The first time someone told me I was “too pretty to weld,” I laughed it off.
It was during my first year at trade school. I was 23, fresh out of a short stint in community college, wearing steel-toe boots, a borrowed welding helmet, and more ambition than experience. The guy who said it was older—probably in his late 30s—and smirking like he’d just paid me the highest compliment.
“You don’t really look like the welding type,” he said. “Too pretty for that kind of work.”
I chuckled awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Back then, I hadn’t yet learned the language of boundaries. I mistook that kind of comment as harmless, even flattering. But it wasn’t.
My name is Jessica Monroe, and I’m a welder.
Not a “female welder.” Not a “cute girl who plays with fire.” Just a welder. A damn good one, too.
But in the years since I entered this field, I’ve realized that the issue isn’t just the backhanded compliments or outdated assumptions about gender and looks. It’s deeper than that. It’s the quiet disbelief that still lingers when I walk into a shop with my hair in a braid and my welding mask slung over my shoulder. It’s the way some people—especially men—look past me and wait for someone else to take charge, even when I am the one in charge.
You’d think we’d be past this in 2025. But you’d be surprised how many people still associate blue-collar grit with masculinity—and how often beauty is treated as a liability in male-dominated spaces.
Let me be clear: I didn’t become a welder to prove a point. I chose this path because I love the work. I love the heat, the sparks, the smell of steel meeting flame. I love watching raw materials become something strong, functional, and sometimes even beautiful. There’s an art to welding. It’s not just technical—it’s creative. And it’s not just a job—it’s my craft.
But no matter how skilled I am, there are people who will look at my face before they look at my welds. People who assume I’m just posing for Instagram. That I only got the job because someone needed “diversity” on the crew. Or worse—that I’m just playing dress-up.
What they don’t see are the 10-hour days, the burns, the cracked gloves, the muscle aches. They don’t see the certifications I earned, the apprenticeships I completed, or the years I spent working twice as hard to be taken half as seriously.
And the irony? When someone calls me “too pretty to weld,” they’re not complimenting me—they’re reducing me.
They’re implying that beauty and skill are mutually exclusive. That you can’t wear mascara and carry a torch. That softness and strength can’t coexist in the same woman.
But they can. And they do.
I’ve met incredible women in the trades—electricians, carpenters, auto techs, HVAC pros—who wear eyeliner under their goggles and swing hammers with the best of them. We aren’t unicorns. We’re just tired of being treated like novelties.
The real issue isn’t that I’m “too pretty to weld.” The real issue is the culture that still measures a woman’s worth by her looks before her skill. That whispers doubt before offering respect. That assumes a welder has to look a certain way, talk a certain way, be a certain gender.
Well, I’ve got news for those people: sparks don’t care what you look like. Metal doesn’t care if you wear lipstick. A good weld speaks for itself.
I’ve had to earn my place in this field—and I’m proud of that. But I look forward to the day when women don’t have to prove they belong. When we stop being stories and start being statistics. When no one bats an eye at a woman in a welding mask, because it’s just normal.
Until then, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep welding. And if someone still thinks I’m “too pretty” for this job?
I’ll let my work do the talking.
Final Thought:
Strength isn’t measured in how you look—it’s in what you build, what you fight for, and how you carry yourself in spaces that weren’t made for you. Let your work speak louder than their expectations.
