
"If someone held a gun to my head and said ‘Run,' I'd say, ‘Nah, just shoot me.' And yet I could not put down Lauren Fleshman's thoughtful, elegant memoir: a necessary look at what women endure and deserve from the sports they devote their lives to." -Ariel Levy, author ofThe Rules Do Not Apply
"Good for a Girl is much more than a great running memoir. It's a remarkably candid tale of self-doubt and self-belief; of entrepreneurship, family, money, competition, and-importantly-female physiology. (Turns out women are not just smaller men!) It's an important book that also happens to be a page-turner." -David Epstein, bestselling author of Range and The Sports Gene
"Women's sports have needed a manifesto for a very long tim...
Readers Top Reviews
LPam K
Impossible to put down, I read this entire book in less than two days. Lauren Fleshman’s personal story is extremely well written and fast-paced, a fascinating window into the life of a talented athlete who is surrounded by people who mean well but don’t know how to actually support an athlete who isn’t male. The science (and infuriating lack thereof) is so interesting, I can’t understand why everyone isn’t talking about this all the time. This book feels like a critical first step in creating a more just system of sports. Above all, it’s a great read.
S
Excellent book!! Thank you, Lauren Fleshman, for writing this!!
Lyndy Davis
I wish I had this book before going to college becasue it would have helped me navigate hurdles. The author, Lauren, is a fabulous writer and helps people see through a different lens. Highly recommend. For Coaches, Athletes, Girls, Women, Parents - a must read to empower people to love their bodies and believe in themselves.
Madison O
I loved this book! Lauren is so insightful. I would recommend this for parents who’s children play sports as well as all coaches and athletic directors.
Jodie A. Hoffman
Lauren Fleshman’s new book, “Good for a Girl,” arrived in my mailbox yesterday and I can’t put it down. So much wisdom weaved into this call for action. This book is deeply engaging as she gets real by sharing her compelling story of growing up in my hometown in the 90s and beyond while challenging my hidden stereotypes about "winners". A must read for female athletes and everyone who works with, knows, and/or loves them. Lauren, thank you for writing "with heart".
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
The Promise
You can do ANYTHING, Lauren. ANYTHING!"
My dad's calloused hands gripped my shoulders and his ice-blue eyes forced mine open wider with their intensity. "You hear me?!" I tried not to blink. I was eight.
"They're just scared of you. They know you can beat them. They don't want to lose to a girl, but too fucking BAD! You go back and tell 'em you're playing, and if they give you shit, you kick them RIGHT in the balls, and drag them down here by the ear, and I'll take care of the rest." He dusted his hands together like he was about to take care of business, and added a conspiratorial wink. It was the right mix of empowering and absurd, loosening the knot in my throat and making me smile, just as he intended.
Frank Fleshman seemed to speak in all caps. He didn't turn the dial down on his personality, or language, or anything really, for someone else's comfort. He was the kind of dad who wanted sons, but he got two daughters and refused to adjust his parenting plan.
"Jesus, Frank!" my mom would reply in these situations, followed by a gentle plea for peaceful resolution. But Joyce's shy kindness had a hard time being heard over the boom of Frank's charisma or the apparent simplicity of his solutions. So I kicked the neighborhood boys in the balls. And then they let me play.
My world was different from my mom's in a million ways, but the one made apparent to me first was the central role of sports. The first women's NCAA championships in track and field were held in 1981, three months before I was born. Technically, my mom's time in high school overlapped with the passing of Title IX, but its promise of equal access for women and girls in sports took time to materialize.
In 1971, the year before Title IX was passed, fewer than 300,000 girls played high school sports-compared to 3.6 million boys-and my mom never met one. She did love playing ping-pong in PE class, and she had a deadly curve, according to my dad, whom she started dating in middle school. I saw it in action a couple of times at Super Bowl parties, but she was oddly shy about it, rarely playing a full game. She didn't seem to know how to claim athletic movement as her own.
My mom would have been good at sports. Dad, too, for that matter. He was too busy getting in fights and smoking weed in high school. But I could tell Dad was athletic because he worked manual labor building sets as a propmaker and I saw him move his body powerfully all the time. My mom's body was directed to household tasks with a side of gardening, until the one time I convinced her to go for a run with me in high school. As she popped powerfully off her midfoot and lifted her knees, I almost gasped. I recognized her distinct stride as my own. Running is hard, and with no base fitness, she couldn't run for longer than a couple minutes. But I never looked at her body the same way again. Like millions of women, she carried a treasure chest of undiscovered athletic potential.
My mom's world and mine were still different, even living under the same roof. While the girl power revolution of the 1990s was swirling all around, telling girls we could have it all if we worked hard, my mom's daily reality was frozen in the 1950s. In our home, Dad got the best chair, the first serving, and the last word. He told his daughters not to take shit from anyone, then turned around and treated my mom to large helpings of his own. He represented a kind of power hypothetically available to my sister, Lindsay, and me, but not to my mom.
It would have been confusing regardless, but his alcohol abuse created a terrifying gulf between what he said and how he behaved. Every single night, we had family dinner together around the table, cooked by my mom. Most nights were fine, great even-full of compliments to the chef, questions about our day at school, and entertaining stories about the cast and crew of whatever his latest movie set was. But the possibility of an explosion always lurked, especially when he had been laid off, which happened frequently in the entertainment industry. If the Bud Light hit just right on the wrong day, he could singe any one of us to a crisp with a bolt of lightning.
Outside of the occasional spanking or head flick, I only have one memory of physical violence, when he ripped me out of my dining chair by the armpit while I was mid-bite and threw me across the living room for eating my spaghetti "like a fucking pig." I landed on my side on the sofa, still holding my fork, and curled into a ball in the far corner. My arm socket throbbing, I watched him puff up like a silverback gorilla while my mom screamed at him to stop. I watched as she laid down the only ultimatum he ever took seriously, one delivered with...
The Promise
You can do ANYTHING, Lauren. ANYTHING!"
My dad's calloused hands gripped my shoulders and his ice-blue eyes forced mine open wider with their intensity. "You hear me?!" I tried not to blink. I was eight.
"They're just scared of you. They know you can beat them. They don't want to lose to a girl, but too fucking BAD! You go back and tell 'em you're playing, and if they give you shit, you kick them RIGHT in the balls, and drag them down here by the ear, and I'll take care of the rest." He dusted his hands together like he was about to take care of business, and added a conspiratorial wink. It was the right mix of empowering and absurd, loosening the knot in my throat and making me smile, just as he intended.
Frank Fleshman seemed to speak in all caps. He didn't turn the dial down on his personality, or language, or anything really, for someone else's comfort. He was the kind of dad who wanted sons, but he got two daughters and refused to adjust his parenting plan.
"Jesus, Frank!" my mom would reply in these situations, followed by a gentle plea for peaceful resolution. But Joyce's shy kindness had a hard time being heard over the boom of Frank's charisma or the apparent simplicity of his solutions. So I kicked the neighborhood boys in the balls. And then they let me play.
My world was different from my mom's in a million ways, but the one made apparent to me first was the central role of sports. The first women's NCAA championships in track and field were held in 1981, three months before I was born. Technically, my mom's time in high school overlapped with the passing of Title IX, but its promise of equal access for women and girls in sports took time to materialize.
In 1971, the year before Title IX was passed, fewer than 300,000 girls played high school sports-compared to 3.6 million boys-and my mom never met one. She did love playing ping-pong in PE class, and she had a deadly curve, according to my dad, whom she started dating in middle school. I saw it in action a couple of times at Super Bowl parties, but she was oddly shy about it, rarely playing a full game. She didn't seem to know how to claim athletic movement as her own.
My mom would have been good at sports. Dad, too, for that matter. He was too busy getting in fights and smoking weed in high school. But I could tell Dad was athletic because he worked manual labor building sets as a propmaker and I saw him move his body powerfully all the time. My mom's body was directed to household tasks with a side of gardening, until the one time I convinced her to go for a run with me in high school. As she popped powerfully off her midfoot and lifted her knees, I almost gasped. I recognized her distinct stride as my own. Running is hard, and with no base fitness, she couldn't run for longer than a couple minutes. But I never looked at her body the same way again. Like millions of women, she carried a treasure chest of undiscovered athletic potential.
My mom's world and mine were still different, even living under the same roof. While the girl power revolution of the 1990s was swirling all around, telling girls we could have it all if we worked hard, my mom's daily reality was frozen in the 1950s. In our home, Dad got the best chair, the first serving, and the last word. He told his daughters not to take shit from anyone, then turned around and treated my mom to large helpings of his own. He represented a kind of power hypothetically available to my sister, Lindsay, and me, but not to my mom.
It would have been confusing regardless, but his alcohol abuse created a terrifying gulf between what he said and how he behaved. Every single night, we had family dinner together around the table, cooked by my mom. Most nights were fine, great even-full of compliments to the chef, questions about our day at school, and entertaining stories about the cast and crew of whatever his latest movie set was. But the possibility of an explosion always lurked, especially when he had been laid off, which happened frequently in the entertainment industry. If the Bud Light hit just right on the wrong day, he could singe any one of us to a crisp with a bolt of lightning.
Outside of the occasional spanking or head flick, I only have one memory of physical violence, when he ripped me out of my dining chair by the armpit while I was mid-bite and threw me across the living room for eating my spaghetti "like a fucking pig." I landed on my side on the sofa, still holding my fork, and curled into a ball in the far corner. My arm socket throbbing, I watched him puff up like a silverback gorilla while my mom screamed at him to stop. I watched as she laid down the only ultimatum he ever took seriously, one delivered with...
