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My Father:
The Feminist Who Raised Me

By Sophie L. Gibson
Founder & CEO, VIVO360, Inc. (VIVO)

People often ask me where my feminism comes from. Many expect me to say books, the women’s movement, or the era I grew up in. Some assume it must have come from my mother—and to be fair, my mum is a strong woman who has always carried her own. But the truth is simpler than that. My feminism began long before I even knew the word. The first feminist I ever knew was my father.

My father was born in a small town in St. Mary, Jamaica in 1926 surrounded by mountains, banana trees, and dirt roads. He grew up in a world where men were expected to lead, and women were expected to follow. Colonial structures were still shaping society, and traditional gender roles were rarely questioned. And yet somehow, in the middle of all that, my father became a feminist. Not the kind who used the word. The kind who lived it.

Growing up, our home was filled with books. They were everywhere—on tables, chairs, the floor, even in the bathroom. My father read constantly and about everything: history, philosophy, medicine, religion, world events. But what mattered most was that he never treated knowledge as something reserved for adults. He treated me and my four sisters as thinking people whose ideas mattered.
My father never had sons, but he never behaved as if he was missing something. Instead, he raised five daughters to think, question, and engage with the world. From the time I was a child, we talked about everything—astronomy, politics, religion, architecture, history. Nothing was off limits. He encouraged curiosity and welcomed questions, even the uncomfortable ones. While many children were taught to accept things as they were, my father taught us to ask why.
That mattered deeply to me. One day, at church confirmation classes when I was about twelve, I asked too many questions. Why were there only twelve disciples? Why were they all men? Why was Jesus portrayed as blond and blue-eyed if he came from the Middle East? Eventually the priest told my parents I shouldn’t return to the class because I wasn’t “ready.” In other words, I asked too many questions. My mother was upset, but I could see that my father was quietly proud.

That moment shaped me. Leadership begins the moment you refuse to accept answers that don’t make sense. My father didn’t shut me down. Instead, he gave me books and context. He explained how history, religion, and power are often shaped by the people who write the story. He taught me how to think for myself and make my own decisions, and that is one of the greatest gifts a parent—or a leader—can give.

What also made my father extraordinary was how he treated women. Before he married my mother in 1958, he asked her if she wanted to keep her own last name. Think about that for a moment—a Jamaican man born in 1926 asking his fiancée if she wanted to keep her name.

He wasn’t trying to make a statement. There was no movement behind it, no applause to be earned. He simply believed that women were equal partners in life. And he believed that long before he knew he would be the father of five daughters and no sons.

In our home, respect for women wasn’t something we talked about as an idea. It was simply the way things were.

He also taught me that leadership doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes it is quiet courage.

One night when I was about nine years old, someone tried to break into our home. The man had a gun. Realizing what was happening, my father positioned himself behind the door and waited. He had no weapon, but he knew he had to do whatever it took to protect his family.

When the door opened and the man came face to face with him, my father didn’t panic. He stayed calm. He spoke to the man respectfully. Something about that composure caught the intruder off guard—and he fled.

That night taught me a lesson I have carried with me ever since: strength isn’t always about force. Sometimes it’s composure. Sometimes it’s wisdom. Sometimes it’s knowing how to diffuse danger rather than escalate it.
And sometimes leadership looks much simpler than we imagine.

When I was a little girl, I was afraid of the dark. My father stayed up late most nights reading at the dining table. The light from that room would shine under my bedroom door until two in the morning, and that thin line of light made me feel safe because I knew he was there.

Looking back, I realize leadership often looks exactly like that. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just a steady presence that gives the people around you the confidence and safety to grow.

My father never called himself a feminist, but he raised daughters who believed we could question authority, pursue education, challenge injustice, and define our own paths. He believed the world should be fair. He believed women were powerful. And he believed his daughters had a place in that world.

Many of the leadership principles that guide me today started with him—my courage to ask questions, my refusal to accept limitations placed on women, and my belief that leadership must always be rooted in integrity and fairness.

In many ways, it all began with a quiet man sitting at a table late at night reading books while a thin line of light shone under my bedroom door. That was my first lesson in leadership—and my first feminist teacher was my father.

An Invitation

At VIVO, we are building more than an agency. We are building a model for how creativity, technology, and purpose can coexist without compromise.
If you are:
  • A client seeking a partner who understands culture as deeply as strategy
  • An institution committed to communicating with integrity
  • A nonprofit or university looking for alignment, not performance
  • A talented professional who wants to do work with meaning and consequence
Consider this an invitation.
We are always open to partnerships rooted in trust, collaborations grounded in shared values, and talent motivated by impact—not ego.
Because the future belongs to leaders—and organizations—willing to lead with consequence.
Get in Touch - sophie@vivo360inc.com