For no one else

"And in her eyes you see nothing
No sign of love behind her tears
Cried for no one
A love that should have lasted years"

For no one (Lennon/McCartney)

A single occurrence in a woman's life may be enough to lead to a profound re-evaluation of her behaviour.

She may have thought she has always put her career first. After all, that has forever been the rehearsed speech poured into unsuspecting ears along the way. How true was it?

It wasn't entirely a lie. Working hard for a career entails preparing, exercising competence, prioritising. Ah, priorities. One can lose sight of them so easily.

This may sound repetitive, but I have always thought of myself as a feminist. Today, I believe the term is used lightly by little girls who have absolutely no idea of how shielded they are - or choose to be - from reality.

There are many ways in which a man can influence and control a woman's life. In most of my relationships I was in control of my life - I had never realised how submissive a woman can sometimes be when she falls in love.

Perhaps what just became clear to me was never a secret to many women. Easier said than done, I suppose. The rules were never a mystery to me. Putting them into practice, not such an easy task.

Today I understand that submission is not restricted to accepting domestic violence or having a man tell you how to live your life. Submission can manifest itself in subtle ways.

To think you may be losing an opportunity to be happy if you don't try your hardest can be a dangerous, humiliating game.

For the duration of this game, priorities are twisted, lies ignored, chances given, but the result remains the same. Sheer humiliation. Loss of respect and an eventual, hopefully reparable, damage to the much cherished career.

A woman who allows that to happen once, perhaps twice, has made a mistake. However, if she doesn't change her ways, how can she act as such a ferocious defender of her own gender?

Yes, I am repeating what has been said by many feminists before. Women should not make themselves slaves of partially reciprocated love. They should not expect each and every man they get involved with to act in a decent manner. They should not submit to halfhearted efforts. They deserve better, but it only depends on them whether better is what they will get.

Things are definitely changing. Slowly, but surely. Career gets back on top. All efforts concentrated in making sure it stays there. Control is the order of the day.

What about all the women?

This is a picture of one of my fourth great grandmothers, taken some time in the late 1870s, just before she married my fourth great grandfather.

All I know about her is that she was called Porfiria Lemos Fartelinni da Fonseca, her husband was called Astolfo da Fonseca and her daughter, Laura, married one of my third great grandfathers on my mother's side, Carlos Stallone.

I have no idea where this picture was taken - probably a funfair on the beach. Her outfit is very sassy for a woman to wear in public back then - maybe she was an actress or artist of some sort, maybe she was not very reputable or perhaps the picture was taken at home.

To me this is just an example of how little I know about my female ancestors. Many tales of how great and interesting the lives of my male ancestors were have been passed down from generation to generation in my family, but very little was ever said about my women relatives.

I am always reminded of my fourth great grandfather Luigi Stallone, who was born in Naples, Italy, in 1802. He was a painter and a teacher at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Napoli. In 1843, he arrived in Brazil with the Emperor D. Pedro II's wife-to-be, Thereza Christina, his most famous painting student and, according to grandma, also his lover.

Luigi's few surviving paintings belong to museums and private collectors in Rio and Naples. My family is still in possession of gifts he received from the Empress, which some swear are proof of her fondness for him.

However, what is almost never mentioned is how difficult life was for Luigi when he decided to pursue his career as a portrait painter, as documented in Almanak Laemmert, one of the first publications launched in Brazil.

He never succeeded. One of his contemporaries, Nicolao Facchinetti, possibly a student of his and another of the Empress' teachers, was much more talented as a painter of Rio de Janeiro's landscapes and is considered one of the great names of 19th century Italian painting. Gonzaga Duque, a well-known critic at the time said Luigi's paintings were "awful" and "below mediocrity".

Luigi Stallone: self portrait

The family believes he retreated after that and possibly stopped painting. By 1849, he had met and married my fourth great grandmother, Maria Fortunata, of whom I know nothing about.

Luigi received an order of the Empire in 1872. In 1878 he died of typhoid fever, being survived by his three children - Luiz Manoel, Carlos (my third great grandfather) and Joao.

On my father's side, history belongs to military men. On his mother's side, the most famous character is my second great grandfather Bonifacio de Aragao Faria Rocha, a Portuguese scholar living in Bahia who was once national director of the Brazilian post office and owned land three times the size of the United Kingdom, given to his father by the Emperor.

Again, I know very little about the women. They raised their children, as it was expected of women back then - they were dutiful wives. My great grandmother Cecy Lydia D'Almeida Faria Rocha, however, was disowned by her brothers and sisters after moving out of Bahia to live in Rio de Janeiro with my great grandfather, Jose, as my grandmother once told me.

What I do know, however, is how amazing some of my great aunts were. Even the one who died just before I was born. Maria Helena Portilho was a writer and a poet. I grew up reading her children's books, which I loved so much. One of them, "Retalhinho Branco" was recommended by the UN in 1979 because it promoted racial equality. I never met her, but it is almost as if I have.

Her sister, Eponina, or Nina as she was known to her several nieces and nephews, was also a writer and dedicated her life after Maria Helena's death to publicise her work at schools in Rio, until she could not do it anymore due to ill health.

Aunt Nina was an inspiration. She was never married, but once told me how this "young man" proposed to her when she was in her 20s. The answer was no, of course. After all, she was "not interested". I have read many books because of her. Her love of literature astonished me from a very early age.

When I was a child, I used to show her things I had written, mainly poetry, and she would always tell me they were very good, probably to encourage me to keep writing. I will never forget how happy she was when I told her I had started a journalism course. Aunt Nina said I was going in the right direction and, as usual, she was right.

Someone I know, a promising young Brazilian poet, told me she decided to become a writer after Aunt Nina visited her school when she was five. That made me proud and happy.

Aunt Nina, a strong-willed, earnest woman who lived for her family and was much loved and admired, died in 2009, after suffering for many years from Parkinson's disease. I was in London when she died and could not attend her funeral. I miss her dearly. I will never forget her.

My grandmothers, great aunts, aunts, cousins - all women in my family today, especially my mother - are strong, passionate, hard-working, competent women. Some had difficult lives, some still have.

In 100 years, I hope we will have done and documented enough to be remembered by our second and third great granddaughters. In fact, I know we will.

I am Ophelia

"Fear it, Ophelia fear it, my dear sister,
And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire."

Laertes to Ophelia. Hamlet, act 1 scene 3

Every woman has loved and suffered and lost. Some women, more than others, carry the weight of failed relationships on their shoulders - not because they were relationships that failed, but because more often than not they were love that was lost.

Someone once asked me if I considered myself a feminist because I thought women were better than men. I remember giving an elaborate answer at the time, but not entirely believing it myself.

Women are women. Comparing genders because we happen to be carved out of the same wood is a shamelessly shallow exercise.

In my opinion, Ophelia, my favourite female Shakespearean character, is the embodiment of the pureness every woman carries in her heart.

A woman can have a solid, successful career built with hard work and competence. A woman can be the maker of her own destiny. She can make her own decisions, she can steer her own life as she thinks best and never need anyone to hold her hand along the way. We are all capable of that.

An independent woman can be a single mother who raises a child, sometimes two, three, all by herself. She can divorce because she is unhappy and never let her marital status be held against her.

A real woman can distinguish between thinking she needs help and knowing when she needs it.

The fact that women are cursed and blessed with the sweetness of Ophelia does not change their ability to succeed alone.

However, a woman's heart is a delicate emotional ecosystem which can trouble her whole life at the slightest sign of imbalance.

In Shakespeare's tragedy, Ophelia is courted by Hamlet - he believes he loves her. Hamlet, taken so violently by the urge to vindicate his father's death and his mother's and uncle's betrayal, makes Ophelia believe he has lost his mind.

At the height of his lunacy, he humiliates Ophelia by making sexual remarks and belittling her feelings for him. She cannot understand the sudden change. She cannot see beyond his madness. She loses her mind.

Men and women are different beings. Women are not dependent on nor are they better or worse than men. They are simply different. They should be allowed to be what they are.

Suffering for a lost love or for broken promises does not infer weakness. Suffering because one cannot understand what drives a sudden change of heart is what some women do. Because they feel. Because they are women. They are Ophelia.

Still, women achieve great things and those men who fail to understand we are entitled to be treated fairly and with respect in all spheres of life are likely to be the same ones capable of breaking a woman's delicate heart.

In Hamlet, Ophelia sadly commits suicide, unable to cope with his indifference and apparent disdain.

Every time a woman's heart is broken, she also dies a little inside. However, the fact that we carry on - we always carry on - is irrefutable evidence of how strong we are.